MY LETTERS TO SANTA

Everyone else seems to know where they’re headed. What they’re doing with their lives. They seem to have their shit together and under control. Why not me? Because I’m a spiritual being who believes in chance and serendipity? Or is it because I’m bipolar and lost all control of my own life the minute I got sucked into your twisted, fucked-up system that’s designed to take away all freedom and dignity left? Is that why? Unfortunately, it’s the latter at this point.

I have an appointment with my case !anger tomorrow to visit CRR’s for housing. Now, being homeless, you’d think I’d be grateful but I’m no where near. It’s basically assisted living with a roommate. I don’t need anyone telling me how to run my life and do my shit. I don’t care if it gets me out of this hotel.

I could have been out West establishing my own personal care system at this point, considering the amount of money my dad has put down for this hotel. That’s where I want to be.

But somewhere along the way, my letters to Santa were lost in the mail. No one in my family cares. No one. I worked my ass off on those letters, too. Not much else to do in mental institutions.

Let me repeat this nice and slow. I am over this. I am not where I want to be and I am not with who I want to be with.

To a select group, Your controlling ways make me sick. Your prayers for a better life make vomit. Your faith in a higher power blow my mind n dull my edges. You’re hypocrites n liars. You’re frauds n control freaks. I’m going to be a brat about this. Oh, you betcha! It’s MY life.

I’mungrateful because you’ve wasted my life by being in it.

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