I am dead he says. Dead from heavy burdens, stories, peoples infections, and lies. Dead from myself, the city, my family. Dead, but I don't think so. I feel too much, instantly. Too furious, too melancholy, too happy, too pessimistic. I am not dead, I am just walking on a fine line and torturing my mind because it's what I know. The drugs can be a nice escape. They are. I am aware of the burn. I may have low self control, but I am not stupid.
I'm in a blue and red bubble. There are lines, but they aren't visible, and suddenly, everything becomes blurred. There are no tomorrow's, no paychecks. There are no responsibilities, bills to pay, bullshit to say or people to smile at for the sake of smiling. It is a scary kind of comfort. It's parties and naked people dancing in the street with their bottles of Monet, and the fake fur they got at Trendy Wendy. It is nothing and everything. Creative junkies. No false niceties. They wear beautiful clothes and they have beautiful money. Everybody is somebody.
You see the screw ups and the ditz. The flash mobs, the dancers, the depressed kids with nothing but cuts on their arms. All these fuck ups, glamorous fuck ups together, holding each other up. It makes sense. Everyone is on some hippie shit. There's no need to tone yourself down. In fact, people amp themselves until you're dangerously close to being deaf. They all love to hear themselves talk about life and culture, and politics. It's all equality this, the government is out to kill your family, big brother sucks dick. You know, everyone's got something to say. And all of it is intriguing, even if it's not. I don't need to tone myself down. I am one of these fuck ups.
Barbiturates, you know. They catapults me from wall to wall, taking me to euphoric hallways and mesmerizing skies. A lifestyle that keeps me preoccupied. Spinning. Woo do I spin and sweat and phase out until I am frightening. Interestingly enough, the mind, the one part of me I wish I could strangle does not sleep. Yet with the right amount of dosage distortion is liquid heaven on a hot summer Vegas afternoon. It comes in handy for a creative one.
Am I one? The creative kind? How pretentious. It would be a nice excuse, but no. I am not. Well, I don't know. He tells me I don't need them. The alternations and the pills and the lines in the bathroom. I don't need the dirty boys with their gin soaked dicks and their ass hole personalities. But what does he know? He has been my crutch for a while and its probably fueled the ginormous ego in his pants.
He likes to play the savior part, you know. He comes riding in on his white horse and everyone deems him the special one. He's the one who can save me. They all bow to him. He makes me a better woman and with him I *gasp* actually have feelings. Without him I am apparently just a wasteless tart. I love him, but he is taking on too much and then complaining about it when no one actually asked him. Love will do that. You want to hold the hand and fill each other with security. You want a life of simplicity, peace. Breakfast love, afternoon love, dinner fucks. You want it all, but then you turn to your left and see the screw up clinging onto your arm, barely able to stand, barely able to string together a sentence. She is hanging on by a thread. Life has tossed her and fucked her, and in her mind she's just taking the precautions needed to survive.
I have swallowed my pride, put on a brave face and tried. The swallowing came easy, the brave face - not so much. I'm letting it go completely. It is what it is and at the end of the day, today, it is nothing. Walking on leftover glass pieces and getting cut every which way. It was fun at first, but now it's just masochistic and dangerous and we have grown and got tangled in the process of trying to hold on to the past He says I helped him open up and trust more, which is ironic in a way. Whoever he seriously dabbles with next is in for some theatrical performances of romance, cuddles, kisses, and 9 inches.
I hope he's happy. I'm off in my blue and red bubble, and my dysfunctions are my friends. For now.
I'm in a blue and red bubble. There are lines, but they aren't visible, and suddenly, everything becomes blurred. There are no tomorrow's, no paychecks. There are no responsibilities, bills to pay, bullshit to say or people to smile at for the sake of smiling. It is a scary kind of comfort. It's parties and naked people dancing in the street with their bottles of Monet, and the fake fur they got at Trendy Wendy. It is nothing and everything. Creative junkies. No false niceties. They wear beautiful clothes and they have beautiful money. Everybody is somebody.
You see the screw ups and the ditz. The flash mobs, the dancers, the depressed kids with nothing but cuts on their arms. All these fuck ups, glamorous fuck ups together, holding each other up. It makes sense. Everyone is on some hippie shit. There's no need to tone yourself down. In fact, people amp themselves until you're dangerously close to being deaf. They all love to hear themselves talk about life and culture, and politics. It's all equality this, the government is out to kill your family, big brother sucks dick. You know, everyone's got something to say. And all of it is intriguing, even if it's not. I don't need to tone myself down. I am one of these fuck ups.
Barbiturates, you know. They catapults me from wall to wall, taking me to euphoric hallways and mesmerizing skies. A lifestyle that keeps me preoccupied. Spinning. Woo do I spin and sweat and phase out until I am frightening. Interestingly enough, the mind, the one part of me I wish I could strangle does not sleep. Yet with the right amount of dosage distortion is liquid heaven on a hot summer Vegas afternoon. It comes in handy for a creative one.
Am I one? The creative kind? How pretentious. It would be a nice excuse, but no. I am not. Well, I don't know. He tells me I don't need them. The alternations and the pills and the lines in the bathroom. I don't need the dirty boys with their gin soaked dicks and their ass hole personalities. But what does he know? He has been my crutch for a while and its probably fueled the ginormous ego in his pants.
He likes to play the savior part, you know. He comes riding in on his white horse and everyone deems him the special one. He's the one who can save me. They all bow to him. He makes me a better woman and with him I *gasp* actually have feelings. Without him I am apparently just a wasteless tart. I love him, but he is taking on too much and then complaining about it when no one actually asked him. Love will do that. You want to hold the hand and fill each other with security. You want a life of simplicity, peace. Breakfast love, afternoon love, dinner fucks. You want it all, but then you turn to your left and see the screw up clinging onto your arm, barely able to stand, barely able to string together a sentence. She is hanging on by a thread. Life has tossed her and fucked her, and in her mind she's just taking the precautions needed to survive.
I have swallowed my pride, put on a brave face and tried. The swallowing came easy, the brave face - not so much. I'm letting it go completely. It is what it is and at the end of the day, today, it is nothing. Walking on leftover glass pieces and getting cut every which way. It was fun at first, but now it's just masochistic and dangerous and we have grown and got tangled in the process of trying to hold on to the past He says I helped him open up and trust more, which is ironic in a way. Whoever he seriously dabbles with next is in for some theatrical performances of romance, cuddles, kisses, and 9 inches.
I hope he's happy. I'm off in my blue and red bubble, and my dysfunctions are my friends. For now.