Ow! Ow!

Now come out of your thinking chambers and go straight to the dock of shame! Because I was a teenage bride with a baby inside getting high on information. Now I'm just a grown up twenty-something urbanite party girl in a hurry to get out of this housing Super Bubble, banking on becoming a biochemist or one of its affiliates, got to break the panorama just to save me and mine from its sticky wet slippery credit crunch clutches. But they are so pretty when they pop, you know, like gasoline on the ground; an iridescent desiccant. Descend! Not into madness, ha, don't do enough of anything to go that far (including thinking (but don't make me pull this car over!)) Nay, I just get psychotically melancholy, ask anyone (to whom I'm currently married.) Not enough, way too much, shooting straight from the baby-holding hip, licking my fingers, planning my ink, and sucking rose petals to my face. Fairness is just a measure of the facts, or is that truth, and does it matter, the difference? That the ex gets it, and even the ex's new girl, but me? I wouldn't know a gentle asking voice -- it would roll right over me -- because everything that is good I deem "too good to be true" and what's so impressive about a diamond, except the mining? Because I don't understand, I can't understand, but I'll try to understand because that is all I can do. Is it my fault? Is it my lack? Aye, it was a white (trash) wedding and I wouldn't change a thing, except the whole month leading up to it, because I wanna be someone's prize, pouts the pretty pretty petty princess in me. Says he's glad he did it, didn't have much choice did he, with me looking down the proverbial barrel asking, "Baby, whatcha gonna?"

I sure am ugly (when I'm mad.)