Mighty Cliche
You all swarm like there’s nothing worth paying attention to other than each other’s failure. You make me sick. I hate the way you cup your hands and glance around at your victims as though they’ve no say in their outcome. I can hardly wait to see you eat your own insides - metaphorically and literally speaking. Will you stab your own kidneys with skewers or will you dip your “world’s best dad” mug into the brain muck of the girl next door? Either way, my giggle is the last thing you’ll hear.
That’s right, I’m going crazy, so it would suit you to leave the room, NOW. Yet you stand there rinsing your glass like it’s mandatory and I know it’s subconscious and that’s what perhaps pisses me off the most. You act like you’re surprised that I’m humiliated that I have nothing to do on a Friday night. Maybe if I wasn’t estranged from my best friend things would be different.
I left the hotel at 10. I had to stop to buy cigarettes, not even knowing if I would want one after the whole ordeal. Better safe… whatever. Why is it so hard for me to write these words? Aren’t people supposed to write what they KNOW? It’s your fault that I know any of this. I wanted to be ignorant.
I just wanted to go and DO something. So I gathered up what little cash I had and climbed into my old Cadillac sedan (the leather seats ironic). I knew the only place I could count on to get away with my color scheme - the Side Bar - would suffice. I think that she that all was that needed. She being not a personification of the aforementioned Side Bar, but the girl sitting alone on one of the “fuck me” sofas toward the front of the place.
That’s right, I’m going crazy, so it would suit you to leave the room, NOW. Yet you stand there rinsing your glass like it’s mandatory and I know it’s subconscious and that’s what perhaps pisses me off the most. You act like you’re surprised that I’m humiliated that I have nothing to do on a Friday night. Maybe if I wasn’t estranged from my best friend things would be different.
I left the hotel at 10. I had to stop to buy cigarettes, not even knowing if I would want one after the whole ordeal. Better safe… whatever. Why is it so hard for me to write these words? Aren’t people supposed to write what they KNOW? It’s your fault that I know any of this. I wanted to be ignorant.
I just wanted to go and DO something. So I gathered up what little cash I had and climbed into my old Cadillac sedan (the leather seats ironic). I knew the only place I could count on to get away with my color scheme - the Side Bar - would suffice. I think that she that all was that needed. She being not a personification of the aforementioned Side Bar, but the girl sitting alone on one of the “fuck me” sofas toward the front of the place.