This was meant to be a list.

Single worded titles, enigmatic endings, lots of hyphens, lots of semi-colons: for anyone who has ever at least read my blog once, we could easily agree that I am quite the dramatist. And I don't quite mean this in the good kind of way.

It's been too often I pursued myself in the metaphor of a baffling ocean, or the midnight space - but sometimes, just - where does the point go? I send my words off in a rocket, shipped away into a millennium of empty time frames, hoping someone would pick them up and return them to me.

No one ever does. There, they are left to brace the nothingness - barely moving, barely breathing. A mission aborted the moment it set foot away from my fingertips. 

So for once, let's not be poetic.

Forget the adjectives, forget the metaphors, the hyperbolas, the crescendo of speech, or the pin drop pause - the point here is certain - always has been, and perhaps always will be.

Life sucks. 

Life really fucking sucks.

Excuse my French - my horrible accent, my inexcusable pronunciation. I am only a linguist of the language I make up in my mind. All these other words are simply foreign to me.

Excuse me.

Excuse me while I kick the pebbles my toes grow too fond to stumble upon; excuse me while scream into my pillow in the quarter-past midnight; excuse me while I gawk and awe at my month old scars on my right leg; excuse me while I tear up in this desolate corner, here.

Yes. Do excuse the drama.

Ignore the masks that hang on my wall, the costumes in my wardrobe, the microphone on my dresser. Forget they exist. Forget the color of my skin, and hair. Forget the sound of my voice.

For I am a play still being written, I am gestures of a hand that forms silhouettes in the spotlight, I am heavy red curtains drawing down with dust, I am - wait - I am growing poetic again.

Excuse my English - my disregarded articulation, my blundered grammar.

What I mean is: life sucks.

It truly, truly does.

Bury me, God forbid. Cast me away in a coffin built from the wood of my own madness - bolt me shut with the needles that stagger the silver line between my lips. Wrap me in a drying canvas, painted fashionable in the pallet of my favorite colors.

Life sucks, and I'd tell you why.

I'd make a list in fact, that is, if only I'd know what to fill the numbers with. If only I'd know how to pick up the pieces of my shattered thoughts - I would puzzle them right, like a cheesy love quote - I'd draw diagrams, of problems and solutions, and photograph it to hang on my clipboard.

Yes. If only I knew.

Now excuse me, again. I have a stutter to trip over.