Run-on Sentences That Describe What I Fear The Rest Of My Life Will Look Like

1/2023

I think we’ll have to cut down on food because the fridge is running low and my wallet’s a little thin and we are looking a little thin but that’s okay we’ve just got to deal with what we’ve already got but the fridge is running low and even the apples at Safeway are a stretch so we’ll just have to stretch a little more which shouldn’t be too hard at least not for now but now that now has passed and there are no other options and the sawdust and powered plaster of Paris we used for flower to bake the sad loaves of bread we ate and the rotten fruit and vegetables start finally overcoming our immune systems then maybe we’ll just have to lay down for a little while.

I think we’ll have to learn to live out of my car, I know it’s a little small but I think we’ll end up just fine and if we find ourselves feeling stuck in the same place too long we can just turn the key and drive for a long time until we find ourselves somewhere else but we can’t get gas until we get to Texas and the price goes down and I’m a little low so we might just have to stop in Sacramento and get jobs and wait awhile until we get enough money to go to the chevron but then we’ll fall in love with the valley and decide that we should just settle in here but in 10 years when rent control expires and the rate goes up too high we’ll just start over again and live out of my car. 

I think we’ll have to retreat into the metaverse where through silicon eyes we can see something both kinder and more sinister. 

I think my book isn’t going to sell and every attempt I make at getting a job that pays me enough that I have enough money for food and a roof fails, and I will have to look you in the eyes and admit that my life’s plan went disastrously awry and that I am not an artist or a writer or an intellectual, I am only a small man that cannot afford to provide for the thing I really hold most dear, you, and I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to search somewhere else for someone who didn’t devote his life to a silly escapade to which he was never entitled in the first place, someone who got a law degree or an M.D. or went into hotel management or carpentry, someone who actually went to school and learned something practical rather than a silly little man who cannot provide who spent someone else’s money for years at a time in different parts of the world for years and years and dollars and dollars and classes and classes only to learn that the world isn’t fair or good or kind and I am not an artist, an intellectual, or anything worthy of the goals I have propelled myself to, only to fall down at your feet and crumble. 

I think that I’m never going to get better, never going to be nice or kind or not negative and that all those years ago that teacher was right about me, that I’m never going to be helpful or make anyone else’s life richer and that all the years I’ve spent by your side have been to your detriment and I could spend another 40 or 50 or 100 years alive and never learn how to shut my fucking mouth, which has never said a word other than to lie and manipulate and be angry and negative and bring everyone else down around me, because perhaps that’s all I can ever do, and if that’s all I can ever do than what worth is it even talking to anyone else again?

I think that what I thought I wanted wasn’t what I wanted, and when I got it way too early I was sat down in a room and made to be something different, and no one could listen to what I had to say without making it about themselves or society or some grand insight or lesson when in fact it is just the musings of a small, irrelevant mind, incapable of existing.

I think that I was wrong about God, and the pain I feel when I burn in hell a sinner will be the most deserved thing I could feel.

I think that the thing that kept me alive this long, the thought of Emily, lying on the floor convulsing, back and forth, the empty, orange bottle on her nightstand, her mother working down the stairs to find here there, laying, convulsing, pulsing electricity through her body from her head to her arms and legs and fingers and toes and blood cells and kidneys, waking up days later, tubes in her arms, and I think that was the fear, that the vivid image that came to mind for weeks afterward whenever I looked down at the bathroom counter would be me, if I tried, and her mother would be mine, crying, looking with horror upon what I had done, and I fear that isn’t there anymore, that thought, that fear, and what has replaced it is nothing but a fear what happens after, and perhaps, on my deathbed, I will look back upon my life and realize it was worthy of Earth, and I was worthy of it, and the good that remains is a good good, or perhaps I will look back and see nothing, I will see pain, I will see failure, I will see an amount of sadness that is impossible to calculate or quantify, and perhaps then I will be glad to leave Earth, purgatory, the space between true good and true evil, and imagine a kind of blackness that never ends, perfectly. 

I think that, maybe, I should stop thinking