Oh, Melissa, don't hurt yourself!

Just one question for you.

Why?

That's it. Just why?

What is the alternative? Really. "Don't hurt yourself!" sez you. But don't hurt myself so I can ... what?

Look, I'm not going to hurt myself. I'm hurting. You are so stupid. I wouldn't be hurting myself, I'd be stopping the pain.

Do you know what agony is? Do you? Do you?

No, you don't. For if you did, you wouldn't fucking be saying, 'Don't hurt yourself!' you'd be saying ...

No, that's not right. You'd be screaming ...

... that's more accurate ...

You'd be screaming well, anything, even wordless words, even the 'eff' word — over and over and over again — but what you'd be saying to ... well, to whom then, eh, `phfina? to whom? is 'make it stop. please make it stop.'

And you, you dear, sweet, loving, 'don't hurt yourself!' darling cannot make it stop.

But I can.

So, `phfina, my dear, sweet, viperous muse so pleasantly asks me, why don't you quit your whining and just do it, just make it stop?

Because, my dear, sweet constant companion that I have all these lovely conversations with — as you so very well know — I am a spineless, gutless wonder, and I'd rather pull the covers over my head and cry, 'oh, my pussy hurts!' and ... get all this loving, tender affectionate attention ... and go on breathing.

Than make it stop. Than make it all stop.

Because this lovely little agony that I am so attached to, my dearest friend, is so much more familiar and comfortable than what I know is waiting for me, just around the corner, any day now.

You know what's waiting for me?

Yes, you do. You so know what's waiting for me.

And I do, too. I know that whatever I imagine, it will be nothing as to what's really there. I know that I don't know what's waiting for me.

That's what's waiting for me.

And every second here ...

Oh, God, make it stop.

I'm going to bed.

"The sun will come up ... tomorrow ..."

Yay! You go, sun!