Random shit that spilled from some hole used to be here. I used to be here. Watch TV. It makes all the demons go away. Seep into your bed -- fetal position usually works best -- and hide from the real world.

What the fuck are you looking at anyway? My mind itches but it pretends to be my arm. Watch them scurry like a bad break. Crawl over the chairs and the chalkboard, eating scones and drinking burnt coffee. It hurts to think about such inane things as work, the future, and anything that's not music.

Thank you Mr. Scenester for introducing me to date rape and Boone's Sangria. Thank you Mr. Loser for six hours of excuses and noisy sex that left marks on the back of my eyeballs.

Stop questioning what I say. I haven't lived half as long as you little boy, but I know how to hold my own. My fingernails are dirty from your hair, the sweat on your back ; my pillow smells like old grease, but it's been years. I can't sleep because your fingers keep tightening -- holding on to things that are better left alone.

Feel myself hitting bottom and I know it won't stop there. My pen has two little hearts on it. Ain't that fuckin cute? I can't sleep like I said and I've ripped up all the proof so it's okay to become someone else now. We can stop pretending we don't know each other, because we have no past together. Hello pleased to meet you!

Don't want to go back to who I was or even who I was before I was. I could've been. So much always could've been. But then I wouldn't want to be that either. Rather just be sucked into a world created by a bunch of pompous assholes that I want so desperately to be part of.

Make me god damned famous. Make me a motherfuckin star. Then see what you can do to make me fall. Tumble down -- I've hit the bottom but my eyes won't shut. All these lights, all the voices telling me to do so many different things. Are you sure you can't interrupt add a voice of reason. Tell me I need to get over myself and figure out who I am -- again.

But then again I'd have to remind myself what I'm not and that ruins all the good parts. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. I hear you say things you think. But I heard them all yesterday and the day before and the next. Only I believed at some point.

Now it's raining, the bottle is empty, and my fingers hurt from trying to claw my way to freedom. I'm a huge fuckin cliché. Get over it! Go to bed and dream of strawberries and Moet and strawberry smiles and champagne glass breasts. Curl up next to the TV and pretend you're happy.

Ó Kristie Macris 1998