Where's Johny Sabatino?

Close your eyes and listen to this song ("Where's Johny Sabatino?"). You'll hear this...quiet desperation. He's not screaming...yet. But, his nerve is about to fail. He's at the end of his rope.

That's how I feel, right now.

There's a yawning chasm beneath me. Before I splatter all over when I hit bottom, there are lightning-fast monsters waiting to take chunks of my flesh. The rope that I'm holding onto is fraying and my strength is flagging. I'm trying. But, I can't get higher.

* * * * * * * * * *
I gotta get out.
I can't stay here.
* * * * * * * * * *

And, people have a morbid fascination with a person at the end of their rope. They stand just out of reach and yell helpful shit like, "Hold on!" (or, "Jump!")

Fuckers.

The horror in this for me is that every time I think I see a ray of hope...a hand reaching from the darkness to steady me...I come to realize that the issue is my fluctuating perceptions. The problem is what I think I see rather than the actuality of the situation. The hand reaching out of the darkness is somebody flailing about blindly on their own rope. The hand recoils swiftly lest I dislodge its owner into the abyss below. The thought doesn't occur to the owner of that hand that we could possibly help each other until after she slashes my grasping hand...or, worse yet, simply ignores me.

Beneath me, the monsters with quicksilver reflexes and razor-sharp smiles await with unblinking eyes. The logos of my creditors are branded on their sides. Only predators smile, after all.

* * * * * * * * * *
I gotta get out.
I can't stay here.
* * * * * * * * * *