Do I regret what I did? What I've done?
No. Not on your life.
But hey, there's gotta be something of a conscience in that messed up, fucked up, screwed up little green head of his, yeah?
You'd think so.
But you'd be wrong.
At one time, maybe. Sure, maybe little me would be sorry for spilling wine on mommy's favourite dress. Or making the police man's precious little guts and things go boom-boom-boom. But.
I don't care.
I don't think I'll ever care.
How can I with this damn pills they shove down my throat?
Be normal. Be normal. Be okay. Be safe.
Be normal.
Well, honey, sweetie, precious buttercup.
Normal don't cut it anymore.
Normal don't pay the bills.
Normal.
Doesn't get people's attention.
Lookit me, lookit me, I'm functional in society! What a load.
What do I think I have to do here? My purpose?
Stir things up.
Wake these sadsacks up from their bland, their mundane, their subpar lives.
They gotta wake up.
And they need help to do it.
Am I a saint? Hell no.
I'm a Joker.
