Mother Nature's Joke.
The bottom of a heel fell off of my shoe. Clip clop. Clip clop. Clip clop. All the way to my car.
I can't imagine any of this means anything in the long run, so I'm taking everything as a joke. When my boss comes to me tomorrow to tell me I've lost my job, I'll laugh hysterically and keep not working. When my landlord sends me an eviction notice, and my electricity gets turned off, I'll laugh and keep living.
It's hard to imagine any of this annoying me any more. Yet some how it does. Condescending doesn't do anything but fuel my anger. Patronizing everyone does nothing but make you a mother.
When do people get tired of hearing what you should do, what you could do, what you might do?
I do not keep a neat diary.
I do not wrap up my entries.
I do not write things to be funny.
I do not pride myself on lack of spelling errors, or perfect grammar.
On the day I turn myself over, my identity becomes ruled by strangers, my appearance fabricated. Any picture would be stretched and cut, all you'll have to go on will be a clip.
What would feed my ego would be your desire to masturbate to my picture, and the lovely words I can misunderstand into something I can use.
See also: Trick lighting.
One string of thought. On impulse.
If you tapped, it would sound hollow. It's not depth you're after.
Everyone wants a reflection pool of self. A place to see how great they are, and I can't tell if this is strung together with self doubt or a small ego. Worship scares the living fuck out of me, and maybe I'm alone in this. Manipulation makes me ill, and I'm not alone in these words, but everyone has done their share to get what they want.
It's all typos any way.
I'll just say my prayers
And I just light myself on fire
And walk out on the wire once again
I want to write I think, but my english teacher would say that's implied, and therefore not necessary to write.
I'm the only one who really doesn't give a fuck enough to give everything up on the chance of nothing.
Fuck you. Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck me.
Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.
Count the measures off in your head, I've never counted once I knew the song. I came in at always the right time, without fail. I stopped playing, and since that time my beat has been off.
Beware redundance. Beware controversy. Beware privacy.
I should be ashamed that my thoughts travel in circles, and that three days later I'm still listening to Goodnight Elisabeth.
My sadness is just another victim of boredom.