Anger & the way it goes: down the line, in a circle, and back to fucking square one.
I tried. I tried so FUCKING HARD. And something always have to get in between midway, mid-day and squirm its fucking way through to fucking inform me that, HEY, GIRL! WHATEVER YOU ARE RUNNING AWAY FROM, IS STILL HERE. RIGHT HERE, RIGHT PAST THE SUPERMARKET, RIGHT IN YOUR SKIRT, RIGHT UNDER YOUR EYEBROW, RIGHT NEXT TO AN OLD LADY, RIGHT AND LEFT! SUDDENLY, IT'S EVERYWHERE!
FUCK IT. FUCK MYSELF. FUCK WORMS!
And people, it's not even Love (or the lack of it), or any other dumbarse sentimental shit that you witness streaming out in the streets, cinemas or dirtholes. Or from a man's useless penis. So there, hip-hip-horray! Yada-yada. So, I thought, you know, of getting some advice so I came to my Messiah, who said this, "We go through the motions irregardless of how damning they can sometimes be." Yeah, fuck you, I already fucking know that.
This is my mythical Climax, and it's drowning in a pool of merfolk.
People always say, the Fun starts churning out its wrath only when it comes to the fucking Queen of a Climax. Boo hoo people, because it ain't fun or wrong or right or a nice pussy. It's merely Pretense shrouded in black, hiding an axe behind it's back, waiting to hack you into small meat pieces. Sweet!
Fresh meat pieces are small and bloody. And I must add, pretty to look at when they are hooked up to machines tied with red ribbons.
I know very well the goddamn reason for my revolting behaviour, the goddamn reason that renders me feverish with envy, and this goddamn reason will take me nowhere but shame. And why? Because I do not want to see the silly and happy smirk on your face, and because if I were to put it in words, it would sound so much like numerals jumping up and down on a calculus, crackling with precise definition. or Love.
No it is not, SUCKER. It is a very obese and disgusting piece of used chewing gum squeezed into the space of the crack in my head under her bed.
Nonetheless, a previously essential and thus, outdated source of relief. Really.
I told her to pick you up, and carefully lick the dust off.
And so, I count down: 3, 2, 1.
My rocket of insanity just burst into fucking flames. Fucking boo hoo, Casandra.
FUCK IT. FUCK MYSELF. FUCK WORMS!
And people, it's not even Love (or the lack of it), or any other dumbarse sentimental shit that you witness streaming out in the streets, cinemas or dirtholes. Or from a man's useless penis. So there, hip-hip-horray! Yada-yada. So, I thought, you know, of getting some advice so I came to my Messiah, who said this, "We go through the motions irregardless of how damning they can sometimes be." Yeah, fuck you, I already fucking know that.
This is my mythical Climax, and it's drowning in a pool of merfolk.
People always say, the Fun starts churning out its wrath only when it comes to the fucking Queen of a Climax. Boo hoo people, because it ain't fun or wrong or right or a nice pussy. It's merely Pretense shrouded in black, hiding an axe behind it's back, waiting to hack you into small meat pieces. Sweet!
Fresh meat pieces are small and bloody. And I must add, pretty to look at when they are hooked up to machines tied with red ribbons.
I know very well the goddamn reason for my revolting behaviour, the goddamn reason that renders me feverish with envy, and this goddamn reason will take me nowhere but shame. And why? Because I do not want to see the silly and happy smirk on your face, and because if I were to put it in words, it would sound so much like numerals jumping up and down on a calculus, crackling with precise definition. or Love.
No it is not, SUCKER. It is a very obese and disgusting piece of used chewing gum squeezed into the space of the crack in my head under her bed.
Nonetheless, a previously essential and thus, outdated source of relief. Really.
I told her to pick you up, and carefully lick the dust off.
And so, I count down: 3, 2, 1.
My rocket of insanity just burst into fucking flames. Fucking boo hoo, Casandra.
Labels: rant
