Hollywood’s World Famous Museum of Death

You’re better off on the corn coast.
Maybe even better off believing that the infinite creator of all this mess sits on a cloud and gives a fuck about us quietly as we suffer through poverty and discrimination without help until death comes.
We all come and go and it’s all we know.
None of this really even matters, does it?
Not when death shows her face.
Maybe your fantasies about sexual encounters (which really shouldn’t make up more than 30% of your thoughts, personality and existence) should remain safely in your head, or even better still, you continue to grow up and forget 89% of them.
Especially the ones that don’t involve me; but we all come and go that’s how it goes.
What does it matter, anyway?
Death is on her fucking way.
Maybe I only fuck around with you because you can’t love me and I’d leave anyone who tried anyway.
Maybe I only fuck with you because you roll blunts fast.
Maybe because you have that writer’s itch too and its tragic and I understand your pains.
Maybe nobody has a better kiss than you and that’s my reason.
Maybe because you’re so vain I want to be the one to destroy you.
But caging you and keeping you and finding all sorts of situations to put your body through
doesn’t get me anything but bruised knuckles and anxiety.
All I could ever do is trap you.
None of this really even matters, does it, love?
And you don’t give a flying fuck.
What does it matter, anyway, how I feel?
Death is the only thing that is real.
Five years of torture could make you depend on me but it’s not the same as love and it would be forced therefore temporary. I want you always or not at all and I want you to want me to want you or for you to leave me the fuck alone.
And you don’t even want to be with me only sometimes
when you’re not getting your way or
you need money or
your pretty ass is super high and whoever it is that you really want
is ignoring you again.
The circular nature of disappointment, no?
You’re just a hoe.
We all come and go and it’s all we know.
Don’t mind me. Death is coming.
Maybe there’s nothing for me to figure out, never has been.
Don’t mind me. You’re better off.
Especially because I want to leave you alone over and over and for some reason I don’t.
Those kisses of yours haunt me so…
None of this even matters. You came, now go.
You’re better off in the middle of some unknown road.
Don’t let death come before you’re gone.

Won’t be long now, so carry on.

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