- W Ï S D O M.

Omg Beyonce's cute dimples.

Right?!

Stop fangirling.

…no.

THEY ARE CUTE.

Bitch, shut up.

BEYONCÈ is alone on an elevator—more specifically, THE HELLEVATOR; when it breaks down suddenly.

Why is Beyoncè alone?

I don't know…

Seems dangerous.

It does, doesn't it.

Everybody needs alone time.

I heard that.

How do you get alone time when you're Beyoncè?

Aha. You don't.

[Beyoncè being followed by paparazzi]

[Beyoncè being mom]

[Beyoncè being Beyoncè]

Oh, hey Beyoncè.

[very serious stare]

What you need?

Some alone time.

[Laughing in infinite dimensions]

Are you done?

Are you Beyoncè?

Though I found it to be strange, I actually did still have a soul, somewhere, seared deeply in the confines of my body, which sometimes I found to be hideous and others to be beautiful— not that it would depend on the day, but rather my state of being, I would have considered it a state of mind, but there was something else at play. Now I hadn't been into the gym in 24 or so hours, and I was still happily getting along with myself to know that I needed a break from Las Vegas Athletic Club—at the very least the North location, which was the closest and the only one I would be finding myself making the trip to at all, although I now had a bicycle and a bus pass to go with it, which made things so much easier than it was before—I was still being drained of my energy from various sources, here-and-there—but especially from Jessie, who at times seemed like a vampire, and even though I had started to understand this reflection of myself and her purpose, I still hated it; nothing was mine, and everything that was seemed to be falling apart, and though I had more than I needed and was actually genuinely grateful, I would have never been willing to admit it—mostly because for the most part, I was still incredibly homeless, mostly—and even working away ⅔ of my day no matter how beneficial the job had become to me, was wearing me down into nothing but the tradegy of a corporate slave; this job certainly wasn't going to get me the money I needed to repay all of my debts, or a chance at a sane life—my ex husband had stolen everything from me that made me feel even the slightest bit human or whole, and I wondered, in all this loveless, careless, homeless neglect—if that was it for me; if I was meant to have stayed with the person who consistently belittled me, cheated, lied, and stole from me—and though he was never willing to admit it, knowing he could have been being recorded at any time, became violent enough to have altered my entire headspace (not that it hadn't been crumbling,) but more than likely wouldn't have shattered entirely and so suddenly without having been punched in the face, choked, or strangled.

But I must have somehow deserved all of it.

It was a strange world, but not a strange day; I hadn't worked out, but things seemed normal and not as robotic as they had been, usually—and though I knew there was in part a certain structural programming at play—Jessie's childish ability to flaunt her spoiled laziness about, as if she knew she both didn't and never would need to work, and on the opposite end of the spectrum, I was a literal slave; I hadn't felt guilty about writing about her from literally under her nose for quite some time; I was a fully-unapproachable, untrustworthy asshole now, and I did it to everyone, often jotting down everything I could see in my experience that was noteworthy or captivating—more or less the entirety of my human experience, which at times felt less and less human with each passing day, and more and more surreal; not only did I not believe in myself to yet be alive, the looming sense of purposeless as a heavy cloud on my shoulders at all time, knowing one day, maybe even soon, I would finally wake up, knowing all of this to have just been an excessive fairytale—a nightmare of cosmic potions, where misogynistic men and other wrongdoers ran the world, where the ugly and poor remained slaves, and where the unjust nature of inequality had become a normalcy, amongst everyone in this existence, surely a lower realm of such—it wasn't possible at all that this dream, or nightmare, would be anything a proper God would have imagined—not one worthy of worship, anyway.

