If we were creative, we'd find a way to work this out. Things picayune - semantics and social norms - they leave my mouth with the taste of chemicals. Our minds are those of animals and try as hard as we might to be civil we're still taking tax-paid trips, visiting Argentinian mistresses.
I really wish full-heartedly we'd never started measuring our self-worth on reflections cast off from lovers born to be injurious like all of us. The wounded drive the ambulance. And now I've finally realized that we're all fucking someone's treasured ex, or best friend, whom their love for has not been confessed.
I feel like Woody Allen, but I also feel like Tucker Max. And I don't have the talons to make cavities in peoples' chests, but with the breath of chemicals our minds are those of animals and try as hard as we might to be cilvil we're still taking tax-paid