'the beginning' is really just a fancy word for 'the end'.

"i've just been so caught up in you," she says, her desperate eyes shining.

she kisses him. hard.

the boy says nothing, only kisses her back. his hands travel. his mind wanders.

fingers through his hair. hands around his neck.

and then they really are caught up in each other. tangled beyond comprehension.

love is the last thing on his mind and the only thing on hers.

the electricity doesn't fly between them. the bed must be grounded again.

the only thing that keeps them together is her desperation and his nonchalant kisses.

she pleads. he doesn't care.

it's all loose ends and hollow bedroom eyes.

and you know it.

10 things to do before you die...

Be a side effect.

Get run over by a train of thought.

Play to lose.

Go into a bar and ask for a Molotov Cocktail.

Sterilize your stereo with a gin and tonic and a prayer.

Walk on water, but don’t get caught.

Confess to a crime that didn’t happen.

Be in the wrong place at the right time.

Write an autobiography about your previous life.

Hold a tune. Drop it and see if it breaks. Then pick up the jagged pieces and write a masterpiece.

i'd tell any lie to keep you listening...

i'm the kid that writes about rain when the sun comes out after days of hiding. i'm the fool that always wants what she can't have. i'm the girl who can't get the idea of love completely straight in her head; the one that decides to leave it under a heavy book to get the wrinkles out of it before she really examines it - and then never comes back to it again. i'm the one who forgets the question after she finds the answer, and doesn't remember it until it's too late. i'm the one that st-st-st-st-stutters when i know what to say, but i don't want to believe it.

blur your eyes. read this and take what you can. forget about it.

because you never want what you always have.

two more weeks...

cue: rainy saturday.

there is always one kid that loves the rain. that can't wait for the sun to dip behind those ominous grey clouds. the kids that never get sunburnt because they spend their days in the shade. the ones that count on the sky opening up every time they describe their proverbial 'perfect day'. these are the shadowed kids. the ones their parents worry about. the naivety that seems so simple and pure, but really reeks of the glass ceiling effect. these kids get nowhere fast, and they love it.

because all they want to do is dance in the rain.
all they want to do is watch the clouds cry.

it' s the perfect cliche. the most beautiful depression.

it's you and me.

put love on hold...

you say all you've got are kissed lips and blurry, forgotten imprints in the mirror.

i'm just a starry-eyed kid filled with hope and potential energy.
give me your inertia. i know you hate physics twice as much as i do.

tear me apart.
rip me open.
i need to be jaded to survive.

i need to be broken to face the hotel rooms, even if they're presidential suites.
i need to be demolished to face the cristal and pay-per-view weekdays.
i need to be shattered to wear the thousand dollar dolce [vita?] down the frayed red carpet.
i need to be dismembered to sell platinum records.

call me "damaged goods", then add me to the a-list.

i need to be ruined to make the corroded souls sparkle. and throw in some aspirin, cuz ill need it to go out on a saturday night and blackout 'til morning.

sunday morning is no epiphany for the heartsick.
it is simply a day to sharpen the axe and get ready for another round of hollywood tabloids.

drop the guillotine.

your guts are all over the floor and there are dollar sig[h]ns in your eyes.

isn't it tragic now?

can't you feel the catastrophe?

come on, feel the travesty.

give me tears, baby. cry for me, sweetheart.

flash. flash. flash.

monday morning, and the world has seen you naked.
what a way for wall street to wake up.
"cataclysmic," they mutter, and turn to the weekly forecast.

just for the record, the weather today is glorified depression with a 75% chance of going double platinum and booking an interview.

85% if you enter rehab.

and there you are, with your bottle of cristal and that shitty pay-per-view movie with Brad Pitt that you must've seen a thousand times. you're sprawled out across the king size matress, ordering caviar from room service again.

and you shovel in the caviar, washing it down with the expensive champagne. Brad flickers across the screen. the phone rings, but you ignore it. your brand new iMac beeps every five minutes with new emails, probably from your mother.

did you drink again last night? how much? why don't you come home for a bit....?

beep.

what is this article auntie Bertha keeps talking about? call me, sweetheart.

beep.

darling, i'm begging you. please. just....just...pick up the phone, okay?

you can hear her wringing her hands. running her fingers through her hair. she can't decide whether to be worried or proud.

her daughter is a million-dollar trainwreck.

you don't call her back.

instead, you gulp down the caviar and pour out the cristal.

drink. eat. drink. eat.

the Brad movie is over now.

until next week.

same time, same place, same circumstances.

because Hollywood thrills never change, and never fail to intrigue the desperate.

so which is it? which is it?

shut my eyes, cross my fingers, and hope to wake up to some sunshine tomorrow.

solve these problems while i sleep.

or should i cross my heart and hope to die instead?

if you can't fix it, i can't stand it.

blame it on the snow. blame it on valentine's day. blame it on the blisters. blame it on you.

does it really matter?

any way this plays out, i lose.

i shut my eyes and cross my fingers.

we'll see how this goes.

i speak fast and i'm not gonna repeat myself...

"i just don't know what to say..."

i can't seem to dig myself out of this shallow grave.

i wrote until my fingers bled, and i cannot feel the pain.

dissatisfaction in myself seems to eminate from everywhere.

"it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all..."

i have never loved, i have always lost.

it seems i lose this round.

there is dischord in the garden tonight

the day you said you weren't a bitch anymore was the day i realized that you would always be one in the worst sense of the word.

everything's a scandal.
get out the flashbulbs, they'res about to be a photo op.

you're an addict for dramatics, i'm your favourite pharmacist....

and every other cliche you need.

i can't stand your pretentious, self-centred orbit.

here's the headlines, in fresh black ink:

your personality is shallow and cheap.

no one likes you because you think you matter most.

i will not forget what you said to me.

you can just go fuck yourself.

though i undercut your pathetic soul, you deserve it.

i just want to sell you out. get you back for all the terrible things you said.

you are a bitch.

you are a bitch.

you are a b.i.t.c.h.

that will never change.

you are no better than anyone else.

you are not incredibly talented at everything you do.

you are not the most beautiful girl in the world.

you are not special.

you are not different.

you are a bitch.

now and forever.

and youre the only person that doesnt seem to know it yet.

It's a trick, take the axe...

things cannot be created.

Picasso did not paint from his mind. Hemingway did not write from his heart. Einstein did not think new thoughts. Every idea ever thought, every plan ever made, every heart ever broken has been done. the idea occurs to us over and over, like a cross-generational deja-vu.

the human civilization thinks in a circle.

you can't make waves.
you can't make due.
you can't make time.

instead, you pander to an already existent, scrutinized, and well-thought out idea.

you just don't know it yet.

We fly under this false banner, this loaded pretense that we are the inventors. that no one ever thought quite like us. that we are different. that we are the ever-changing american dream.

we own the byline. forever.

creative licence is just a twisted form of plagiarism.

everything is one thousand times removed from original.

just like you.