It is that time of the day boys and girls. Whereas our female brethren have their time of the month, it seems that I have reached a point where I reach indeterminate amounts of frustration on a daily basis for no particular reason. It's kind of like spontaneous combustion, however not nearly as funny.
Let's start with things that I cannot control. First and foremost, who the fuck decided that summer is supposed to come in the middle of fucking April? I checked the weather report, it's supposed to be 80 degrees tomorrow. In contrast, it's supposed to be 55 at home, god dammit. I'm stuck down in this hellhole that is glorified on every other page of the American Dream propoganda. Poor soul follow like lemmings in a row, down the valley of hopes and dreams straight to the bottom of the well of despair to find: THERE IS NO OPPORTUNITY AWAITING. Certainly, high rise buildings will always have a need for an endlessly transient staff, and there will always be positions open for incorrectly defined, cute waitresses and hosts. However, where you want to go does not exist! Forgot your invitation? Certainly not; the reality may sound hollow and callous, but in a city where disinterested rejection is the rule rather than the exception it should be no surprise that there was never an invitation in the first place.
Moving on. On the topic of rules, rather than exception: lack of stability. This statement is inclusive of all things, however a distinct focus upon the immaterial and the emotional exists. Strike me upon the back of the knees, force me to the ground and level your pistol upon the bridge of my nose. For you I have no last words, nor a last request. You have brought to me what I beg for most: an ending, a discontinuation. Something this worthless does not deserve to continue down the path of the gracious. Could I cry blood if only to appease the one looking down upon me? Or shall I drive stakes through the centers of my palms? Pinned to the wall of exhaustion I'll let the red stain slide down the drywall until it infects the carpet underneath my feet. And if I'm lucky the bleeding will subside only in time to leave me broken and done for, collapsed upon the carpet crying until the salt dries upon my face.
But having found the tragic courage to inflict upon myself the wounds of sorrow, fresh scars from a new beginning, I stand under the light of happiness. Is it so hard to be happy? So difficult to stem desire? As the sky blackens for the impending storm I find myself boldly pacing the deck, waiting for the lightening to strike me down; but where the sun returns each morning, I cower under the sheets. Somebody fucking hold me.
Let's start with things that I cannot control. First and foremost, who the fuck decided that summer is supposed to come in the middle of fucking April? I checked the weather report, it's supposed to be 80 degrees tomorrow. In contrast, it's supposed to be 55 at home, god dammit. I'm stuck down in this hellhole that is glorified on every other page of the American Dream propoganda. Poor soul follow like lemmings in a row, down the valley of hopes and dreams straight to the bottom of the well of despair to find: THERE IS NO OPPORTUNITY AWAITING. Certainly, high rise buildings will always have a need for an endlessly transient staff, and there will always be positions open for incorrectly defined, cute waitresses and hosts. However, where you want to go does not exist! Forgot your invitation? Certainly not; the reality may sound hollow and callous, but in a city where disinterested rejection is the rule rather than the exception it should be no surprise that there was never an invitation in the first place.
Moving on. On the topic of rules, rather than exception: lack of stability. This statement is inclusive of all things, however a distinct focus upon the immaterial and the emotional exists. Strike me upon the back of the knees, force me to the ground and level your pistol upon the bridge of my nose. For you I have no last words, nor a last request. You have brought to me what I beg for most: an ending, a discontinuation. Something this worthless does not deserve to continue down the path of the gracious. Could I cry blood if only to appease the one looking down upon me? Or shall I drive stakes through the centers of my palms? Pinned to the wall of exhaustion I'll let the red stain slide down the drywall until it infects the carpet underneath my feet. And if I'm lucky the bleeding will subside only in time to leave me broken and done for, collapsed upon the carpet crying until the salt dries upon my face.
But having found the tragic courage to inflict upon myself the wounds of sorrow, fresh scars from a new beginning, I stand under the light of happiness. Is it so hard to be happy? So difficult to stem desire? As the sky blackens for the impending storm I find myself boldly pacing the deck, waiting for the lightening to strike me down; but where the sun returns each morning, I cower under the sheets. Somebody fucking hold me.
belllla:
Idle Stalking is the least fun stalking evar. 