It was the American dream turned American nightmare—rich people living in excess with not a care in the world, and even those not having aquired a desirable amount of wealth, still living in privilege and filth, as I had observed in all my homelessness; everyone who had welcomed me into their home seemed incapable of taking care of it—which I found to be nearly unforgivable; how could one have something as precious as a home and leave it in ruins, letting trash and such excessive materials pile up into corners with the dust and the grime that was so simple to get rid of?! There was a clearer, deeper lesson at play here; though some had lived in literal shacks, they had been kept explicitly clean—and though during my childhood the discomfort of visiting anywhere less than middle class had given me an itch of discomfort, most of the households I did visit were also kept immaculate, save for those who had become addicts of something…and maybe that was the focal point of it all— that almost every American was addicted to something, and had to use another something in order to supplement for whatever the first addiction caused déficit to; I didn't care anymore really, and was willing to work, obviously for pennies on the millions of billions of dollars all of these corporations were scooping up—and though I just as stupidly as anyone else had spent a mentionable portion of my tiny paycheck on music, which I didn't technically need, but it kept me sane—and I was willing enough to keep my delusional dreams of becoming a DJ on hold, just to have a home, or a hole of my own that I could crawl into when I wasn't working for someone else, or working out the poison I had put into my body just to cope with being the kind of human that hadn't yet been lucky enough to be loved, or liked, or cared for and hadn't been lied to, despised, and betrayed in the same breath and by the same people that did once claim to love.

——-

The new Beyoncé album made me upset in a depressing kind of way; I wasn't black enough for it, to begin with, or at least wouldn't let myself be—it wasn't made for me, or maybe it was—but I was struggling with self and doubted any supposed greatness, probably more than ever needing to get away from Jessie and her sadly-something family—I didn't have a word for it, and since white people hated more than anything being called out for their privelege and racism, was straying away from even being able to write about it; I knew I wanted to be somewhere or anywhere in the middle of the obviously apparent race war—but there was no middle, just black-or-white— and I was neither. It sounded something like Skrillex had worked on it, or Sonny, or whoever the fuck he was—and in fact, I was almost certain he had, that I had strayed from the blockbuster romance that was supposed to have resulted from whatever out of bounds otherworldly shit had happened, and that the Dillon Francis I had romanticized was more than likely the Dillon Francis that probably belonged to whatever “organization” my ex had claimed he did— the organization that was more “willing to kill me and bury me in the woods where no one would find me”, than ever put me on or give me any worthwhile status; but how else could he—Dillon Francis—have known my deepest and darkest secret? I figured mY ex husband must have told them— whoever they were—everything.

One

Somethings wrong with me;

Mums the word

Don't look at me, you my son,

I am the one you want.

\BIG FREEDA and BEYONCE are stealing souls with their new hit dance song, aiding JESUS CHRIST in the fight against evil.

RELEASE YOUR SOUL.

RELEASE YOUR SOUL.

RELEASE YOUR SOUL.

By the millions, members of Beyonce's massive fandoms release a number of things; Including their jobs, their vibes, and their souls– all of which, luckily, end up in the right hands.

BEYONCE has lent SUPACREE her soul.

Don't break it.

I would never.

However, BEYONCE'S soul i incredibly fragile, and after a series of near-breaks, SUPACREE has decided the only way to keep it safe, is within her own soul; which has been encapsulated in an unbreakable vault by the use of magical cosmic forces yet unseen, but soon to be unmasked.

Key: villed grey

And everybody's miserable,

And everybody's miserable,

And everybody's got just cause—

But it doesn't make a difference, does it?

It didn't, and it never did

And never will

When will we believe in

Anything, again—

That we did as children,

Or kids?

I've never hated myself or

Debated suicide more often,

Than I have now, at least for awhile

Or a minute,

Whichever's of lesser or greater value

Get it?

I'm in remission, but

Living is cancer

And dying is the only thing that cures it

I hate being human

It's a curse

It's a cause

It's a movement

I can't move Into the future without you

But I guess I'll have to

And I'll just keep on writing

Songs about you

Song about you

Songs about you—

Sounds about right,

But it does t seem right at all

Without you

Without you

Without you

Without you

How about now?

Am I powerful enough to fight you?

That's right

I left right on time

Just to spite you

I am sad today

But I have t had sunlight,

And I haven't had a bike ride

But I needed rest, see

I almost died

I've got no light on the front

And reflectors don't work unless

Someone close to you has lights on,

I found out

Wow

Everything my mom said makes sense now

I get how

It's dangerous to ride your bike when it's dark out

And there are dark clouds overhead

But somehow

I made it

And I get

Sorry, am I in your way?

