Dear Box of CHOSEN Pudding Pops,

Don’t be too critical…

Dear Box of CHOSEN Pudding Pops,

Firsstt.. (Barks like a dog, like DMX)

Note that I’m avoiding addressing most of you by name because I’m afraid to talk to you. I constantly get reminded that “I’m a thug, who does not NEED, like or deserve cuddles, kindness or love.”

My phone on my neck, is a shock collar and I’m scared to leave that security blanket at home. Me being unreachable will have ATF searching. The choppers stay around for if I slip everybody around me’s lives get wrecked.

I’m sorry bro! I’m glad I’m speaking up for myself right now, feeling an ounce of confidence.

NEXT… Money boo boo, I miss you like a frog misses a fly when his eyes are shut.

These other f#’s getting checks for seeing me piss and complete ADL’s the best they’ve ever seen makes me feel certain kinds of ways.

If I could cut the whole industry once so they feel one percent of the mud flinging they bring with them, maybe they’d try comforting me, telling me not to worry, holding my hands or whispering don’t worry, I’d be more able to breathe through the nerves I feel they made a MESS.

Hey cute one, I love you melting in my hands and dripping all over the floor.

Yes, “brutal one” you give me nightmares, all I hear is you scream.

Half pint, you terror, I’m glad you quit your last relationship in my head, gave that p#ssy a break!

Moving on while fretting being beat, is exactly why I shake and tremble in her mind, only. Bye!

I WORK WITH complete disasters in my head. You’d think I would be the one not able to assimilate to stated goals and ambitions. I run circles around all these misused tissues.

If I didn’t feel bad for them missing hours, I’d be out. Out of therapy, out of pocket, living in another state and not dealing with any of it.

Oh, thanks for brushing my unstable self under the rug, punk! Go to the gym. Sweat all that fat in your @ss off like me for once. Ok? Thanks!

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