Petty Little ThingsSubmitted by DaBeast at 2019-04-02 01:57:27 EDT
Rating: 0.66 on 3 ratings (8 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
You wage your little battles, flinging words like weapons and it's funny to watch when someone, unthinkingly, grabs a boomerang because it's see if I can grab the popcorn before it comes back and bites them in the ass time. No, I'm not hyphenating all that shit.
What really matters in your world? I wonder that, sometimes, about random people I encounter. The answers are rarely surprising.
You're into sex. Doesn't matter what kind, doesn't matter whom with, it's the act that gets you going. Me, I don't get it. Boil it down and it's never anything more than Tab A into Slot B and you can add outfits and props and bring your freaky friends along to play, film it, hide it, do it on the hood of a cop car - it's all Tab A, Slot B. I've had all the sex and after a millennium plus watching you hairless apes get it wrong, the thing pales, the lust dies, and that's when you know there's naught but dust in your veins and you really don't give a fuck.
And you, over there. Yeah, you're the little freak that's into darker things, more forbidden things, the slimy things that you find in the out of sight places where the norms don't go. Yours is a feeling just as primal, just as necessary, and that anger broiling your bones can't be appeased easily or often but when it is, oh, it feels nice down in the dirty little cockles of your soul. Yeah, I've met a thousand or more just like you. It will never be enough for you, any suffering you inflict. You will always need more, just one more fix, and then I'll stop. Such fiction. But that brings me to...
Don't start strutting yet, junkie. Be it caffeine, nicotine, alcohol, adrenaline, or any of a thousand other poisons, you just gotta have it. Can't function without it, can't be sane or right or good without it and it makes the pain, the stress, the hurt bearable. Everybody's got their way to get through the day and I don't judge. Some of the best souls in Hell were junkies. Remind me to tell you about the joys of spinning a needle just out of Belushi's reach sometime. Funny story. 1,000 pound bumblebee in part of it. You'd like it.
Any saints out there?
No, I knew there weren't. This place isn't quite that sanctimonious just yet.
You are, all of you, so... innocent and this place plays much like redneck soap opera, which while it can be a fascinating watch it's because it shares much in common with train wrecks and natural disasters.
This is a glorious conflux of absolute batshitery and bullshit and you all revel in it, so, and you walk through the door and you throw off your clothes and you strut past us all and we still come back from time to time to drink it in and mock it as is its just due.
If we didn't, how would you know that we hated you? I mean, some things demand to be shared.
And, yet, for all the vitriol, you come back and huddle together, like children around a lone candle burning in the dark, the last remnant of something gone and forgotten by all but a very few, a piece of the past that still, sometimes, has a heartbeat.
Fuck every last one of you for being sentimental old fools.
Bring me your negative scores, my pretties!