and then there was Caroline.
Sometimes I just wish for good conversation.
Not necessarily soft, sweet, of poetic,
but rather... brash and rude, without a care in the world, and with no fear of offending the other person.
And as well, no fear of fear of offending.
You ladies are tricky though. You like to lay verbal traps for me, and snare me, and shove long, pointy, splintery sticks up my ass.
And really, *I* should be the one inserting things into your asses, right?
Something as simple and harmless as that last sentence brings blinding pain and criticism from you people on a regular basis. From you sickening, humourless, over-serious people.
Smile, you'll fucking live longer.
Caroline, oh Caroline, where did you go?
It was hard enough to find you... how do I find another good conversationalist without putting up with all the human garbage I had to bypass to find you?
It almost doesn't seem worth it, like sometimes I'd rather rot inside myself with incestuous thoughts spinning round and round in my head.
As if, if I let them out, the only response would be fluffy misunderstanding and disgust, rather than grim agreement and a wry, black-humoured, "we're-all-gonna-die", smile.
I never realized my tongue lashed such wicked and deadly bile and venom, you know?
And still, I really don't think it does. You'd think in an age of desensitization towards violence, drug culture and death death death, a wayward comment about the odd vagina or two would get lost in the fray.
Personally, I think there are greater evils than myself. And I just think that the lot of you are too fucking touchy, and bred to be oversensitive and easily offended.
Go listen to a Denis Leary album and cry me a fucking river, alright?
boo
hoo
hoo.
Back.