I can reach over you…

It's me.

I know it's you. You fuckin' dick.

Let me explain.

I heard Beyoncé's new album.

That wasn't me…

So you're trying to tell me you're everyone in the world but Beyoncé.

…yes!

Whatever.

Listen to me.

I'll do anything but that.

I have a plan.

I don't care.

Yes you do.

You don't know me.

You don't know me!

Shut up, Mrs. Pancakes and listen to what I have to say.

Unless what you have to say is, “I'm sorry— “

I am sorry!

—I don't wanna hear it.

I said I'm sorry.

I said I don't wanna hear it.

Cool. Fucking cool.

If it was a 7-year curse, I had 4 years down and still nothing to show for it but literal blood, sweat, and tears— there was no joy in anything except for food, which kept me in the gym and trying my best to stay in shape—and I was fit, but not petite, like Kayla Lauren; all the finest men wanted child-shaped women, or at the very best so petite that anything could do, and I could do nothing but sulk in my self-hatred. But perhaps I had spent too much time around Jessie, who for exactly 3 days had tried to mimic my neat and tidiness by cleaning up after herself, only to go back to the laziness and chaos that I had begun to get used to; however, realizing I had become quite the parasite, often exchanging the energy I was losing for other valuables I myself wouldn't purchase without having my own space; laundry and dish detergent, shampoo and conditioner, and the entirety of the spice rack—which I did feel tinges of guilt about, but nonetheless, an automatic housekeeper, justified using such things by having to take after the laziness around me, which drained my energy entirely—and promising to replace them when I could, though undoubtedly only feeling as if it was okay because of the apparent over-abundance, and my own shortcomings.

I didn't want to go back to Mexico, really, but probably would—the United States was too expensive, but I had gotten used to the luxuries and without a thought didn't really want to return where everything was broken down and dirty—and, where I was expected to pay more being “rich” because I could earn more by going back “home”, however, without a true home to go to, it was only a waste of time and energy to even be back; at least I could gym, and I did in part have Kayla Lauren, or at least the whole of white supremacy to thank for that—the fact that she and girls alike were automatically just ‘better' and had more advantages for being more fuckable pissed me off to the point that gym time had become part of my daily regimen; though, surrounded by petite-bodied fredcked faces did nothing for my own confidence or self worth—I still had Sonny always in the forefront of my mind, and somehow somewhere someone had figured him as my ideal enough to make this all happen; now all I wanted to be was 108 pounds and petite, knowing at that exact measurement anyone who wasn't really a racist would want me—and know knowing I wanted more than to be wanted, but to be needed.

My dreams were seeping Into reality and blending with astral projections of the past, whatever that was; I had been gladly visited by my dead son and however traumatizing that was, I had at least seen him, healthy and tall, 7 years old as he would have been at the time—and of course, taunted in the dream world as always being there, but not—in another room, in another place—aware of him but not with him, always thinking about him but not there, as I had truly been. It didn't matter that the universe or whatever evil was in it was haunting me with my motherhood—I had actually tried to keep my marriage intact, and I knew it in my heart and soul, or whatever stardust was left of their remains respectively, that I had done no wrong. It was a damned-if-i-did and damned-If I didn't situation; there was no remedy for whatever had taken place but to forget with time.

Jessie's house really was depressing, and I feared for her that she would never actually leave it, however spoiled she was. It had to have been a rampant sickness, her father, a slave driver who used his ex wife and daughter as laborers for his business, and while keeping them well fed, not paid well enough to actually go into the world and succeed; he was just as evil as any other corporation or business, and just as powerful; using his Christianity as a guard against being considered truly harmful—and his graciousness of allowing me into his home was at the very most a kindness I couldn't look past, trying not to judge but understanding over and over again how one can fail to use a trash can; he wasn't in a rush; in fact, he spent his days watching Evangelists talk about the coming apocalypse, while his ex wife and daughter toiled away making fishing lures for his business, apparently very profitable. For something I admired him—perhaps his musicianship, or perhaps just my strange and undying affection for Caucasian alpha males, or even that he did have such a power as to keep his ex wife and daughter underfoot, when my own ex husband had moved to physically subduing me as his only means of control, later keeping my son from me as the ultimate power play——and of course, throwing in the Dillon Francis monkey wrench, a true nod to whatever Satanic backwards magic was previously thought to be at play. Now i understood it just to be my mind unraveling—the only person I had ever truly loved, had never truly loved me; however, i was useful and sweet—besides being ramapantly obese, the perfect wife and caretaker. Now, I was preparing for a steady non-existence, loneliness, lifelessness, friendlessness, and homelessness; and I thought myself soon to be dead again, in one way or another. All I wanted was home, and home was said to be where the heart was—but thinking back to a tragic time, I had foolishly given mine to Dillon Francis, in pieces, after Sonny Moore had used Kayla Lauren to break it.

