It hurts like hell, you know, but I promised I wouldn't swear anymore.
But damn, like, these lights keep flashing as if Las Vegas is in between this nightmare,
even though it's in a tunnel.
It's always in a tunnel, isn't it?
And my life is a tunnel but I keep going in circles, you see.
Three hundred sixty degrees every time things have been going too well.
But I know myself; too young to have a real problem, too old to be messin' around.
Stuck, you know?
Like the sound of his laugh while I imagine twisting a knife into his receding hairline.
And I can hear them, in the bedroom beside mine. It's only 11 'o clock in this living dead kinda night
but it sounds like a Saturday morning;
fully functional (fubar) family. And no, that doesn't count, okay.
Because it's not that Saturday morning, when his stupid laugh touched my shoulder blade.
Then scurried away as soon as the door opened. But I don't want to talk about that.
I, uh, don't exactly know what to think, you see.
I, uh, don't exactly know anything at all, really.
I tried to tell her I'm not a bad kid, you know.
I'm really an upstanding fucking citizen.
There I go again. I'm sorry.
It just gets to me. Her thinking I'm possessed and damned and evil and all.
I think she wants to believe otherwise but
his voice is in her ear like temptation and redemption in the back alley of a church.
And I wish I had the real guts to do it, you know,
to go real crazy for once and finally find a piece of my mind,
some peace for my mind.
But, you see, my eyes are always playing tricks on me and
I live in a shoebox magic mansion dumpster.
It's stupid, it's dumb and pathetic and downright miserable
but you can't blame a city girl for crying.
No, sir, you cannot blame this city girl.
And it's hard, you know, to put on this face.
Your brow's gotta furrow a certain way and the corners of your mouth stay downturned so often,
you actually have to worry when the bad winds start to blow.
I try not to make my chin tremble and I try to keep my eyes as dry as the day
but it's hard, you know.
Getting easier, you know.
And that's what made my heart so cold. Turned the poor thing into a brittle burning ice sculpture.
And I think he's the one who made me Madame Pok'er.
Stony, 'O' shaped mouth, on my knees with a bluff so good even I can't tell the tell.
And I'd like to think I could do good or something, you know.
Maybe hit 'Re-Start' and take back those words that got me into this mess in the first place;
the truth, the lies, my life, that kinda thing.
But you never know with me,
with this stupid past of mine that keeps repeating itself like it was World fuckin' History.
Doesn't matter, anyway.
It was never a real promise.
A/N: You know that sound you make when you tap your nails on a counter? Yeah, that.