You know how it is
when you're lights are low
you're thinking's slow
Got no spark,
no feeling but numb.
It's your imagination, really.
Just press on. What else
can you do?
Too much to fix.
Too much of nothing to do.
just under water
swimming not breathing.
It's really not good that you get
so unhappy. You have so much
to be thankful for:
great kid, great man, great job.
So why am I here alone on the couch,
feeling left, feeling like I'm six
alone in the house, waiting? There's
no energy coming towards me.
Nothing feels very real.
Spending too much time
with myself. But then again,
you have a point, don't you?
Actually, yah, you are right on.
I'm an asshole.
Feeling sorry for myself.
In fact, I should really thank you.
Thank you, thank you, and thanks
to the supreme diety
and the corporate lifesuckers
that are sucking my brain out
slowly with a straw.
No, really, I owe you my life.
I'm so sorry I'm sad.
oh god, i'm so so sorry
what's wrong with me?
I'll slap a smile on right now.
watch me do it.
[shit eating grin.]
Self pity isn't becoming.
And neither is sarcasm.
Not becoming for you maybe.
Feels pretty good to me.
Feels real good to get down in it
and look at the knotted parts
and wonder how they got
so knotted up
and work to untie
those knots, find a few answers
and then start to hurt
and feel what it's like
to chip away at the
red brick wall.
Um, huh?
Oh fuck you.
you don't even know me.
Why do I try to tell you anything?
It's like you've been someplace else
all my life. You want to know
what's wrong with me? Try asking
what's wrong with you,
you manipulative bitch.
You have some issues with anger then?
Is that the place we're coming to?
ISSUES? No, I have no issues
with anger. What I have is a fucking
switch blade in my pocket
calling your name next time
you try fucking with me.
I'm not afraid of you; I hope you understand that.
That's the problem with you.
You can't control your emotions.
You let your feelings control you.
That's why you get so anxious,
so panicy, so down.
You have no idea
how to handle it.
You know what?
You really ought
to schedule
an appointment
with your
shrink.
SHRINK THIS, BITCH!
[Scuffle ensues. Switch blade comes out, razor comes out, the fight is on. Hair pulled out by the root. Kicking, stomping, scratching. Cut! swipe! gouge! bleed!]
Oh, sweet lord, she slit my throat!! Oh.
god, I'm dying. Oh no please.
oh. hhh. e. l. p.
[gasp. silence.]
I'm fucking glad to be rid of her.
For today at least.
It feels so damn good to feel.
