One Man Wrecking Crew

I consult the voices in my head the way a disowned flower child consults her dysfunctional family of lawyers and salespeople. It's less of a consultation and more like one of those mandatory meetings where you get your ear fucked by your boss and all their cronies. At least those people are real.

Instead, I'm sitting here gritting my teeth under my pillow because I don't know what the functional difference is between a period, an exclamation point or a colon followed by a closing parentheses.

When you're alone, you've got bigger problems than punctuation.
When you're a sacrificial lamb, you've got bigger problems than abandonment.
When you're worried about how much intrigue you can pack into two sentences, or if you've accidentally packed in too many suggestions, all you've got are problems.

I've got as many problems as I have voices in my head that ought to be flesh-and-blood friends. Each one is a haunting reminder of a wrong turn that left me wrapped around sign posts that could have saved me if I would have read them. None of them were ever real. At least, that's how it seems now.

Instead, I'm unintentionally yelling at my neighbors, forgetting that every wall can be broken through with enough of the right kind of emotion. Forgetting conveniently, so that I can keep my one man wrecking crew.