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.