secret motel

I want to leave this place. All places. And travel. Without moving in any direction. This breath isn't worth breathing. Because I know I did everything wrong. I wish I was attractive. Or smart. Or talented. It seems like at least one of those three qualities is essential to survive and thrive on planet earth in the 21st century. I don't want to go to work anymore. It's embarrassing. To be an aging mailroom clerk. I'd rather just stay here and drink wine and listen to music. Every day. Until the money runs out. And get swallowed by a handful of pills. Or run through busy intersections with my eyes shut. Or build a crude lifeboat and sail out to the moon. Or a field of stars. I hope there's a lighthouse on the moon. I do. I really do.