I wouldn’t call myself a rotting corpse, although maybe I should and just be done with it. Sure it’s a stretch. I know that. I know I’m no corpse, you have to be dead to earn yourself that word, but then who actually earns anything these days? Who waits for anything at all, come to think of it. Not me, far as I can tell. It might seem like waiting, but it isn’t. It’s not the same thing, not at all. I know it feels like waiting, but I’d venture a guess that no one knows what waiting feels like any more. Not these days. No one I know, anyway, and as much as I hate to admit it, that includes me. I can’t remember the last time I sat around waiting on anything. Believe me, I’ve tried. I try all the time. Might be the only thing I’m any good at these days - sitting around, thinking about the parts of me that don’t exist anymore, like I’ve simply started to disintegrate in front of everyone’s eyes, bit by bit. So yes, why not just go ahead and call myself a rotting corpse?
Note: Originally posted on brandnewmonster.com