A System Of The Down

It's 12:08am and I got home maybe about an hour ago. I'm lying in bed after having a late dinner of a glass of Merlot, 4 Rosemary La Panzanella crackers and hummus with a side of bell pepper. My nails are now a glittery purple shade by Zoya called "Mimi", they catch the light from my lamp as I tap this out on my phone. I'm not sure sleep will visit tonight so I carefully cut one white oval pill in half and place it on my nightstand. Just in case, you see.

We spent the day in another Universe that happened to be just 13.1 miles away with minimal traffic. A place that had nail polishes with names like "Apple" and (possibly?) "Bisoux". There were phone calls and chess matches and dream vacations and gossip and texting and sparkling water and yelling and art and glistening jewelry and coughing and hugs and Gatorade and banging and laughing and bananas and gua sha and cats and books and perfume, so many perfumes. 

And whispering. 

I love you. 

You're going to be ok. 

We love you. 

My Google calendar claimed I had "no events scheduled today" and I want to drive to Kirkland to their campus just to yell at someone; to call them liars. Just like I want to call up every "mental health resource" that's "available" and scream that they're liars. The system is set up with so many holes it might as well be the moldy Swiss cheese you forgot about sitting in the back of your fridge. Gaping holes so big an entire person falls right through one. Never to be found again. 

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Ma'am, ¢∞•ª¶§¢£™º?(*<£¢∞™ºª•§∞>"{:*)*((( ?

No, I don't think so. 

¶§¢£™º?(*<£¢∞™ºª•§

Please, can you just tell me who to call for help?

£™º?(*<£¢∞™ºª•§§¢£™º?(* ¢∞•ª¶§¢£

++++++++++++++++++++

I really hate to say this, but we're social workers with guns. Our hands are tied.

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Who is allowing this?

Why does this happen here in America? A "first-world" country? A "developed" country? 

How? 

Land of the free.

Land of the free.

Land of the free.

Never wonder, again.