An angsty crisis

My soul makes itself known only to tell me its dying,
My memory is going too, yesterdays are years away,
My body appears to be the only me still hanging on...
But its days were always numbered.

Canninbis becomes a chore like I never believed it would.
Alcohol is quite clearly too bad for you,
All the other drugs never helped anyway and I'm running
short of options.

Aquintances with a little 'get to know you' soon become freinds-
freinds with a little 'get to know you' soon become CUNTS-
After that I'm not sure exactly what I want from them.
I want them silent, reformed, to a nunnery.

The same desire from the beginning,

With only 24 hours to go,
I want to be sedated.