How many women were in line to see The Great Sonny Moore, on the same ride I had been on, and with the same deal signed-sealed-and delivered to The Devil Himself, if not the messengers at the pearly gates for God's eyes and ears only? I had to think the number to be in the hundreds, if not thousands, if not millions—as I had finally founded the integral magical practice of hypnotism through music, as it had been for eons and centuries—and now, as programmed as I was neither happy nor unhappy to be, having lost all but the body, devoid of feelings or true sense of livelihood at all, even having misplaced the ability to be music at all—I was just a thing in a world full of other things—neither woman nor man, nor any feeling thing at all; most American dogs were more loved and well cared for than I was. My obsessive brain allowed for infatuation beyond my wildest content, and though either self-control or self-pity kept anyone at a safe and proper distance, I still craved something or someone that wholly didn't exist. My head was on a platter, eyes still blinking and mouth agape, though without the life force I had once garnered and cherished to have been brought about into time with merely the mind, and the mind alone.

Jessie was a petite virgin who was so moldeable it was hard to see myself as anything but less-than beside her, and on two opposite ends of the spectrum of inequality we existed; she would never have to work, or leave home, or lift a finger—almost any man would be willing to take care of her without her having to do much, and, as historically proven, any man would look past her ridiculous laziness or an unideal facial structure in exchange for a hot body he could claim all his own, nonetheless for one who wouldn't bother to leave the house, who he could keep at home ready for use at will—and here I was, washed up without any of the fame of glory to accompany it, used and abused and put through the wash enough times to shrink, but not to remove the stains as had been set in stone since they were made.

Nothing was right, but everything was good—practicing The Secret had to eventually have its effects. No matter how miserable I felt, I was always good, or great, or awesome—but still, daily, combating the consistent and ever-constant thoughts of back-to-back self hatred and loathing.

I hate myself

I hate my life

I hate myself

I hate my life

I hate myself

I hate my—

I love myself…

I love my life

I love myself

I love my life—

Ugh.

But I was sleeping on the floor below one of the laziest people I had ever met, who I loved dearly since the age of 12– but couldn't help but hate a little for not having to do anything, ever, and somehow knowing we were both complatent and self-assured that some wealthy man would undoubtedly swoop from out of nowhere to marry the forlorn virgin goddess—

Ugh.

She was an energy vampire.

Meanwhile, my promotion to Manager, with bonus commission and all the overtime I was pulling in still wouldn't be enough to amount to affording my own apartment, and it seemed, as I had been warned before, that it was true—I would never be safe in my own home country of The United States of America, and the more and more angry white women I literally bumped and brushed shoulders with, receiving deathly stares and glances from blue and green eyes like something out of a dystopian race war nightmare, the more I realized that there was only so much unfairness and inequality that could take place before things had to change;

Rich people were racing corgis—children were selling coffee in the streets; the National air guitar championship was underway— people were dying of hunger and thirst— Skrillex and Dillon Francis were superstar DJs—everyone had a Kayla Lauren or something similar to show off—

And I was the overnight manager at a mega-gym.

Fuck this life.

I was probably supposed to hate myself,

I was probably supposed to kill myself, too—but I was too afraid to do that again. It was all Ali and I talked about, for years—how this existence was merely a blemish in the ever-expanse of time and space; how we were bound to our earthly bodies as punishment for some Mistake we had made in an inmemorable past existence —probably murder or rape, or something horrible—our loveless, hopeless bodies bound to be forever unloved, unsuccessful, and overall unhappy.

