Come and get me…

Maybe one day I’ll wake up and realize that my life is just one huge pile of recreational drugs. The potent smell of the marijuana and texture of the cocaine; the soft tones of the heroin and grotesque appearance of the shrooms. Perhaps that day, I’ll decide that my time has come and I want to go out in a blazing glory as well. Suppose I were to sit on top of my car, flipping through a magazine for my steel daughter, like an aging woman in a beauty salon. What would the neighbors say? How would the SWAT team disarm me without putting one between my eyes or at least throwing a tear grenade directly at me? I’d force Ali to stay inside because this is my fight. Or maybe I wouldn’t even fight at all. My future could hold a demise that would rival the one of Sonny Corleone. I’ve done my share of dirt. What goes around comes around, right? Fuck it. I’m ready. One more line, one more magazine…and I’m coming home, Stephanie.

Potential energy can easily be made kinetic…

Catch you in the open, and bring you to a closure.

Why do people need closure? When I was 14, my best friend was killed. I didn’t need to or want to know the details; what mattered was that she would be gone forever. When my parents asked if I wanted to know how she was killed, I immediately put my hands over my ears and ran upstairs to my room to cry my eyes out. I was becoming more and more frustrated that so many who were close to her acted as if finding out exactly how she was killed would make the situation any easier to deal with. Well, did finding out that she was gang raped and beaten to death make dealing with her loss any better?

In my opinion, breaking up does the same thing to most. For some odd reason, people just need closure. Never mind that the relationship was a complete waste of time, toxic, and left you feeling depleted and lonely. Closure seemingly makes all of the bullshit that is a failed relationship all the more worthwhile. I’ve been in a few relationships. I’ve dumped, and have been dumped. When I was dumped, I didn’t ask for closure. Hell, half of the time, I knew the relationship wouldn’t last much longer. When it did come to an end, I did my very best to appreciate the good things that I could take from the relationship, and moved on. I don’t need you to give me a laundry list of reasons why you don’t want to be romantically involved with me anymore. It amazes me that you would need or want the same from me.

You don’t want me anymore. I don’t want you anymore. Are you not an adult? Are you not aware that relationships end every single minute of every single hour of every single day? Certainly, you didn’t think that this would last forever. We weren’t legally or contractually obligated to remain in this relationship, so why question its end? Why press so hard to get answers that you don’t (trust me, darling) want to hear? What kind of sadistic masochist wants someone to tell them exactly why they’re being dumped?

Once we’re done, babe, we’re fucking done. Maybe there will be some room for some ex sex, and maybe, just maybe, there can be a Round 2. But, for God’s sake, accept the end, and whatever you do…don’t go seeking closure.

I’m a classic example of the infamous date rape…

Mr. Carter and I don’t rock.

I don’t like fake Martians. I don’t like Lil Wayne anymore because he inspired so much of this garbage talk about being a Martian. Dwayne Carter is nowhere near as complex as an alien being would be. He is a mere mortal, and it’d be so lovely if all of his stans would acknowledge that. I’ve never claimed to be a gangster, but I don’t think a gangster would have to ride in a tinted-out SUV with security guards who are twice his size. Why the fuck have I seen you with your red flag draped on the left, Dwayne? You don’t fool me, sir. I’m on to your little game. There’s no way you can be a real gangster and an outcast at the same time. The gangster persona is so mainstream that there’s no possible way you can also be this vague, intellectually indifferent, freak of musical nature. Fuck your dreadlocks and leather vests. Fuck your Chuck Taylors. Fuck your electric guitar. Fuck your platinum grill. Fuck your blunts, your weed, and your lean. Shit, fuck the styrofoam cup that you sip your lean from. Besides, lean is so 2007. I’m officially done with Mr. Carter, and I hope everyone else decides to boycott his music. I firmly rub my breasts everyday and have yet to feel a lump, so why would I want a cancer in my life? You’re not fooling anyone besides gullible high school students. I’ve snorted lines of coke bigger than you, fucker. Kick rocks.

Your love is criminal and I’m married to the Mob/I’ll never want a divorce, the hit squad will just have to off me…