Cross your fingers. It's Flash! Friday time. I'm optimistic. But then I always am. This week, we had to include a famous author, and work this picture.
Parental advisory: There is an F-bomb in the story. Without further ado, "Falling From Grace."
Some
monkeys you just can’t get off your back. (And here, in Singapore,
some monkeys you can’t get off your balcony.)
“Come
on, little fella,” I said, easing
him down from the railing, my intended launching point. No sense in
accidentally taking him with me. My soul is
saddled with enough collateral damage.
The
psychologists sang hymns of “addictive
personality.” The doctors read
the scripture of “chemical imbalance.” Fuck them all. It’s
none of those. It’s who, what I
am. Lord knows I’ve tried like the dickens to end
it.
Drugs.
Shock
treatments.
Straight-up
withdrawal.
Nothing
works.
Happy
people are often described as “addicted
to life.” Let me say, it’s no picnic.
Being “addicted” to life. To living, that is.
Each
time, on my way down, I ask God to end this
curse. This crippled immortality. He says I must “cure myself.”
But
I need His help. He needs to give me back my wings. Or let me fall.
Please let me know what you think.
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