We Are Burned Out on HIV Pills

I’m Tired of it,” Jamie said. “Enough.”

“One thing you didn’t do too well, Tim, because you’re shit, and lame, is you really fucked up by not telling about pill fatigue and all your editing really sucks cock.”

Philip is a royal bitch. He means…

A Vook we wrote. I did not go into pill fatigue because 1.) I have no reason to live because I’m lame. 2.) I’m fatigued myself. Of pills. Of everytime we come home from the AIDS clinic, someone gets sick. Sometimes very sick. This time it’s Philip. One very sick bitch.

“Those places are filthy or they put us in the basement.”

This is what we mean by surviving HIV. It’s not the disease. It’s the treatment.

The sick thing is kinda like the flu. Going to an AIDS clinic and sitting there for hours is dangerous.

We come home to OCD’s hand-washing. Again and again.

Last night, pill bottles and pills are thrown at the wall. I have to keep the dogs out with baby gates.

We pick up the pills from the floor and put them back in their bottles. Nail-scratched walls of all our faces turned away. I do not know what pill fatigue is. The sentries at their posts will masturbate for the entertainment of the throngs and dinner trays. Pill fatigue is poison on aspit.

I loathe driving to the clinic on the highway. My eyes are empty as dark matter is to space. Bill Gates says there will never be a cure. I am glad to hear that someone is finally telling the truth. I wonder what the cheer-leading rah rahs will invent as slogan next.

I can’t tell anyone else what to do. If I ever hear the word SHOULD again, I’m going to cut it up into a thousand pieces and wash it down with Draino. I can’t tell you what to do because I can barely tell myself what to do and then do it.

I’m not from your fucking planet. I would guess that Bill Gates is.