It's all over now. . .

It's done. They did it to me. Endless nights of no sleep. Almost constant bickering. The screaming. Oh the screaming. It's done. I had no choice I had to have help. I am but a mere mortal (shocking-I know). So in order to survive. To simply continue to breathe. I had to do it. I sold my soul and crossed over. I'm one of them now. One of those zombies that can't even speak until they get their fix. I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to do it. (I've been singing that melody all morning. No, not in my head, out loud. That's how sentenced I feel.) I don't even like the stuff. I only ingest it to know that I am alive. Otherwise it would be very difficult to tell. I would strongly resemble a rather large lump residing either on the couch or propped up by the nearest support beam. I had to do it, I tell you. I had no other choice. You can't judge me. You're not here every day. Every hour. Every minute. Every second of every day of every week of every month of every year. And to add injuries to insult it's my birthday. I'm old now and in need of a crutch or two. So why not? Why not join the masses and their sick addiction? Maybe this is my birthday gift to myself. A gift of a few more conscious moments. A few more sain thoughts. Maybe. One can only hope. So sign me up. And mail me the bill.
Starbucks here I come. . .