Trying, really/very

I’ve really had enough of these traumatic health crises.  If the purpose of them is to teach me something, or to force me into action to fix my health problems, well I get that, but this is so damned inefficient.  It does as much damage as it spurs me into fixing, or more, I think.  I don’t need that.  And if there’s no reason for it at all, if it’s all just unfortunate, well I’m done with that too.  I have no use for it.  A long and extended game of "you don’t get to have any of life’s good things"… yeah, I don’t wanna play, thanks.  Send that speeding bus already. 

And the other possibility that’s been looking compelling lately – that I’m here for a purpose – that’s got its merits.  Doesn’t matter so much if my life is destroyed, if my body’s ruined, so long as something, something good comes of it all.  As long as it’s useful to someone.  Would that it were.  How, I don’t know. 

Gotta keep my entire energy structure from panicking and collapsing every time I exert the slightest effort.  Fix the prototype.  I came to the birdman contest not quite prepared, you see.  A few glitches in the wires.  Zap, ouch.  Didn’t think how I’d fix it once I’m stiched in.  Fly or burn, baby.  Fly or burn. 

Michael’s almost sure I’m a writer some day.  Me?  Couldn’t write my way out of a paper bag.  And yeah, you can write on paper bags, you know.  Are you sure we’re reading the same reality?  Course, could be they’re just telling me that, because I couldn’t bear to hear it’s hopeless and pointless.  But that would be calling Michael a liar, and that would be sad, and what’s the point of sad?  There’s always plenty of sad. 

Once they said I had grief issues.  Jan said it too.  Pure intuition, both of them.  And like the girl who didn’t understand the weight gain until she was having contractions in her bathroom late at night, the explanation would make sense of an awful lot of things.  No stomach for violence, for terror, for horror.  No stomach for loss and destruction and the senseless ugly blandness of a world where soullessness is a survival trait. 

I want someone to tell me it’s going to be alright.  Seven and a half miracles and thirteen unlikely things.  Partridge in a pear tree.  Oh, and a back rub too, if that’s okay.