(no subject)
Most of the really bad stuff comes from things like car crashes and hepatitis, but there was always this constant hum of anger and depression, like life’s got a bad disease. I don't think I ever cared; it's hard to say.
I could give you a million crash courses on diving over the edge. On pushing yourself out of your head.
Step one: Tonight you need _insert bandmate name here_ for this one, because you haven't left this building all day. Lazy. But this is the part where you get hard liquor. Aforementioned 'mate comes in with two bottles, one in each hand, already staggering.
Step two: This is you, and a bottle, and you are now downing the liquor.
Step three: Keep going.
Step four: You should be fucked up.
Step five: This is a free-for-all step, and you must only decide what it will be once you been through 1 through 5.
Only when I hit the loop point of step three do I realize that I've fucked up, yet again.
I've fucked up about a million times before: put unleaded gasoline in a friend's diesel car; burnt myself a few times working the oven; told Esch once I thought he wasn't a flaming homosexual, but oh God, he is flaming; I’ve lied about my past, I’ve put golden paint on all surfaces and finally knocked the walls down after years of abusing my self-made holy shelter. It's then that terror and failure sunk in...
When the time comes to tuck and roll and we end up falling over each other in a desperate scramble to leave the area, we realize a few things: for one, there might be some people walking instead of running, there very well might be quiet people amongst the screaming, and surely, surely there are even heroes among normal citizens. When business needs attending to and when punches are thrown you need to roll with them, or you run smack-dab into them, front and center, hook line and sinker. Jaw to knuckle, bone to marrow, and eye to eye. Meet terror face on and kick its ass.
Oh, but why am I rambling? Surely there are other things to be done. Uncontrolled mischief and devious hijinks shall commence shortly.
-K
I could give you a million crash courses on diving over the edge. On pushing yourself out of your head.
Step one: Tonight you need _insert bandmate name here_ for this one, because you haven't left this building all day. Lazy. But this is the part where you get hard liquor. Aforementioned 'mate comes in with two bottles, one in each hand, already staggering.
Step two: This is you, and a bottle, and you are now downing the liquor.
Step three: Keep going.
Step four: You should be fucked up.
Step five: This is a free-for-all step, and you must only decide what it will be once you been through 1 through 5.
Only when I hit the loop point of step three do I realize that I've fucked up, yet again.
I've fucked up about a million times before: put unleaded gasoline in a friend's diesel car; burnt myself a few times working the oven; told Esch once I thought he wasn't a flaming homosexual, but oh God, he is flaming; I’ve lied about my past, I’ve put golden paint on all surfaces and finally knocked the walls down after years of abusing my self-made holy shelter. It's then that terror and failure sunk in...
When the time comes to tuck and roll and we end up falling over each other in a desperate scramble to leave the area, we realize a few things: for one, there might be some people walking instead of running, there very well might be quiet people amongst the screaming, and surely, surely there are even heroes among normal citizens. When business needs attending to and when punches are thrown you need to roll with them, or you run smack-dab into them, front and center, hook line and sinker. Jaw to knuckle, bone to marrow, and eye to eye. Meet terror face on and kick its ass.
Oh, but why am I rambling? Surely there are other things to be done. Uncontrolled mischief and devious hijinks shall commence shortly.
-K