Till death do us part

I fucking hate writing. I’ll sit and edit the same damn sentence over and over again rethinking and rethinking exactly what I want to say. By then, I’m over it. What’s the point, to hear my own voice? I like hearing my own voice, maybe a little too much. This piece is about appetite. It’s about a lot of things. I’m still trying to figure out what it means to me, but really, it’s not finished. I have an appetite, too much sometimes. An appetite for life, adventure, I crave new and exciting. I can’t wait to get sleep over with most days and just wake up and do it all over again. I hope to die with that appetite. To be buried with my silverware. That shits hard tho. At 32, I’ve now experienced some pretty good ups and some pretty bad downs. At times I lost my appetite. Sometimes that’s good tho. I hope to die with this appetite.