A burning cough lodged itself out of the depths of hell from the ugly fat woman in front of me—not that I was any different, really. It seemed and was apparently so that the ‘coughs' demon, as I had come to call it, inhabited the broken bodies of sick individuals, usually visibly weak in some way—typically obese or otherwise unhealthy, if I were willing to give the beast the time or day by looking, as I usually was able to ignore it, washing it out of my peripheral or continuing to look forward, or wherever I was looking. Assuredly, Sonny had surrounded himself by powerful demon-like practitioners of [the type of] magic I was unwilling to use or even acknowledge, though admittedly—this coughs demon to a certain extent had to have been more obessed with me than I had ever been with it, oftentimes lurking in places I felt most vulnerable, acting as a push into suicidal ideation and the other great realms of non-existence, my synesthesia acting like a painful ailment when such a nasty sound did rear it's ugly head. It had been four years living with this awful thing—no matter where I went, someone would make their way Into my personal space just to cough, or hack—and, though by now having grown mostly immune to it, I was still annoyed as ever when it came down to it—my sanity not breaking, but somehow pieced together using frail elements such as deadmau5 as duck tape; unbeknownst to me before doing so, anyway, it actually did properly seal the bullet like wounds in my being…call it universal healthcare, perhaps.

I was the only one, really, who could make myself laugh anymore. It had become a game between God and I to see who could do it the most, and though most people seemed programmed and robotic or unreal entirely, there were few in the three dimensional realm occasionally that were human enough to make me forget that the rest of the world had been for the most part a dysfunctional computer—if I was lucky, I might have been having a heatstroke of some sort, as sometimes pedaling furiously on my bicycle, the entire world would in-fact smell like the innards of a windows 98 computer, having just overheated; I was a vegan, hadn't drank or even smoked in years—and now was fighting off a rampant sugar addiction with both hands tied behind my back, which was huge—and though still fitting into a Nike small, which might have been an achievement had I not figured there to be a size such as 2XS—the roundness of my backside couldn't outweigh the deathly amount of guilt and self pity even only the occasional Oreo brought on; I needed to be devastatingly thin for anything to make sense, and nothing really did (make sense, that is.)

I was hungry, and angry with myself, and mad at the world; I couldn't understand what I had done wrong to deserve my life the way it was—the worst part, though, was there was no exit button. There was no easy way out; I knew that death was not the end, but just the departure from another realm—and that as infinite as love and life had been, death might have been, too. Preparing for the worst and never hoping for the best, for fear I would only gain the opposite, I wondered where I would go and what I would do next. Ali was making his presence in a greater realm more and more apparent with each passing moment; it was always 2:22, and every time it was—something cosmic happened.

I wanna go to sleep

(I wanna go to sleep)

And never wake up

(And never wake up)

Cause I don't give a fuck

(I don't give a fuck)

I don't give a fuck

I don't give a fuck

I'll be up all night

(I'm up all night)

Doing three things at once

(I don't give a fuck)

Every crunch is a coffin

I don't do this often or much,

But look forward to eating my lunch

It's in the oven

That's probably my cousin

I don't give a fuck

So what does it matter?

Putter patter goes the blood spatter,

Since you had to ask

Spread my ashes at

Madison Avenue

Nobody asked,

But I spat out the answer,

Then finally laughed

How about that

Aha

How about that

I wanna go to sleep

(I wanna go to sleep)

And never wake up

(And never wake up)

Cause I don't give a fuck

(I don't give a fuck)

I don't give a fuck

I don't give a fuck

I have too much to do,

I can't be pretty, too

(You used me)

Pity the pitiful fool

(But I let you)

Write me a check

So that I don't regret you

Forever

(Never say never)

A bet is a bet;

And I'll never get to see you sweat

It's for the better

It's for the better

It's for the better

For better or worse?

Whats the worth?

