Depending on who I’m telling

I’m good
I’m ok
I’m fine
I’m meh
I’m shit
I feel awful
I want to cry all the time
I need a hug
I hear a constant buzzing like a grey cloud over my head
I am not great

*shrugs shoulders*

How about you?
You alright?
You good?
How’s it going?
What’s up?
What you been up to?

Not much.
Not much.
Nothing worth mentioning.
The same old thing.
I’m really boring.
Nothing worth mentioning.
Not much has changed to be honest.
“Just been working”
“Just been studying”
“Just been busy”

That’s cool
That’s nice
That’s good
“Aww”
“LOL”
“Haha” (even when no humour is involved)

I just lived the last 21 years of my life and all I have to say for it is
I’m feeling so “blah” right now about everything that I don’t even want to talk about it
Even though there are a million things I could talk about
Because my thoughts are like the threads of a bed sheet made of fancy Egyptian cotton
So soft, like strands of air that are barely there, existing
Similar to how wires and pipes are forgotten mechanisms of magic
bringing us the means to quench our curiosities
and keeping the mysticism behind it all
at bay
until a something is caught in the drain
and you have to call a plumber
who pulls out a terrifyingly large clump of multicoloured hair and shower gunk
letting you see the insides of your sink
and all you can really think
is
“Oh my fucking God.”

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