Shit.

Born from cliche -   
you the stranger who rants, who drinks from the bottle and worries not about his flea infested beard.     
 
I hope that when you need a catheter the nurses don't change it and the toxins start to go backwards,   
poisoning your insides like a sewer   
with a plug,    
that never lets the shit out.   
I hope that when you go to work there's only one redundancy in the office and it's your job gone.
You can pick up your trash from your [old, now bleached clean] office,   
brown boxed and nameless,    
while shitting yourself,   
what a pretty image.   
I hope that when you take yourself to the local restaurant for a date with your newest fling that the chair breaks from under you   
and everyone laughs  
and Jude Law, from Gattaca, pulls himself along the floor because his wheelchair had been hit by a truck...still he manages to steal the girl.   
I hope that when you crawl back up into your mother's womb and start all this over you're shitting from your catheter into her insides so that you may poison her and both will go down stopping future generations from carrying on the shitty business.   
I hope that if you do choose death that it is painless,   
that you lay there and go to sleep and don't piss and shit yourself all over your egyptian cotton, whiskey-stained sheets.   
No nurse should have to deal with that--   
shit.      
 
Born from the cliche -    
you who strikes down cliche to damn out that amplified part of your mind that to your distaste could also fall into the cliche.     
 
 
12/02/11.   I hate myself hugely for this.  
 
It's back...Shit.