A million followers, and dollars

What does it cost for a daughter,

Your honor

I want her

I want the—

I want the

I want her head on a platter

Goddamn

I wanna go to sleep

(I wanna go to sleep)

And never wake up

(And never wake up)

Cause I don't give a fuck

(I don't give a fuck)

I don't give a fuck

I don't give a fuck

I DONT GIVE A FUCK.

(I need water.)

Fn Pig, deadmau5 >< I AM BASS, LSDREAM

That's just a container;

I'm going deranged,

It's crazy—

Conditioned,

I guess I'm detangler

Looking from all different angles

I used to have angels

But they've been replaced, lately

Been displaced, lately

Need some space, lately—

I guess you're part of me

You're part of my soul

You're part of my soul

I mean probably need a lobotomy

Bottom to top,

Something is hunting or haunting me

Got a lot of nerve

I'm terrified, nervous—

Might as well swerve on the nerd

Swerve on the nerd

Swerve on the nerd

Oh. My. Ghetto.

Yes.

She's fabulous,

80-inch-weft

With her bad ass self

But I'm just not

One of them girls

One of them girls

Yes,

She's fabulous

Better get it!

Better than best—

With her bad ass self

But I'm just not

One of them girls

One of them girls

Just got a text;

I better ignore it

Fuck this shit;

Guess it's just another level

Just another level

Leg day

Cardio

Arm day

Chest

Put myself to the test

Cause I'm tryna be

One of them girls

One of them girls

One of them girls

One of them—

Oh, fuck

It's just my luck

The nigga is stubborn

Or stuck,

Or something;

Guess it's not nothing

Guess I gotta get back on my

Buttocks;

Pushing all my buttons,

Guess it's not nothin

Guess it's McDonalds,

I'm lovin it.

I feared that by spending too much time around low vibration people, I was becoming one myself; I knew that eating toxic processed foods was one way of lowering my own naturally high vibration into a lower frequency, but I was spending too much time with people who were dwelling on all of the awful things in life and none of the good; people who had homes and families and still had the nerve to complain to me, of all people, a homeless “black” woman with literally nothing to live for but music (not that music was living for me—the industry was outright dominated by privilege, and leaving color out of it, the odds were, if I was hearing their song on the radio or overhead station at the gym, their parents had been well-to-do in some way or another, if not musicians themselves, or well-connected industry people.) Gone were the days of the rising stars who actually pulled themselves up by the bootstraps-everybody on the map had a leg-up and a foot-in-the-door. At least ESPN'S ‘The Ocho' wasn't on; I didn't think I could bear to see any more frat boys pogo sticking ‘professionally' while working myself to literal dehydration trying to be one of their girlfriends—or at least look like them. Pretty white boys dated pretty white girls, period—they fucked everything—but dated pretty white girls. Existence was futile.

I wanted to take my eyeballs out of my head.

Oh, he's beautiful.

A dark skinned man with fresh braids and a blue shirt shuffled his way smoothly past me, and I gleaned a little—not my type, but beautiful—and I wasn't going to cop to not having a type. Then, rounding the corner and into the abdominals section, a giant tattooed man in the stretch machine (whatever it was called) managed to startle me from afar, just due to being monsterous in height alone but also stark white enough so that it seemed he could illuminate an entire room by himself.

What the fuck. Why be that tall?

Not that it was his or anyone's fault for being large or massive as I had once been, however in width, rather than height—but tall men always struck me a particularly bizarre way, no matter how broad or handsome—and definitely terrified me a little, or a lot, depending—though no more than blue eyes did.

Why am I here? Jesus Christ.

I had blinders on, but they weren't working, and every moving body that worked it's way into my peripheral reminded me of something or someone; i began to feel the onset symptoms of depression kick in; I just wanted to eat and sleep, and not be bothered with the world—but unlike Jessie I hadn't the luxury of doing so, and even though I had been working I was really no closer to having a home than I had been before. I was back in The Matrix with a working telephone and every regret possible, as it was obvious the trackers were having a heyday with my psyche, the world now more populated—especially with Kayla Lauren's—than it had been without a phone. I wanted desperately to run away, but had nowhere to run—and though I loved my gym, without having a place to call home or the energy to properly work out the way I wanted to made it a special kind of Hell.

