Don’t cry for me; I’m already dead

Sometimes I can actually feel myself begin to imagine something that I really don’t want to, and I enter into an epic struggle to distract my brain by creating ever more detailed, intricate, absurd scenarios – a unicorn whose horn unravels into helicopter blades, a beach where every grain of sand is a tiny yelling face, a flesh Voltron made out of the cast of Predator — before the visuals of what I’m trying NOT to imagine kick in and scar me for life. That’s how I felt after reading ‘woman that looks like Ted Cruz agrees to do porn.’ My defense mechanisms didn’t work. Anyway, that’s why I’m committing suicide. Not your fault, so much love, no more pain, don’t touch my stuff, yadda yadda yadda.

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