Black and blue

The end of Californication’s season three was disastrous. I just wish underage fucking wouldn’t remind me so much of my ex.
Whatever really.

I got ID-ed when buying my friend a beer. As the cashier found out I was ten years older than supposed to, she blushed. I’m sure it’s not my size, it’s those damn freckles!

Whatever really.

I’m tired being with party animals who in the end complain about being sick afterwards. I am sick, not from partying, but from working.  When not going, I always wonder whether I’m going to miss out on anything.
My subconscious is very angry and so is my kidney.

Whatever really.

I can’t even secretly smoke a cigarette. It would taste so nice in the lonely cold night. I don’t want my kidney to notice. What would I tell a pregnant woman who wants to smoke? NOT TO SMOKE of course! She would be harming a life that’s growing in her belly! I carry no other life in my body.

Whatever really.

I’ve grown sick of telling you things. What else is there to do, if you are boring like this, huh?! Ok, it’s not you who’s boring, but this environment and the mundane circumstances. (You see I’m looking for things and people to blame.)

Whatever really.
Whatever really.
Whatever really.
Whatever really.
Whatever really.
Whatever really.
Whatever really.
Whatever really.

Whatever really.
Whatever really.
Whatever really.
Whatever really.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *