This little Bitch, Marla Singer!

your personal reservations

the high was fun while it lasted.
take my word for it, being high is crazy-shitass-fun around people (e.g., hot touchy malays or drunk strangers) who can keep me hyperhigh.
afterall, superficiality is like a bandaid stuck on one eye.

but it reaches the lowest point
when you are left with a relatively good friend and all you will do (very naturally),
is talk, talk, talk.

and that's when things get really ugly,
emotional, feminine, and lovelorn.

that's when your brain (good brain! good!) sensibly captures certain recent events for you to ponder about and that sort of distracts you from the stupid goddamn awful pain.
meow, its a healthy body mechanism and
an automatic rifle, i must say.

in my case, it was an incomplete song.
the words "hundred of miles, yeah, you cry like a baby!"
kept running through my head.
i eventually sang it out loud.
But the words were not true at all;
it was painfully untrue at any costs.

and no matter how i tried,
i could not remember the rest of the song.
but that was good, in a sadomasochist way.

i might as well just remain sitting on my scraps of lies.
so,
it was good that i burnt my tongue with scorching hot tea.

maybe, everything is a downward spiral.
i recalled having a dream about a certain mouse i was supposed to look after.
I whispered for it it to run when i saw that the coast was clear, and
it ran across the floorboard.
but a cat appeared out of nowhere,
pounced on it and stripped it to shreds.

by then (and now), there was (is) no turning back.

Posted by martha lung on Saturday, February 25, 2006 at 5:40 PM | Permalink