maybe we don't hate each other as much as we think, but maybe we do.

i want to argue politics with you until our tongues wrap around each other.
until they are tied together.
until we are stuck making out.
this is all unintentional,
but at least we're accomplishing more,
than when you and i were talking.
we can stay like this,
brushing our fingertips upwards
against the bumps
of each other's ribs,
in between the intervals
of our breaths.
in a compromise.
or i can get the scissors.

You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.

I am willing to have someone bash my skull in with condensed soup can in a parking lot. Then lean over my body. Open the can with a swiss army knife. Pour the soup into my skull, replacing the water with blood. And enjoy a healthy lunch at 4 in the morning.

No I will not like your photo.

No I will not be your friend.

The leeches and ticks already have latched onto you and have gorged themselves fat.

Enlarged.

Beware of plastic bags. I have been collecting different sizes and shapes, for any type of occasion.

So whenever you turn your back, you’re fucked.

Gasp for air all you want; it won’t help.

Because I hired the someone and fed him.

And don’t worry, when you look over at me I’ll be in the same position

Eyes open spoon sticking out the back of an empty skull.

Love. True. Love. In the dumpster behind the strip club. True Love.

Cybernated Therapy Sessions #3

Insert status symbol (here) if you need to express your social or economic prowess to your "friends" because they need to know how cool and successful you are. Because you're insecure and need validation. It's all about the validation. Afterwards, kill yourself. Rip a page out of your autobiography and slide it across your throat until the skin splits and forms a bloody smile. Because it's the only way for you to realize that the human body isn't composed of designer jeans, diamond earrings, VIP concert tickets, muscle cars, high-end vodka, paychecks, smart phones, careers, and college diplomas.

Cybernated Therapy Sessions: #1

I don’t complain about life through status updates.

I don’t believe you get a trophy for having over 10 likes and 13 comments. I could be wrong.

But I won’t post about how much I hate you/betrayed me, or photos of my face, or how depressed I am through (insert trending band/pop singer) song lyrics about being a strong person and not needing him/her because you’re better than that or suicide, or about where I’m getting drunk tonight.

Fuck that.

If I’m depressed, I do drugs (L’s and pills), pretend to kill myself, read a book, and walk streets looking for new friends. Cause I’m on my grind. And it can be lonely. And I can be a sociopath, just like the rest of you. (But I’m alive, and amen to that.)

If you piss me off, I’ll open the ink wells in your neck with a razor blade, and I will put a .22 caliber bullet directly into the cranium of a guilty by-stander with a cross body shot and a handgun. Some wild west shit.

I will write your malfunctioning body a short angry letter in finger-paint cause I’m old school + you won’t be able to read it because when your body is malfunctioning, your mind can only focus on what’s wrong with you.

It will be on a sheet of loose-leaf ripped out of a middle school notebook:

“Yo. Fuck off. Sincerely, _____.”