Something I wrote a few years ago about my mid-twenties:
Since I couldn’t be fixed, I wanted to be dead. Every day was misery: wake up, smoke a joint, go to work at the newspaper I’d conned into hiring me. Smoke another joint at lunch, under a leaking scaffold on a side street; get back to answering phones and entering data. Deflect a phone call from my mother, checking in about lunch that weekend; wait for a phone call from my boyfriend, to no avail. Go home, feed the cats, smoke another joint. Call the boyfriend. Have him blow me off. Try to write a poem. Fail. Suck my thumb. Hit myself. Cry. Have some dinner. Smoke another joint, and another, until I fall asleep. Dream about being the victim of a violent crime. Wake up and do it again.