i would tell you that humans are a complex function of emotion and fantasy plotted on the axis of logic, but you are nothing so deep or starry-eyed. you are bleach blonde hair and spray on tans and spilled beer on the carpet.

[and honestly, hearts don't beat for you]

once, you were a snowflake - different from everyone else. but you hate the snow and you love the poisonous UV sunshine of tanning beds. you love(lust) to fuck around in trees and pools and bomb shelters. and now you are a shattered mirror that screams 'look at me! look at me! i'm just like her and her and her…'. but no one notices you because we got tired of listening to a girl who doesn't exist.

[and honestly, heads don't turn for you]

you know, seriously, your high life scenery drives us crazy. it's not about you and your affair with the man and the moon. it's not about jack and jill fucking in the locker room or up that hill with their pail of water. it's not about big, black buildings and brand new shoes and zeroes strung out on acid like the strand of pearls around your neck. it's not. and you need to start to take this seriously.

[because honestly, no one cares]

--

hearts don't beat for you, heads don't turn for you, lungs don't breathe for you, and i, for one, am tired of you.