Cookin' up at purgatory

Feeling rather sane this afternoon, wich prompts her to stop and start thinking: what is it that messed her up so that she couldn't have a proper life anymore?
Greetings from self-comiseration land, a dry, far chunk of desolate terrain in wich she's barely able to breath and is thirsty alla time. Local population: 490. Yes, one can say it's a little, tiny local hell operation, almost like a franchise of sorts.
People around here make fun of their ailments as a way not to lose sanity. What they do miss is the fact that they're not in a litte bit sane. Ghosts, for the most part. Ghost town.
Waiting for the bus won't get her anywhere. It won't bring any closure. No insights. Revelations are not sold anywhere near and never at this time of the year. Nobody ever leaves here, they all belong in the landscape by now. Except her, the cuckoo with the star tattooed on the forehead, is granted free access. In and out. Since she can remember. But she doesn't even like it here, mirror city, and wonders everytime she ends up checking in.
Was it the wrong turn (most likely at Albuquerque)? Was it she ran out of gas? Was it the tainted mojito that tall blonde bitch insisted her to taste?
Nah. Volition. It would take her another five hundred years of therapy to start figuring out why she does this to herself. Better to tag along and try and make these tweening hours as easy on herself as possible.
And that's why, actually, she brought that damn clarinet she just can't play. Diversion. She's gotta get her attention somewhere else. Away from herself. Making it so she won't learn a thing, for learning would have her out of here inna blink and that'd possibly make her wake up.
Here, she's queen. She's granted free pass cuz she'll allways come back. And here she can move around with flare. Slumber land is where her whims are law, and effective the moment she's the wish. Oddly enough, happiness is never around, but she's left thinking if hapiness is really what she longs for.
And it's about the wee hours that the bus actually come and she's gotta go. Leave for how long it'll take her to take another dive. Another fall. Another love.
She almost feel sorry for being herself.

Whoever said that to ya, he's lying

Catching up in the struggle, I wonder why we spent so much time doing whatever is cronópio cronópio.

Since when we alligators have to watch those flies die inside the insidious glass globe?

No, never forget to care, never walk those streets again, if you know what's best for the people you'll never meet.

And if you quite can't grab the meaning of all this, you were not paying attention. You were listening the whole fucking way.

Scram.

Delicacies at 33rd and Broadway

It all ended so fast one was left wondering the ineffable implications of such events. So much ado, so much expectation and it was a matter of a under-two-minutes argumentation.
God never stood a chance.