onemorepanic

If you could save yourself, you'd save us all
Is that what you called me for, is that why you're knocking on my door?
The time I've spent, working myself to death
Thought that's what you wanted
I thought you needed my help
To make it good again, to make us strong
To make you happy, to push you along
And gain some respect, to be thrown a crumb
I was on my knees, when you knocked me down

Did you see me there? Flying above, I remember you, laying there beneath the afternoon sky, looking up my dress. Second week in row, Ween kicking off the heya. Second week in a row, madness behind us, madness catalouged. Do not hit click until Monday arrives. Autisim hits the tele. Bottle cap hits the desktop.

Doctor Who all day. The moog sounds throw me back to childhood. Pouring milkshake powder into taped copies of The Breakfast Club, drowning VHS cassettes with milk, can we please never watch this again, should have been a scientist, working out my penmanship on TDK labels. LiveAid 1-10 labeled and sorted.

And as I sit back and sort the wunderkind and the disappointment he's become today, I hear the scratches twisting out of the King Crimson circles, hear my mother explaining the Tardis and Daleks to me. I hear Leonard Nimoy narrating the solar system. Rise of the cybermen, stomping on. Deleting.

Watched the girls rollerskate in circles (with the occasional beating, tripping, fist fight). Cheering for our championship ladies, understanding the opposing forces ill ability to recieve a good ol' wholesome boo-ing first hand, the fingernail across my neck, the wrist guard to the face and fallen and fleeing comrades spilling across the roller rink. "it's all in good fun" we quote as the assailant refuses to crack a smirk as the spectators fold up chairs and mission away. Wander away with a "ok, fuck you", consensus.

Exercing our idiocy in bars named worse things. Hot topic corsets and the cunts that filled them. 6 dollar Guinesses and the laced up attention flesh who might/or might not have been siphoning desperation bucks from the fodder. Spilling over the sides, the children I call hombres slowly figuring out the fact that our sense of humor has a learning curve. Piece out in diarrhea purple Jeeps. Hit the sleep cult; pop music on the speakers.

Wake up to the feeling that maybe, just maybe, everybody hates me.
Shower off the feeling, coming to grasp with the fact that the survivors could never (too secure with good intentions), all of us rawked "suspicious" by the wounded, all of em damned to the life just moments after they inhaled their first standard and temperate mouthful of oxygen. Watch me in the sideview mirror that's me and Jakey Splits pissing all over your truck.

Got damage in spades, persistent waves cascading the gallon flush.