there's a fizzing in my blood, there's a clenching in my throat. blue skies and ever-stretching seas are struck by quick dark bolts and collapse, a ruined canvas. &@#* you all. hot drops of misery in eyes, chills biting at bare necks, the world propping smiles up with sticks. what's the point? bathe me in acid, watch my eyeballs sizzle and burn, if it makes you feel better. throw me to a #@!*ing bed of needles, if it makes you feel better. rip my head from its body, relish the sound of the tearing tissue; savour the spill of hot blood on your hands, note the way my mouth has fallen wide in an aborted scream--if it makes you feel better. yes, why not? i am one in a ^^*^ing million.

#*%@ you, all. $*!* you, everything. baudelaire was right.

RATE THIS CHAPTER!