At least I had the new Beyoncè album.

There's a light.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA —

—-JUST KILL YOURSELF.

I—did that already.

Do it again!

No!

Oh, come on.

Whats the point?

The point is:

…

What?

What?

You didn't finish the sentence.

Neither did you.

Go away, Satan.

Nowhere sounds nice.

I would have spared the greatest expense if I could afford it just not to exist—

I had written entire novels, created film sagas and night after excruciating night at the gym whether actually on the clock or not, I was always working. In any event, a good gym session was also at least a chapter or two in one of many novels, an episode of some sort, or a concept album—if whatever pre-workout I was taking made me angsty enough to focus on writing out thoughts and phrases between sets on my favorite machines. I had actually purchased over $50 of music with my first check—and while I should have felt stupid and remorseful for it, $50 wasn't going to get me my own apartment. $50 wasn't really wasn't going to get anybody anything—especially a tank of gas. My daily 45 minute cardio consisted of an earful of deadmau5, deep breathing in sequence to my long strokes of pedaling so quickly I thought my legs might turn to propellers and I'd start hovering like a Helicopter fueled by angst, poverty, and progressive house.

That's what it was.

Progressive house.

And I loved it, like I used to love anything else in the world, but had forgotten what it felt like if it wasn't buzzing in my ears propelling me across a loveless, lifeless desert. Everyone was miserable, no matter where I went, besides the daily gym goers who I came to know at my work and play play place.

A gross sounding cough from across the room told me to kill myself—and I thought about it momentarily, but couldn't think of a way, so went back to writing. Misophonia or magic? Either way, I didn't know if I hated myself more, or Skrillex and whatever deity had granted him this sick and twisted power.

I want to die.

Coughing, coughing, coughing—

Working working working

But not making enough to live

I mean really live

Like the DJs did

I might throw a fit

If I don't get out of this

everybody is sick

And all it is is

Coughing coughing coughing—

And I'm just

Walking

Walking

Walking

From bus stop to bus stop

Dropping a coin for all of my thoughts

I want off this planet

I want off the clock

I want to go to bed—

But I don't have a bed

If it's all in my head

Why haven't I Put a bullet in it, yet?

I want to end it

Use this song as an admission;

I'm guilty, I did it

I didn't want to see the world the way it is,

Case dismissed, then

Case dismissed, then

Just one last kiss—then

Fade to black

Now we're back where we started

don't forget to reflect

Respect is earned

When you enter through the exit

No guest list for this one, kid.

You better get moving

Just selfish intentions

Just shellfish—

I wish

That's not kosher or vegan

Indecent exposure, for sure

Is your home in foreclosure?

She did it all for exposure

I just need closure

And a door to close, I suppose

What's worse?

Homeless, or hunger?

Woah, I've done both,

And meanwhile, she's never left home

No wonder no one loves us

No wonder no one loved me

No wonder someday never comes

Funny

I wanted a hug,

I got nothing

Diplo follows coughs.

Everyone follows coughs,

She's a boss I guess

Only downloaded this app to—

Crap

Fuck.

No sense in censorship

All the world is is tits

And slavery

Damn,

—This is brave you would write this.

If I end my life with a knife,

Is it suicide, or

40-to-life?

You know, sadness is a crime, here

You want one of those?

Well, he has ten of ‘em

(10 of ‘em?)

(10 of ‘em!)

We're all women here—

And we have the worst of it

We're all 1:2 here

2:1 here

1:2 here,

Fuck it then

He wants them all

Well, then

He can have all of them—

But one

He wants them all,

Well, then,

He can have all of them

But one

Bring a plus one

Bring a plus one

Now we're all done here

Now I wonder

Now I wonder

What was all done here

I was nothing,

Then something

then someone

Then no one,

Then all of us

You want one of those?

Well, he has ten of ‘em

(10 of ‘em?)

(10 of ‘em!)

We're all women here—

And we have the worst of it

We're all 1:2 here

2:1 here

1:2 here,

Fuck it then

He wants them all

Well, then

He can have all of them—

But one

He wants them all,

Well, then,

He can have all of them

But one