Someone made me cake with glitter in it. How Fucking amazing is she?
Come up to meet you, Tell you I'm sorry, You don't know how lovely you are.
This is true you know, you don't
I had to find you, Tell you I need you, Tell you I set you apart.
This is so amazingly pedestrian when it comes to romance yet so amazing when it comes to children
Tell me your secrets, And ask me your questions, Oh let's go back to the start.
Runnin' in circles, Comin' up tails, Heads on the science apart.
Nobody said it was easy, It's such a shame for us to part. Nobody said it was easy, No one ever said it would be so hard. Oh take me back to the start. Those of you will have seen the video which makes this whole thing make sense, makes a car accident make sense, be logical in the progression of things. Make sense. HOW does a fucking car accident make sense please?
I was just guessin', At numbers and figures,
Pullin' the puzzles apart.
Questions of science, Science and progress, Do not speak as loud as my heart.
Not true
Tell me you love me, Come back and haunt me, Oh on I rush to the start.
True. Silly true - come back and haunt me being less of a challenge than a plea
Runnin' in circles, Chasin' our tails, Comin' back as we are.
Nobody said it was easy, Oh it's such a shame for us to part. Nobody said it was easy, No one ever said it would be so hard. I'm goin' back to the start.
No-one said it would be this hard - and if it ever gets this hard for you I hope that's the end.
I wish I was, I really do. But where I live there is no cure.
The more fucked up everyone is by modern Christian standards, the happier I am. The more you fail at containing your urges, the happier I am, the more days you wake up thinking "what did I DO last night?" the happier I am. The more you feel like you're rubbish at being 'good' the happier I am.
Because you're getting there; when all your inhibitions are gone, when you're naked in he middle of a field, when you're transfixed by how amazing the sunrise is, when you're looking at patterns, when you're tracing the veins in leaves with your fingertips, when you're letting go, when you're experiencing sensations like you've never allowed yourself to feel before.
That's when I'm there; giggling on your shoulder. The bad influence.
Tomorrow is my "doing nice things for scene people" day. I host a lovely event espcially for scared newcomers.
And then make them do horrible things (slave croquet has mutated into a rather mean game involving the 'balls' having to signal the end of their run by barrel rolling into a pole) slut tiddliwinks....well you just don't want to know, but it involves me and an 18 year old Domme who may surpass us all in her creative cruelty, several crops and a large pot.
I'm honing my already considerable kidnapping skills and dragging weak members of the herd off to verydark rooms.
What do you do when there's too much of it? When you inspire it? When it follows you around and you can smell it and react to it almost as if it were pre-programmed?
What do you do when love hangs around you like JLo Glow? When you don't just inspire lust, or bravado; but the belching of long-held secrets, the opening of old wounds. You boys are like clockwork...tick tick...tiiiiiiiiccccck.
Little creatures that you are you never surprise me - and that wounds me. Am I to go through life unsurprised by illusions? Am I to go through love overqualified, three steps ahead? Even to the ones I respect a great deal (for men) I can tell you their next three moves - and I don't even play chess.
Or maybe it's me "you're a fucking happy maker" someone I find genuinely unpredictable, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful and lovable once told me.
And maybe I'm that. Maybe I was born programmed.
Ever woken up and realised half your face was missing?
Ever woken up and wished (genuinely - you would trade the rest of your life for eternal peace/oblivion) you hadn't?
sometimes. sometimes. sometimes. You wake up and half your family are dead and you're "lucky" to be alive. Sometimes. Sometimes. Sometimes. You wake up, and you're a survivor of the fucking stupid.
Sometimes you wake up and a truck has killed your family. Sometimes you wake up and you were too late to save someone. Sometimes you wake up and you're wanted for murder.
Sometimes you are on Primrose hill, and a beutiful person who knows loss is making you laugh - amongst the ashes of a man whose last act on Earth were to kiss you. Someone makes you laugh, someone who lived through pain - don't take pain lightly here.
That person knows the little fluttering broken heart you cup like a candle flame.
Nothing I do in my life will be as cool as what you would have done with yours Baby. Nothing I did , with the exception of my daughter (who has your name as a middle name) is enough to remember you by. Nothing that happens from here on in will ever affect me the way you did. Not just because you were an idiot and died (note to you - d'oh!) not just because you left me on the precipice of something cool, not just because you were beautiful, and funny, and more than I needed.
Sometimes you're a survivor of the fucking stupid. Sometimes we win a Darwin award.
Sometimes we dream of a shotgun ending a turmoil - but we don't mean it.
Sometimes I dream all kinds of stupid stuff. About this time of year, I dream that you can touch me and hold me.
About this time of year I calculate how much less guilty I fell about you being dead.
About this time of year, I scream and cry and snot and tear at my hair and bang my head against a wall and drink too much and consider finding your mum to tell her about my daughter like she told me about your letters at the funeral.
I loved you. I LOVED YOU. Everyone's paying for it now.