If I was a guy, this would be fine. This whole fuckin' life would not only be aceptable, it would be expected. Well, maybe not the vintage gowns on the wall, but still.

See, I've lost the magic. That whole open lack of ceiling trhough wich you could see the stars, blue expanse of night, glitter and love in the sky. You grow up, and it goes away, and the rest is burying your head in the smut so that you can forget that you're a livin, breathing, bill-paying, apartment renting adult too fucking small to look at the sky anymore. Look at the sky, and you forget little picky bullshit, like to wash your clothes or to keep your fucking fingernails clean. Look at the sky, and you're some dirty punk kid with a lot of potential who's stuck in the same fucking shit cause they're a dirty punk kid. You're some joke bitch who thinks they know what's up but they don't cause they're too busy screaming at the stars and staring at the stars and drinking starlight to be anybody, to dig that long, filthy, sunken road that gets you to the sky. I don't know if I want that. Arrive in the sky covered in shit and sold out, not at all the thing who dreamed of it once and said that's what I want? Crack the sky and tarnish the stars under the weight of fucked up and tawdry experience, where lovers love you into a pulp and you never have the right color lipstic to make the correct fucking photo finnish in the glossy glam magazine of celebrity suicides. Fuck that shit.

I'd rather look at the stars from the gutter than find out there ain't any, and maybe that's ostrich mentality or some shit, but Fuck That. Gods have been created from lesser blindness, glasses tinted rose instead of eyes set with white and blaze. Fuck.

(Mad Props to m home-skillet O. Wilde, yo. Represent!)

<<agé chose>>

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