I don’t have a future.

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“What are your plans for the future?” 


“I don’t have a future.”


I turn my back and staring at my hands meaning every fucking syllable.


I almost thirty eight. The business of being expected to pull a miracle out of my ass and make the rational clinical pain mean something other than being the background noise of my life, is something I gave up on.


“The thing about lobotomies is they kept people like you from hurting someone trying to get on with their day.” The manager at my last apartment recertification told me that. 


He was thirty minutes late for my recertification and was in a bad mood. He was told he was 80% disabled but was considered functioning when he was on his pain meds by the VA so he would lose some benefits. So what did he fucking do he spent a hour and a half insulting me. And carrying on how people like me were the problem with this country. 


I then had a meltdown on mastodon about the frustration of always being told I have more privilege as a cis white male. While on the other hand I am always talked down to and degraded. 


And I just read a Bukowski poem about the crazies eating the cat food left out for the stray cats. I laughed thinking damn if mental illness is not being the punch line Bukowski then I don’t what is.


So now I sit on my bean bag chair typing a word salad in bitter resignation as maggot brain plays on my blutooth speaker. Trying to vent or at the very least sit with the pain while the voice calls out come on maggot brain.


If I didn’t have to have a rough over my head I would the guy “the problem with this country is the people who have what they need always want a little bit more and they are usually trying to take it from people who only want to live with a little dignity.”


I know I should make a conscious effort to not be triggered by it. To know my place… but how am I supposed to content with my position when people are always punching down trying to take the scraps that have been assigned to me.


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