Wrapping your head around the unfathomable is, at best, a mission for the impossible.

When does the trip end?
They tell you it exacerbates the issues already implanted in your head but in the same time they offer help,
they ask you if it's the right time to "get ok".
They know it isn't.
25 years of insanity and nothing has taken the edge off.

You know it doesn't even count, right? You know they can see you laughing.
You know so much to be so god damned stupid.
I wish you knew how much I loved you.
But hey. You are in your speedball of bliss and suicide, so why the fuck should you care?
You don't.
That's the problem with today's kids. So much damn sugary ambivalence across your overt lips.
I hate telling you how much you matter, because you don't.
You don't matter and that's the price of fame, the price of a supposed rockstar.
Frailty is the name of the game and I live to know when I'll die.
It's all for anniversary's sake.
And I'll wake up tomorrow, laugh and quake, and it will be another pawn to your rook.
Check mate, fancy that.
Bubblegum and champagne to that...

How long before you screw it up?
How many times do I have to tell you to hurry up?
With everything I do for you, the least you can do is keep quiet!

Be a good girl...
You've gotta try a little harder...
That simply wasn't good enough to make us proud.

Care is just another four letter word.

Twenty-four.
Some stupid state of reformation and "The New South".
Brianny. Bri. B. : verb more than noun
Thinker, feeler, doer, purveyor.

It's ok now, love.
It's always been ok.
Don't worry now, love.
Worry gets you no where.

Care to elaborate? Not really.

It's always been here.

And, if you have the incessant need to hit me up, try me at _im:
aim: bad wolf five