LUCIATalk? You're the one who won't talk. You keep it all inside. You won't let me help you. Everything's you. I'm crumpled up in the corner. Look. You were meant to live alone. And to suffer alone. And to drive yourself fucking crazy, which I don't understand. You're sick Lorenzo. Sick of yourself, of your own standards, and nothing else. Of your fucking secrets! You keep me around, but in the dark. Because my complaints don't count. Because you don't give a fuck what happens to me. You're troubles are so deep, I'm fucking stupid, and all you care about is if I screw my boss or not.
I'm exhausted. You're driving me nuts. I'll be late to work. Enjoy your hole. Have fun rotting by yourself.
Upon reflection of my decision to quit drinking cold turkey (no pun), I foresee a poem in this quote from the movie SEX AND LUCIA. I imagine it would go something like, "Fire water helps numb the pain. Slowly killing myself in a cowardly maim. Blah, blah, blah." Then I would find something to somehow leave my creative muses to the sole person I ever really loved, describing in them, in some kind of iambic formula, the way peace and rest from the torture of living apart for so long was the only way I could prove to myself that I didn't really mean what I did back when I was an adolescent. It should be really good, but that would definitely drive me to the bottle again.
I find myself thinking of happier thoughts instead. One of them is what this world would be like if the King of rock was still alive and had a baby with the Queen of rock, Joan Jett.