Rolling the ember of my cigarette across your back, I wonder why it's all like
this. Nobody ever imagines all the
nooks and crannies their shitty life will have. Minimum wage slavery dashed with self abusive boozing. It's a
rut and a
pattern and a fucking
Hollywood lifestyle. Nothing else to
do. Everything else is too
far and
expensive and
hard and
scary. That university up on the hill is mocking me, like the
Raven in that story. I read it in high school to sound smart for some girl that I can't remember now.
Ida something. Sort of a
small town kind of pretty, the kind that doesn't stack up well in the
city. I can hardly remember anything about her except that
Cash.
Mere.
Sweater...
...
Yeah. I still see that sweater in my dreams sometimes. Unattainable. Story of my fucking
life. Yours too.
I don't know if you're gonna
live through the night or what. I found you in the bathroom, drunk or
high or something. Mostly dressed, very committed to being unconscious and covered in
vomit. You could see the point of discussion about "Hey, maybe I should give a shit and not puke all over everything and myself and have some fucking dignity and maybe try some of those social norms on for a try", well, that conversation just wasn't on the fucking table, was it? Like,
Jesus, Sammie, do you even try? Do you know how a person is supposed to
be? Sometimes you're like a fucking animal, some kind of wolf raised jungle
freak, except with all the romance stripped away. A dog-girl that would shit on the kitchen floor, just cause you could. It's all very fucking frustrating.
Can't you see I'm trying to
fix you?
Whatever, you ungrateful
monster.
I hope you die.
Maybe.
Hatequest 2007, bitches.