Good night

You know its a good night when you start looking at the bottles of pills on your nightstand and count how many you have, and research on Google how many it would take.
Laying there, thinking about all the shit, and not quite seeing any end. Thinking back on things that just happened not long ago that left you feeling pretty empty, when you were hoping it would be lovely, fulfilling, the beginnings of something.... Ya but it was nothing. Not anyone's fault but your own, honestly, it's where hope can get you sometimes, nowhere.
You attempt fumbled and awkward moments of reaching out for some kind of contact, it leads to more awkwardness, frustration, anger, then all the sad falls out of your face like a piss rain out of nowhere. You're a little wet, cold, uncomfortable, then the shakes hit, and all you can do is curl into a ball, alone still.
You start deleting text, then people. You get rid of all those fucked up dating apps that have become more of a really messed up game of "Who are you" but with real live people. Blowing through faces like you've been blowing through tissues because well the face leaking crap from earlier. You wish you had enough booze and ciggerets to put you into and breathless coma.
You look back at the bottles again.
Looking around the space you've slowly let slip into a pit, thinking it would be a good idea to give it clean, write some things out, hide the sex toys and clear the web history. Writing out the passwords to the multimedia for family, or maybe just deleting it all together. That would pry be too dramatic. You may be a performer, but never a drama queen. Leave that to the "professinals".
Back in the mind even further a conversation while under the stars in a tub, with a bit of whiskey and someone who you think of as a soulmate. That talk about Nihilism, how you go through making the best of what seems to be a fairly fatalistic situation and you really have to wonder, why? Loved those talks, didn't feel so crazy in those moments...
Course the fatalism seems to shine like a atomic bomb when you're "soulmate" doesn't hear you when you fumble and stumble behind grited sarcasm. Feeling like you're fucking begging for just a breaths worth of time to share that feeling again, of not feeling crazy, getting to feel comfortable in another persons presents, not alone.
They all honestly don't have, don't want to deal with you're shit. Who would? Who really wants to be there for someone when they are crumbling and loosing their grip. Its selfish, almost irresponsible to think people want to help single solitary things. We are at the bottom of the 1st world problems after all.
That is right? First world problems, when there's, sick family, cancer, homeless, starving, slave trade, extortion, murder, rape, abuse all colors of the rainbow happening with in every second a letter is typed here.
Looking at those damn bottles again, and wonder if it couldn't make the smallest fraction of a difference by taking this one 1st world problem out of the equation, and make some room for things that do seem so much more important, so much happier for those with some kind of hope?
Too selfish, to cowardly, too stubborn, too scared of not or maybe knowing all to well what's after this bit of nothing.
You know its been a fucking great night when making lists in you head, pro's, con's, things that should be disposed of, things set aside, more list of written things. You know its been just super dupperest of all nights when you're doing this, again, and it doesn't really change a fucking thing. It just keeps the pills in the bottle for a while, keeps the brain locked on word form, grammar, or the lack there of. Trying to remain whitty and charming, so they laugh nervously and not think too deeply into context. After all they are just words, they mean nothing with out actions, so in the end worthes, except to the writer's demons. Have to feed them something. Yeah just the best god damned night ever.