My Cardboard Balcony

Give Me A Break by Belinda Roddie My head is a fucking whirlwind, all dust and dirt and shrapnel, the debris of a past life swirling fast and getting hotter and hotter with time. The seas are bubbling over, the cauldron thick with brew. All artificial, too. And it clogs my every pore, and it makes it too difficult to think, or smile, or laugh, or breathe. And I'm absolutely tired of it. Let me live a life without fear. Let me straddle the South Pole as the ice collapses without another panic attack. This, I swear, I wish for: a day in which I do not pace, or fret, or steam, or sweat, or scream inwardly for a minute of calm. While the missiles are at the ready. While the dollar becomes just paper. While paper burns the nearest forest down. While I cling to what I believe is little hope and watch my last bit of sanity be stripped from me like the last of the gold from a sunset - dripping fear, icing anxiety to my brow while the temperature is rising, and

"This sitcom's still going?" my mother snapped as I turned on the TV. "It hasn't been funny for years!" "I still think it's charming," replied my sister. She was sitting on the couch already, munching on a bowl of partially melted mint chip ice cream. "And the guy they have playing the new boyfriend is definitely worth it." "Super dreamy, huh?" I murmured, rolling my eyes. My sister snorted. "Just because you don't see good beefcake when you see it, Alex, doesn't mean I can't."