I look at you and see myself.
Well, not really, because you... well, because you
have breasts. And other girl parts. Because you're a girl.
Got that?
I fucking said, do you GOT THAT?!
Good. Glad you could clean out your eyes n' ears, you CUNT.
See that? I can call you a cunt.
I can call you a bitch. I can call you just about anything, I can call you on the phone.
But not jailbait. You didn't like that one. And as you keep telling me, it's very inaccurate anyhow. You just look like a lolita.
I can't tell when you're being serious, and complimenting me.
It's a fuck of a shame too, because I think you're doing it more than I think you're doing it.
And as well, I can't think of a good way to compliment you.
In a way that you'll take it, is what I mean. I get the feeling...
well, I get the feeling that you're too much like me for compliments.
Of course, I've been wrong before.
I tend to be wrong all the time, especially about your kind... about girls.
Time and time again, I think you're wonderful, soft-hearted creatures. Time and time again you prove me wrong.
But you... you, my angst-ridden barbie... you just might be different. I hope you are, anyhow.
You seem to want to tear me to shreds.
I like that.
You seem to be full of bile and venom and obscenity.
I really like that.
You seem manic and uncontrollable.
I love that.
You show moments of uncertainty and weakness... flickers of desire and passion...
I could die for that.
Don't let me down.
Don't let me down.
Whatever am I going to do with you?
Whatever you do, don't change your mind.
It kind of shames me... but I want to beg you not to.
You'd think it was weak, and you'd think I was weak,
and you'd walk all over me...
So what can I do?
I'm just barely holding you off as it is, and I love it.
I only manage to stay a single step ahead of you, and you're still gaining.
You send shivers down my spine and kick my hearts weak thumping into overdrive.
I want to sink my teeth into your throat and tear out your jugular.
I want to grab you by the waist and push you up against the wall and peer into your eyes, and say nothing... nothing at all.
If I can hold in for another month, if I can refrain from letting my brain or heart explode into a fine mist in my skull or chest... well then I just might have it made.
Because I will come and get you... if you want me to.
And we can be nervous wrecks together, fearing the unreasonable and fighting for justice and insulting each other to and past the point where normal people would be locked in bitter hatred for all eternity. Beyond death even.
You make me fuck up my words, so I sound like any other ridiculous simp around. You make me so nervous and jittery, but relax the fuck right out of me at the same time.
You make me lose sleep. I get chest pains when I talk to you, I get more chest pains when I can't. My neck and shoulders have never been more tense... I get muscle aches and headaches constantly.
You're the source of evil and pain...
and goodness and intrigue.
Just do me a favour
and don't change
your fucking mind.
Back.