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Meu perfil BRASIL, Sudeste, Mulher, de 20 a 25 anos, English, Portuguese, Blá. Blá. Blá. MSN - servetheego@hotmail.com |
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So you spend your years, minute after minute, thinking you're the shit. You're absolutely sure you know just what to say, what to do, how to handle. You watch life through screens. Then you work, you get laid, you get drunk, you get by. You hear, you talk. You analize. You evaluate. Q&A.
Then life sneaks up on you from behind, taps you on the shoulder.
Then comes the punch.
I don't deal through sadness and recovery. I deal through anger. Do not look at me, do not touch me. Don't ask me how I'm doing. My brother's got a bullet inside his neck, how the fuck do you think I'm doing?
Don't enter my home to patronize me. Don't do it to tell me he's alright, that he's blessed. That it could have been worse.
He is alright. After some random creature with a gun shot four bullets through his arm and neck, he's still alright. Hell, he's better than I am.
He's right here, sleeping like the punk-rocker-jiu-jitsu-fighter angel he is while I can barely breathe. I've done nothing in the past 48 hours, except smoking and crying and screaming into my pillows.
Because it hit me. It hit me that I can actually lose him one day. I can actually come home one day, and he won't be going through my stuff. He won't be leaving his clothes all over the bedroom, won't be yelling, and laughing and cursing his brains out. He might not be here one day to steal the remote control, to mess up my wardrobe, to be a complete pain in the ass. My pain in the ass. My partner in crime. My blood, my brother.
And I just can't handle that.
I wasn't there. I can't always be there, and this is eating me up inside. Life's a big fat bitch, and she's eating me up inside. She's got her index finger at my nose, telling me I'm useless. I'm small, and fragile, and useless. Swallow that pride, that cry and get over it, 'cause she'll play us all to her own will. And if we get hurt in the process, to hell with it.
To every action, there's a reaction. So what happens when there's no reaction? No reward? Might as well blow the whole shit up, I suppose.
Faith's flaky. A God-damn gipsy. Comes and goes, as she pleases. How am I supposed to keep my shit together while she's gone? How can I handle life until she comes back?
Might as well blow the whole shit up.