Bitter, Drunk Nothings

The so many things I need to do. So many fucking deadlines fast-approaching.

So many fucking mishaps already: the oral exams I fucked up, the fucking up by our drama class causing one teacher to take a “break.”

There’s the regular issue, and a special one, plus all the requirements for a wanted “promotion.”

There’s the deadline for the short story I haven’t touched in days. There’s a talk I need to organize about shit I don’t care about.

A "boss" lost the venue for her play. I don’t know where my own play is going.

There’s a gig I’ll probably miss on Saturday; I lost my senses losing a social life.

My body’s breaking down, telling me to slow down. I’ve been sick and not getting better, I can’t afford to lose my stride, nor can I afford the medicine to keep me going.

But still I had three bottles—the guard could smell it in my breath; disallowed me from taking the LRT.

There’s a rich black celebrity, getting all the pub, cred, and criticism for preaching about education, building a $40M school that’s “too nice” for just less than 200 poor African students; I’m too spent to even have an opinion on it.

All that matters to me right now is that two deadlines have been moved back. I can finally breathe for second, but it’s back to work a second after that.