Something about watching you scream at nothing makes me want to keep smoking until my bitching at you comes out in electronic monotone. Hell maybe then you'd listen to it. Like a twelve year old kid, you're so full of yourself and so full of shit sometimes. You hate me for saying twelve, probably because I'm right. The way you walk behind us like you're alone, the fake "I don't need you"s you spit in my face right before sobbing your dependency out to me, it all screams of childish, open, raw stupid.

Maybe that's the part of it that sickens me. Your self-imposed idiocy, you're fulfilling of everyone's lowest expectations. Becoming your own downfall, and for what reason? To substantiate your self loathing? To keep the gag going? To instigate pointless arguments?

You've never got an answer, though. If you do, you're certainly not sharing with me.

I remember a time when I idolized you; your talent inspired me, your brashness was beautiful and you sense of self was something I admired. Somehow though, we've switched places and changed our masks, becoming parodies of who we were, what we had. You've become a bitter bitch and I've found humor in watching you slowly kill yourself. Mutually abusive, that's what we've become lover. Together in harmonious hate, parasitic coexistence. Ignoring each other for hours, communication reduced to nothing more than snappy remarks and glares from across the room, plugged into our respective virtual havens.

Maybe if I stick a cord up my ass, you'll be able to love me again.

Maybe if I start speaking in riddles and giving you challenges I'll be worthy of your fucking time.

Or maybe I'm just wasting my life with a waste of life.

Chalk another one up to self abuse,

Blame me for staying,

And blame yourself for being so fucking addictive.