i know i'm ungrateful i've got it lying on a plate and i'm not buying my share of souvenirs
Things like getting drunk with my parents, or drinking less vitamin water and more juice, or energy drinks being on sale, or the temperature rising for a couple days, or teaching my parents texting lingo like 'stfu' and 'omg' and 'wtf,' or the sun barking all over everything, or Elvis Costello all make me happy. More than happy, I am fucking JOVIAL, OVERJOYED, ELATED, MOTHERFUCKING PUMPED FOR LIFE.
But speaking of pumped there's this pulsing fist of anger just... fucking... PULSING... underneath everything I say and do. There is no way to express it, other than to say there is a fucking bloody fist punching me every moment of every goddamn day, reminding me that I should be pissed the fuck off about so much, that nothing is right and everything is wrong and I should be bloody goddamn motherfucking enraged and going around lighting everything and myself on fire while singing a song that goes something like 'burn motherfucker burn motherfucker burn motherfucker burn' (the the tune of the end of sister wells of course) and then stomp the fire out with bare feet until my feet are raw and bloodied stumps at the bitter fucking end of my hairy fucking ankles and then scream unstoppable strings of profanities (some of which haven't even been said in the history of language because, for fuck's sake, there have to be other words, right? ones that you haven't said or I haven't or we haven't even heard or thought of because they're reserved for those times when you're answering to that fist) into the ashes until they are pulverized and reduced to mere atoms by the sonic fucking power of my statement of the fist. Yeah, that would be my heart, folks. I have a furiousfistofaheart.
But I'm still too blithe for words, and I don't care. How could I?
But speaking of pumped there's this pulsing fist of anger just... fucking... PULSING... underneath everything I say and do. There is no way to express it, other than to say there is a fucking bloody fist punching me every moment of every goddamn day, reminding me that I should be pissed the fuck off about so much, that nothing is right and everything is wrong and I should be bloody goddamn motherfucking enraged and going around lighting everything and myself on fire while singing a song that goes something like 'burn motherfucker burn motherfucker burn motherfucker burn' (the the tune of the end of sister wells of course) and then stomp the fire out with bare feet until my feet are raw and bloodied stumps at the bitter fucking end of my hairy fucking ankles and then scream unstoppable strings of profanities (some of which haven't even been said in the history of language because, for fuck's sake, there have to be other words, right? ones that you haven't said or I haven't or we haven't even heard or thought of because they're reserved for those times when you're answering to that fist) into the ashes until they are pulverized and reduced to mere atoms by the sonic fucking power of my statement of the fist. Yeah, that would be my heart, folks. I have a furiousfistofaheart.
But I'm still too blithe for words, and I don't care. How could I?