Thursday, December 29, 2011
Tuesday, December 06, 2011
The Who Sell Out
Is there a smilie for love?
It goes like this <3.
It’s not difficult to learn: It’s less than three because it takes two or one or none.
She plays out this nostalgic little jazz tune here. Appreciative audience clink their glasses and jewelry. Deviant artists hungry for the jewelry, act like they are above it and take in large proportions of ego, praise and brokerage deals.
She praises the lord that she is not dead yet, driving at two hundred miles an hour without the keys to the highway, drunk on venom and self loathing.
She realizes that <3 can correct itself to a straightened out red, if she uses the right software.
She is making up a story for the kid. It’s dreadfully boring and he has that vacant look in his eyes. A few minutes on they turn bright-those dark, restless eyes- with his imagination burning bright. He tears her meager efforts into shreds of useless storylines. She faces probing questions, mystified judgments and confused denials. Her story is forgotten or dumped in the bin. He wants his story again-the one where they live happily ever after.
She tries her best to read it like it is new to her. Girls sweeping floors for wicked step mothers hold her in thrall like never before, again. He falls asleep and she stays awake.
She fights away remorse and dread and the painful load of unambiguous failure. She is calling that number again. He does not pick it up. If he does, he yells at her for not letting him be. She texts him instead. She wonders if there is a smilie for...
Is there a smilie for love?
It goes like this <3.
It’s not difficult to learn: It’s less than three because it takes two or one or none.
She plays out this nostalgic little jazz tune here. Appreciative audience clink their glasses and jewelry. Deviant artists hungry for the jewelry, act like they are above it and take in large proportions of ego, praise and brokerage deals.
She praises the lord that she is not dead yet, driving at two hundred miles an hour without the keys to the highway, drunk on venom and self loathing.
She realizes that <3 can correct itself to a straightened out red, if she uses the right software.
She is making up a story for the kid. It’s dreadfully boring and he has that vacant look in his eyes. A few minutes on they turn bright-those dark, restless eyes- with his imagination burning bright. He tears her meager efforts into shreds of useless storylines. She faces probing questions, mystified judgments and confused denials. Her story is forgotten or dumped in the bin. He wants his story again-the one where they live happily ever after.
She tries her best to read it like it is new to her. Girls sweeping floors for wicked step mothers hold her in thrall like never before, again. He falls asleep and she stays awake.
She fights away remorse and dread and the painful load of unambiguous failure. She is calling that number again. He does not pick it up. If he does, he yells at her for not letting him be. She texts him instead. She wonders if there is a smilie for...
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