.I feel like a disposable piece of flesh.

Painting my mood with a song since I'm too writhely to write. *
On a tangent, Vladimir Nabokov was born on this date.

"Your Lucky Day In Hell" by Eels..
Mama gripped onto the milkman's hand
And then she finally gave birth
Years go by still i don't know
Who shall inherit this earth
And no one will know my name until it's on a stone

This could be your lucky day in hell
Never know who it might be at your doorbell
This could be your lucky day in hell

Waking up with an ugly face
Winston churchhill in drag
Looking for a new maternal embrace
Another tired old gag
Am i just a walking bag of chewed up dust and bones

Father theresa, you can't make me into you
I never wanna be like you
Why can't you see it's me
You know it's time to let me go




Somone Lost a Heart by Bionic 7


* (note: writhely is not actually a word. I invent them once in a while., god, i'm so brilliant. I'm patting myself on the back right now. what does it mean? good question. I think it's the state of whiny desperation during depressive contemplation on the absurdity of life coupled with the imagery of writhing on an cold metallic surgery table. There, that should clarify things.)