This city is full of broken clowns who have nothing to lose, but are too dumb to gain so they’re just stuck surviving by subtly flexing a black hole where a good hug from their mother should be. If you feel attacked by this then, bet. If you feel seen by this, then I’m so so sorry. I have faith that we’ll be saved soon...Now sis, I ask that you do not make any sudden movements that would draw unwanted attention your way. Please remain very still.
I’m dehydrated from always high key gassing my excess pocket of humanity. I thought I saw some semblance of the bag, but I have glaucoma so I’ll look again soon. You must protect me from you because I, too, have been moving so funny that I’m now a decade overdue for a street fight with no friends to film it. I am a bum.
Today, I forgot what Henry feels like!!! And I pulled up promptly to the bando to tell him so.
I took my car and drove it into the far right part of my head where the looney tune plays in a minor key. At dinner, I was hurting all over from the humiliation of resorting to a social defense. I was a fool again to have brought it up because the past is already a sham before any attention is drawn to it from the obliged parties. I’d like to hear God’s advice for a veteran con-artist on her last bag of tricks. The third part of the first act of life is almost over, but I’m still wondering why I cling on to every bit of fiction, thinking it will lead to more love if I just tried harder. The blanket is made of thick wool, and I’m sweating inside the bed of mud. There is so much mud. I’m defeated by my brood of half-truths that are innocently following their mother straight into a busy intersection. Words get me in and out of trouble. Intention is the trickiest part. Wisdom is macgyvering oneself into a safe place without jeopardizing guts, while embracing shame. Someone tells me dying is a series of slow-burning chances at forgiveness towards yourself and your audience. And I’m alright with all of this as long as we keep romance before the clout.
“They used to keep me in. Shut me up in a holed sock, stuffed down a Popeye’s elevator shaft. Have you smelled a fat rat’s asshole? They like it medium rare. Hot gouda and Polly-o, dripping through their eye sockets, yelling respect your elders! Respect your elders! They never got as far as the front door. I would watch them inside the washing machine, stuck in there like glue,tumbling backwards, but the only thing I could stretch was my left tit, but it ripped. Blood went everywhere cause it was tacked to the Man they called their God. I told Him, hey,if you’re in here with me, let me out! Let me out. I knew he had the key. He said that the key is in here and he pointed to his right nut sack and I knew he was about as bright as that flat screen TV, crisp and dull, Joe High-Quality. I came in there with Love, but I got suffocated. Trapped. Those dim-witted, flapjacks, going only inside and out. Their brains turned to mush if they ever went above a Level 8 on the spectrum of duty. And when real Duty came, they went to go take a shit! They transcended that one-way into an illusion of possibility, into the back alley short cut, into tomorrow, into this fucking washing machine without any soap. It’s just water. Water has no smell. A cesspool of what could’ve been. Cheater cheater Newport eaters, chugging that soapless water to wash it all down. And they never even got as far as the front door. Waiting and waiting, tumbling backwards. It was a quiet day when the Immaculate Fix came. And the sun was shining on the hot metal grill of my cage. There was a breeze. I knew the Man they called their God had pulled through. I thought they would turn around, maybe drag me back down with them. I would’ve let them because that would be their type of apology. But they were so blind they couldn’t hear me. And they can’t hear me now even when I’m telling it to them straight…that they really hurt my feelings.” from Glue