For my birthday I would like a few new veins, & a chance to begin this life again.Wrap me up security, love, add a pretty pink ribbon of sanity with Sailor Moon wrapping paper from the mid 90’s. 

Be sure to use bubble wrap inside the box itself, be sure those three gifts won’t arrive at my door cracked, I won’t survive with broken fragments like that. Inside of my birthday card be sure to guide me through the gift wrap, may i trust that these ribbons won’t bind my hands, leaving only regrets. And sign the card with a secret code, one that will stop my soul if I ever try to come back.   

Two weeks from now, on March the thirtieth, I will set my existences clock at twenty eight years old, with zero ambition for quitting before reaching twenty nine, or a grave to call my first home. Thirteen years ago I began the quest to end all of this, to wipe myself the fuck out. Only a few months, not even a year has gone in which I have begun to salvage what could be left, looked at & still deemed a life. 

I spend most my time calculating equations in my mind. Adding dollars, subtracting minutes & hours. Ounces & grams, dividing one point seven by a ball numbered eight. Latex double gloved – injecting a tenth of a gram, inhaling point by point by breathe. I’ve never been any good at math; yet I’ve become an expert in the field of calculating & exhaling toxin laced breath. I can tell you by eye the recommended dosage of poison required to alleviate any symptoms your demons ignite, in fact; my demons have a lab they call their own.

The equation is no calculus, algebra or numerical tertiary entrance exam;  

Start by counting up any regrets.

Add that amount to how many mistakes you’ve made, both intentional or well-played.

Multiply the sum by how many people you’ve disappointed, damaged & dismayed. 

Got that? Now you take that overall total amount then add each vein the blade missed & finally I want you to multiply that by how many lovers have cried, “I’m sorry but, I just can’t do this”

What number are you now left with?

That number is the overall tally, the annual amount of reasons you can check for each attempt made to put an end to an existence. To check out, to give in – to quit. Simple, you think?
No, simple ain’t it nor is it an easy matter to explain, however if you paid enough attention during class, depending on how well you studied & whether you got that tutor over Summer to rehearse the curriculums tips, tricks & IV usage, then if your g ades pass you can take that number & subtract it by ounces, quarters, balls, whole & half grams. Pay attention please for when you learn how to calculate chemical warfare – you learn you can reduce the amount of pain that has always been.

Numbing & dulling that ache is possible with this class A equation, a formative solution for anaesthetic pollution.

My blood type is Universal. That is, able to be used by all & yet none would benefit from my negative O fluid, the heretic hemoglobin these arteries pump. I poison the litres with this glass lust. 

I have no variable left that I wish to subtract from, no collection of tourniquets, no dirty fits left in the park. 

I must insist please take note with this education there is no final test, no TEE, no VCE, you kidding? Only addiction, multiplication, division, subtraction & withdrawal so noxious, so tormenting. 

I am a student, tutor, professor & headmaster. Behind me you see my qualifications, namely my Doctorates degree. I forged my Master thesis, found my vocational history inside of a gift wrapped box, all childhood favourites & ribbons that bound me. 

What happens when I take these degrees to have them reframed, would the cashier know they’re certified forgery for fiends? And what will my lifes work become when there’s no sum, no lab, no points left to reduce the severity?  
Some say it is sick to find poetry in the dates & dashes that honour your death? To find scripture in being able to die on the day you took your very first breath?

I’ve mastered this art of math, meth & momentum. I’ve begun to like myself better with expressions, meth-aphors & adaptations. 

Am I numerical in this rationalistion, what if this were my will & final testament, a warrant for my arrest?

Might it be my mission statement? Perhaps even my formal letter of resignation?

Well, I taught you the sequence of this equation, as your mentor I encourage you to calculate the meth. I’ve subtracted my life into negatives for more than twenty seven odd years; on March the Thirtieth, I am turning twenty eight years old & I’ll finally be given clearance, a formal declaration that states I’ve paid my debts. 

© AleCat 2017

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