Butcher Girl asks, "Can you feel the Knife?"
when I look in your eyes,
with every blow
comes another lie."
Grizzly Bear, Knife, Yellow House
That very well explains my seemingly senseless need to constantly stare meekly at my shuffling feet, lovers!
So I crawled under at my own expense, talked down your throats, threw a few paper slips (SOHO! MACHINES! QUESTION!) in front of a oncoming flash but... those were nil, zero, nothing but a random scramble of anatomical tricks that I pulled out of my sleeves into your fat huge-ass leather wallets.
I could, in the widest of spectrum of definitions, call myself a high-class social escort. But a self-possessed whore is still a cheap tart one way or another, and there is no escaping that.
(By the way, it's a figure of speech.)
A misguided cheap tart like me tries her utmost best to provide stellar services for her comrades, in compensation for the shoddy results gotten from a half-baked yet vital procedure that remains oddly cloudy in its supposed... existence.
So the question is and remains: who the fuck is going to give me the time of my life without the need for me to achieve any form of movement?
Uh huh.
Labels: lyrics
