This is the last time that I'll put shit of this kind here. Pardon the incoherence.
There's shit that we just can't let go of, no matter how much we employ wicked muscle action or how much laxative we pour down our throats. That's the kind of shit that sticks really bad, leaves a stain wherever it lands, and emits a fucked-up stench that may be worse than your brother's gaseous and disgusting posterior propulsion. That shit made my chest hurt and exhausted my tear duct reserves, as it stank to the high heavens.
You're the kind of shit that leaves a lasting stench and stain. But I wouldn't have it any other way. Dude, you're one kind of shit that no one else finds just anywhere. But I guess you found me and not the other way around. You started this beautiful mess, and we played in it with the eagerness and innocence of children (on your side anyway, since something was eating me up inside the whole time), and then things took a plunge down the Marianas. Really. I thought we were going down forever. Well I wouldn't mind if that happened. But things end sooner or later, specially things that weren't really supposed to go that deep. Or that serious.
So I told you more shit that was enough to drive away a steel-gutted Marine or even Superman, but they backfired. Everything. I say I hated this, turns out you hated it, too. I say I like something, turns out you're crazy about it. The freaking universe conspired for me to fuck up some more. You latched on. So did I. But I can't let the charade go on. I wanted to go on, but you can't. You were leaving for a place where you could possibly lose your life, and I can't let you hold on to shit. So I cut the string. I did it as slow as I could. But the connection was severed.
ROSIE, my cardiac organ does exist. The horror.
I can't listen to Chevelle and Lifehouse without remembering. I can't hear the words "yellow" and "coke" without wanting to throw myself down the nearest manhole. And I can't believe I said I hated Marilyn Manson. This sucks.
That bear better come back alive and whole. Or I wouldn't know what to do.
There's shit that we just can't let go of, no matter how much we employ wicked muscle action or how much laxative we pour down our throats. That's the kind of shit that sticks really bad, leaves a stain wherever it lands, and emits a fucked-up stench that may be worse than your brother's gaseous and disgusting posterior propulsion. That shit made my chest hurt and exhausted my tear duct reserves, as it stank to the high heavens.
You're the kind of shit that leaves a lasting stench and stain. But I wouldn't have it any other way. Dude, you're one kind of shit that no one else finds just anywhere. But I guess you found me and not the other way around. You started this beautiful mess, and we played in it with the eagerness and innocence of children (on your side anyway, since something was eating me up inside the whole time), and then things took a plunge down the Marianas. Really. I thought we were going down forever. Well I wouldn't mind if that happened. But things end sooner or later, specially things that weren't really supposed to go that deep. Or that serious.
So I told you more shit that was enough to drive away a steel-gutted Marine or even Superman, but they backfired. Everything. I say I hated this, turns out you hated it, too. I say I like something, turns out you're crazy about it. The freaking universe conspired for me to fuck up some more. You latched on. So did I. But I can't let the charade go on. I wanted to go on, but you can't. You were leaving for a place where you could possibly lose your life, and I can't let you hold on to shit. So I cut the string. I did it as slow as I could. But the connection was severed.
ROSIE, my cardiac organ does exist. The horror.
I can't listen to Chevelle and Lifehouse without remembering. I can't hear the words "yellow" and "coke" without wanting to throw myself down the nearest manhole. And I can't believe I said I hated Marilyn Manson. This sucks.
That bear better come back alive and whole. Or I wouldn't know what to do.
