God has mercy on fools and drunks. As such I am entitled to a double dose. And it has been so shown, o yes it has, o yes it has. My stupid little heart breaks, fine, I lived through my mother trying to kill herself, I lived through all the other little horrors you'll hear me whine about, fine, for now I live. But don't you accuse me of healing bitch, don't even act like it's possible or worthy. Is B's arm going to grow back? Are R's eyes going to turn from glass to flesh? Is F's brain going to reassemble? R's? Is my mom gonna get out of the chair? Healing is a pretty piss poor lil new-age concept if you ask me. I use crystals for power. When I cut myself up using my body as a tool, when I give myself blisters walking too far, when I tear up my fingers playing sure I heal. But I don't expect my body to recover from the real damage any more than I expect my soul to forgive you selfish motherfuckers, any more than I expect R's ressurection. God's mercy is a funny thing, yes? God is a funny thing, yes? What do you believe? Do you believe?
My career is over again. Not today, not tomorrow, but very soon. However my career has ended before. If anyone can handle it I can. Or should be able to. Will I really handle it? Prolly not, not really, I crashed and burned last time but the Phoenix suffers on. Poof again. And my burning is pretty psychosomatic in the real-itive scheme of things, knowudimean? I doubt it. I don't make it easy for you. But it's never been easy for me either. For I am blessed as I am cursed. I hope someone appreciates the work when I'm in the ground 'cuz lord knows I am just about humiliated by its reception today. Humiliated for me, humiliated for you. Someone wrote a better song? Aesthetics are relative, believe you me I understand that, but I have written some motherfuckers. Some absolute monsterpieces. Excuse me if I wax egomaniacal. But I listen to all that easy bullshit and I know there's nothing worth sinking your teeth into there. Chomp!
And so I hope I'm ready for the next career. I think so, I don't really know what it is but my pen's getting more disciplined and my portfolio is pretty sharp. So whatever. Bring it on. Or stick me with SARS, drop me in front of a train, hit me with a bus, a meteor or a dirty bomb. What the fuck do I care? The work speaks for itself. And it says... nothing.
I wreck relationships for nothing. I crashed successful bands because I was bored. I am ruining my lungs and liver because I have nothing better to do. Eradication. Erasure. It isn't pleasant but it's the mercy we all deserve. It's the best I can do, and ignoring man's need to compete, one-upsmanship and all that crap, it's pretty damned good. I am suffering for an art that no one appreciates. But I'm not really suffering, am I? And it's not really art, is it? I am such a brat. Read Shakespeare at six. Listened to Beethoven at seven. Wrote words and music at eight. Why should I give a fuck? Why should I even bother anymore? Because I won't die. Because the world is so fucking merciful on my miserable ass.