one: bent
Apparently. One cigarette subtracts five minutes from the end of your life. It's either the Surgeon General Nazi Police Greedhead tightening the reigns, or the fat mushroom slap of destiny hurling itself down and rippling into the lives of millions. Sans cigarettes, you will live to be two hundred years old, your grandchildren will murder, pillage and burn over their Ketchup Factory inheritance, your wife will be a sixteen-year-old supermodel and you will die peacefully in your sleep.
But because you sucked on thirteen packs a day and your nerves elegantly julienned your brain every time someone made a slight or sudden move, your lungs will be hooked onto as many machines as there are Frenchies in Paris. You'll wake up one day and denounce God because of it, your eyes will lurch out of your head when you yawn or sneeze. Your chest will tighten and you'll realize you are no longer breathing. Five Minutes from the hospital, your heart stops and you die. That was the last grain of tobacco you sucked on, in the thralls of its revenge. When you have a cigarette between your digits, you are exactly the same as everyone else.
I like the feeling of plaster between my toes, I like cucumber sandwiches, and I like hand jobs, the color brown, Polly Jean Harvey and I hate everything else.
I hate the sun because it keeps coming up. Shining down on the Hollywood Boulevard hookers, two-hundred and fifty to sit in your car and discuss their rates. No, the day dawns for me, every day after this one will have vg/VG carved into it, because I'm Vincent Vito Gallo but you can call me Messiah. I've come to piss on the laissez-faire and to make women and queers tremble.
If you tell anyone I said this, I'll fucking cut you up and sell you to a Jewish butcher.
vincent veto if I respect you enough to follow through.
But because you sucked on thirteen packs a day and your nerves elegantly julienned your brain every time someone made a slight or sudden move, your lungs will be hooked onto as many machines as there are Frenchies in Paris. You'll wake up one day and denounce God because of it, your eyes will lurch out of your head when you yawn or sneeze. Your chest will tighten and you'll realize you are no longer breathing. Five Minutes from the hospital, your heart stops and you die. That was the last grain of tobacco you sucked on, in the thralls of its revenge. When you have a cigarette between your digits, you are exactly the same as everyone else.
I like the feeling of plaster between my toes, I like cucumber sandwiches, and I like hand jobs, the color brown, Polly Jean Harvey and I hate everything else.
I hate the sun because it keeps coming up. Shining down on the Hollywood Boulevard hookers, two-hundred and fifty to sit in your car and discuss their rates. No, the day dawns for me, every day after this one will have vg/VG carved into it, because I'm Vincent Vito Gallo but you can call me Messiah. I've come to piss on the laissez-faire and to make women and queers tremble.
If you tell anyone I said this, I'll fucking cut you up and sell you to a Jewish butcher.
vincent veto if I respect you enough to follow through.