astronomical half-life

one thing that the following (traumatic triggers, food waste odor in my trash, plastic bags, hypnagogic flashbacks) share in common is that they are all either cringeworthy or threateningly painful, stuck somewhere within you, like that trojan virus hidden in your computer backup files that you could never let go of since windows 98 and still bombard you with hypersexualized dating chat tabs from time to time.
They also have an astronomical half-life; that is, they are the ultimate raw umber to that ugliest painting of yours, the cute embarrassment of your idealistic high school days with the dream of becoming the baddest van gogh of the future.

So I never thought that i would be still very nerve-wracked and amateur at life, still so mortified by a phone call with my dad in his late fifties, too idealistic most of the time and whose life values i can still barley grasp, who would yell shit at me (w some embedded curse words) for being angry too often.

Astronomical half-life is no joke. it is immortal and life-changing. i will forever have to learn to adopt and parent the strange and alien trigger from the voice of my dad. the same goes to the stop and shop bag that i took in place of my forgotten grocery bag. it will be my guilty piece of annoyance in earth that probably will be there forever in digestion, just like all the other gloops that i have to roll with.

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