these diet sodas will be the death of me

Ah, the Motel, where it all began.  Right across the street from the mental health center.  Oh, the dangers of romanticizing, of standing outside the building, where they told me my best option was to kill myself.  It was so wonderful. I missed them.  I love it when they make fun of me; I start blushing.  It's hard to say goodbye, and I don't want to be ungrateful, but will my memory say bye-bye?  It had probably been in the works for some time—I thought I heard some people speaking code outside another motel some weeks earlier—but I didn't catch it.  A helicopter had been following me around for a couple days.  They only come out after awhile.  Probably when they think I'm about to start dying.  So I'm supposed to worry about living healthy but I'm more concerned about looking good.  My resentments—arguing with others in my mind based on what I think they think of me—are starting to rear their spiteful head.  Does that sound right?  How can something rear its ugly head?  Maybe it means I'm thinking ass backwards right now.  Well of course I would be!  I can't be thinking ass frontwards now, can I?  Wanker.