The Hell Butterfly

Abandon Ship, I’m the Only Captain Here

I’m not going to waste time apologising for my absence. Frankly, I’m too tired. There are no excuses except that life got in the way. It was boring and nothing really happened, but The Hell Butterfly became suddenly unimportant.

I’m sitting here typing this at 3:07am on a (now) Wednesday morning because I have this nagging itch to go into the kitchen, find every pill in it and wash it down with the peach shnapps my best friend got my for my 21st birthday last month. For obvious reasons, I’d rather this didn’t happen. I’m stressed, I’m depressed, I’m beyond tired and I just want it to end. Funny how only a few months ago, when things in my life were rosy and well, I was telling you all the world was a wonderful place to be. Now I’m telling you the truth: it sucks. “The hardest thing in this world is to live in it”. Truer words were never spoken. My solution? Jump ship. I’m the only Captain here, and anyone still on board this soon-to-be-shipwreck is gonna get dragged down if you don’t get out soon. It’s only the Captain’s duty to go down, not the crew, and not the passengers.

But shitty ocean liner analogy aside, it’s all bleak to me. (That was a weak attempt at linguistic humour. I’ll stop now). You know that car wreck I was a few months ago? And a few months before that? And a few months before that too? Well, surprise surprise, that black cloud is back to rain on my entire fucking parade and my tissue-paper float is disintegrating. I hate it when this happens. Spend all that time making paper mache and cardboard cutouts, show up in time for the much anticipated parade and the goddamned heavens open. No prizes for best design this time.

I’m in too foul a mood to get into the nitty gritty of what’s shoved me here, but I suppose it can’t hurt to waste a few seconds stating the facts. While all was well with M24 for a while, the last month my overactive, stubborn, clingy brain collided with his nonchalant, generally male nature and thus I almost gave up. I’m not cut out for relationships, I don’t need experience to tell me that. This last couple months is proof enough. I’m shit at it, and wondering if putting in the effort is really worth it. But that’s not it. There’s uni too. Sure, I’m done now an got my second year results back. Yes, true, I passed with a 2:1 (most people would say that’s great but hey, I’m not most people). But third year is looming and right at the most crucial moment, my mind goes blank: the dissertation. I’m fucked if I know what to write 12,000 words on. I’ve never written a 40 page document in my life aside from the novel I spent several years working on, and even then I’m still re-writing it. Once again I’m seriously considering dropping out of uni. Fuck a degree, fuck a future, fuck a career, fuck success. It’s too hard. I want the easy life. Maybe if I let myself fall to rock bottom I won’t give a shit about pulling the proverbial trigger. I just want it over.

I’m a little reluctant to stop typing. Because what the fuck am I gonna do when I stop? Right now, my mind is focused on the singular task of writing about my shitty feelings. But when I’m done, and the rant is over, life’s gonna deal me a huge steaming pile of reality. I don’t wanna think. I don’t wanna cry again. I want to brainstorm for my dissertation, and pigs want to occupy international air space. The only outcome I foresee in ending this post is a bout of stress crying while I brood to Evanescence, a rummage through the medicine drawer for a stock take, and a sleepless night.

But fuck it. All things have to end somewhere, right? Guess this is the end of the line. Time to let this puppy sink. Let the drowning commence.

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