At least I am no longer a teaspoon of primordial soup. And all strong men wear dresses, when it’s dark out. And all weak men believe in the Illuminati, when they want answers to questions that don’t have them.
Long ago, I had a dream that I loved and cared for a harlequin baby. It danced, broke its skin, and died. A monster in need, an outcast, a shotgun blast to a moral compass.
I haven’t slept, you know.
What do I know? That Joseph is only in it for the talent portion of the show. He cares not for beauty, but for acrobatics. I flip and I split.
I’ve sent his Corpse Bride all of the electronic messages we have exchanged, since they started dating. How is that for a good show?
Let her see it all. Let her see how he begged, but truly, I was the one on my knees.
I will no longer be covered in filth. I refuse to be thrown into a game in which I know the rules, yet lose willingly.