Venticuatro

I'm a victim of identity theft. I used to laugh at those commercials with the cruddy old white man with the ditzy white girl voice. Going on about all the wonderful things she bought on his dollar. Like, oh, my, God.
Look at me, again, turning to all the wrong people. I'm alright. No, really.
It doesn't pay to be as vague and guarded as I am.
I wanted the world. All I've got are shattered dreams, and this broken heart.
Can I really change myself in twenty-four days? I don't even know how to keep my thoughts organized. The big pink "x" on my hand is just the reminder of how I am wasting my life. So is the big hicky on my boob. You might not notice, but drinking is the only thing I have left. I am that alcoholic. Please, don't intervene.
I cried last night. I cried hard. Happy people never want to hear about someone's broken heart. Nor why someone's heart is breaking. They always assume they've all the answers. That everything gets better. Time heals all wounds, right? What a load of shit. I broke last night to see someone else so torn. If I could, I would make everything okay. I hate to know that anyone I care for feels like me, or worse. On a completely irrelevant, but somewhat related side-note, I really want this.
It's a shame I've nothing inspiring to say. I can't breathe so well, but it's not my asthma. Maybe it's anxiety.
Sometimes I sit and just listen.
Can you be a good person while doing bad things? Is the drug dealer so bad for trying to make more money because his 9-5 is barely keeping the roof over his head and his son or daughter, his pride and joy, the apple, or apples, of his eye are malnourished and constantly asking him why the kid next door gets to have an xbox while wiping their runny nose, because Robitussin isn't quite cutting it and working everyday just to try and give his kids the life he never had leaves little time to take them to the doctor? Does doing bad things make you a bad person? The world is not so black and white. There are shades of grey everywhere.
It's only been a week, but it feels like eternity. Hopeful that the new year, this time, will mean a new beginning. I'll keep dreaming the dreamer's dream, and I'll hold my own hand as I walk down the street, and I'll keep wearing what's left of my heart on my sleeve, and I'll keep picking at the scabs and creating new wounds, so I'll never forget what it's like to hurt, so that I won't make the same mistakes anymore, so that I can keep smiling, convinced the grass really is greener on the other side. I've just this desert to cross before I can make it over the mountain and see it for myself.
Twenty-four more days, and I'll be damned if I don't do something. Anything.