Schröedinger's cat

Mustard goes on the left

I've figured you out, Now I have to breed, yes, I have to breed underwater.
It's kinda of a magical way you've got, selling me my dreams and having me paying with my soul. Time and time again. Selling me my life at higher prices everytime.
And everytime I pay.
You've broken my will, you've poisoned me with your two-hundred-yard smile, and never gave me a clue as to how to reach your heart. No, it was really a psychological experiment you were conducting all along.
Me, the guinea-pig. Me, the celacanthus. Me, the oh-so-easy-going fella that made his life to make you happy. And happy you were. Until you were bored.
That's why I want to be evil. That's why I became a pirate, that's why I took off my right eyball and burned in the pyre I've made with your hair and my dreams. Now you've got to find another business. Oh, but you had already, dontcha?
And then, I disappeared into thin air, not to be found by your ilk ever again. I dwell with murder and I've got a Hell to raise.
A heart to mend.
An eye-patch.
And about forty-years of sea-scrounging.
I've got all the crackers I'll ever need.
You? You've got yourself to blame.

D-d-down the d-d-drain

For some inscrutable reason you keep letting yourself in these situations. It's no different if it's a new one or it's a mistake of old. It all ends in the same hole.
Fact is: once in a while you go down, having all your strenght drained by what you wished be a succubus, but is not. It's in everybody's sight. It's really all over your friggin' face, in neon:

I'm done. Again.

You won't learn. That's what you've learned so far. It'll happen again and there's not much you moron can do about.
Let's try and think once more, so you can go cry to ya mamma I abused you.

Pain. Somehow you seem to have a romantic view of pain. Pain must purge your sins; or make you look good; or have you worthy a place in heaven; or some other dumb shit. Don't give me the sex bullshit, it's not that pain I'm talking here. It's that heartache you revel on, that self-comiseration that awakes you in the middle of the night "inspired" to scribble those pitiful texts of yours. Yes, you appear to love pain, misleading it for passion, cultivating it with extra care, so you have fancy-coffee shops conversation up your sleeves. Hear me now, half-wit, it doesn't make you seem more intelligent. Not even more sensitive. Any shred of pain you woo for yourself is gonna make you piteous; in the worst way possible.

Low self-esteem. Now we're talking. Remember when you used to daydream about being some pounds skinner or some inches taller? Remember being bullied around for not being white? Do you recall why you grew that intellectual persona, the cool bookworm, the witted movie buff? Because you have a dreadful self-image that you try so hard to hide. So, it's only natural that you'd hide your-fucking-self. Now, it may only work for the people you sustain a light relationship like the guys from work, the eventual sleep over, the friends you see once a week. But whenever somebody comes closer: bam! There goes the neighbourhood. And guess what, no one's to blame, sicko-boy. It's you and you only to blemish.

Stupidity. Glad you came up with the subject. You are a cretin, but it's not it. And this is the only moment in the whole History I'll condescend, so grab a camera: you're not stupid, although you are a retard. But somehow it's kinda difficult to really aprehend love-lessons. No one is a genius when it comes down to understand love. No one can be that rational when love is in the way. Cuz if you do, you end up with the stated above. Pain. And low self-esteem. That or you end up alone, which, maybe, you shoulda.

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.

Dead as in "what's the use?"

That's how it ends.
No signs, no ringing bells, no reward.
Sheer disappointment. Loads of pain.
Anticlimax.

That's what's left: frustration, discomfort, perfidy, shame, degradation, sadness, loneliness, mistake, abandon, disregard, emptiness.

And in her eyes, you see nothing…

Gimme a reason

So you killed your first person, human being, son of god. So you feel awkward, to say the least. The feeling, to be honest, is sort of… You feel relieved.
One shithead less upon the planet. Maybe two people are gonna miss this son of a whore for more than a week. In fact, that low-life scum shoulda been put out of his misery a year or so ago.
So you did it, and you're not at all proud of it.
And it downs on you that all the implications are going to get you sooner or later. Prision. Remorse. The disgust in everyone's look. The angst. Fear. Guilt. Oh, they come in band.
Then again, it's all-too-good that no one has to smell that bastard around. That tiny little self-immersed heart. That humongous mediocrity. That puke-inducing self commiseration. That sheer beigeness.
Probably for the best. But, in the end, you feel you can do it again. Kill someone. Killing seems already a cure. Some sort of ointment for the world blisters. Purulent like the one you just excised.
And the consequences? Well, you killed your first ghost of a chance to be happy. Now you face yourself in the mirror, if you can.

Riddles are abound

This is not a town anymore, this is a ingeniously devised torture implement where every fucking image, sound and smell reminds you: she's gone.
Dead in a second. Worlds collide. And you're burning.
Your mother told you would burn. You didn't believe. You did believe, though, that you'd die first. Nope.
You still hasn't got a clue.
She's gone, she's history, she's the only thing ever to make you afraid of diyng. And look at you now. And from where you're standing, hell seems so sweet.
Blab all day long, mingle, drink, drug yourself to oblivion, get laid, create, gig. It doesn't matter.
Fight for her, long for her, blame her, ignore her, forget her. It doesn't matter.
Better get yourself a new life altogether, a parallel world where she's never be. It doesn't matter.
In the end, nothing really matters anymore.