This was written back in October or November. I thought it was “cute” (awww…isn’t anger, sadness, misery and pain cute AFTER you’ve lived through it). And again, with all my writings, taken with a grain of salt. 


Misery does not love company. That’s for sure. She loves seclusion and a cleaning lady and a hot shower and wearing XXL flannel pajamas in the house all day. And a Big Mac. And fries with a sprite. And a new dress from Eugenia Leavitt. And someone to do a yard-clean up to get rid of all these goddamn leaves. Misery loves to write bullshit poems about ex-boyfriends with superiority complexes and watch dumb love movies that make for more misery. Misery can’t stand company. In fact, misery wants to hear nothing about your fucking happy life or how you got laid last night or even how you’re “suffering.” PLEASE. Spare me the “I so can relate” bullshit. You didn’t just get a letter in the mail from the IRS stating that you owe ninety-seven thousands fucking dollars that slipped the attention of your accountant for the past four years. All your bfs don’t leave you for crack and God. God, now that I think of it, how miserable is that? “This ain’t gonna work out baby. You’re perfect, but I need to get stoned and find God.” 

Misery doesn’t have to stop there. Misery could dredge up crazy shit from the past, segueing into a feel-sorry -for-me vent fest with stuff  like: I bet your dad never had a love-slave, robbed a bank, mingled with the mafia or spent X amount of nights in jail missing birthday parties and holidays. I bet you didn’t grow up on the run from loan sharks. Or marry an online-gaming addict who cheated on you four (that you know of) times and even left you for a wood elf at a point when you had no job, no dignity, a baby and another one the way. 

Misery is starting to wax suspicious of  terms like “has been.” “flop” and “washout.” Looks like misery internalized all this junk and made it her own. And now, it’s festering and growing like a cancer and the next thing you know, she’s on state-mandated fluoxetine for OCD and living in a homeless shelter. 

And don’t bother reminding me…her…that there are people out there with worse circumstances. Famine, death, sickness, war, poverty, destitution. Blah, blah, blah. The essence of misery is that it can’t see past its own suffering. It’s all relative. My misery is the Freudian, turn of the century, upper-middle class housewife variety. The kind of misery that suppurates over a lifetime of pleasure-seeking to avoid reality. La, la, la…I can’t hear you. I am going about my day without a care in the world, like the Three Little Pigs, not planning, not being careful. Building my house of straw. And then it hits me. The miserableness hits me.

My number is up. Fun’s over. That’s how it happens.

No. Misery does not love company. And she has no interests in looking “OK” today or “with it.” She’s not with it. No “welp, tomorrow will be a better day.” Fuck that shit. She’s feeling sorry for herself. Misery wants her distribution money back and a new job. She want to be that flower again, growing, blooming, popping with color. Showing off her happy fucking face and singing when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.

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