I am my youth.
Listening to the cure top volume, a hard working fan on high to cut the atonal mash-up of anger and ego with white noise. No disco beat. No boogie.
Still, the door slamming its heavy sighs, stink eyes polluted and streaming with fears; they all find their way into my cozy den.
Of course, determination is 9/10ths of the law in Emo(tional) Court. Where there are no laws only louder i say so's.
Nope. Nope. That didn't happen. (I say so. I say so) It can be proved. Your Honor (if you had any), as you can see, it's all there. See? Irrefutable.
And I'd rather talk about Attila the Hun v. Ghengis Khan, or mirror neurons, or lavender honey, or that silly thing on 4chan or ANYTHING other than the crappity crap crap crap of the the last few weeks. No really. Anything. At. All.
Anchor dropped, I'm rocking it out. The winds, they don't bother me. My smile more fearsome the sound of clapping thunder than the wooden spoon rattled pot banging away in those dank cupboards.
The worst thing? Not the insults and the slams. No not even close. It's the awful impulse to do something REALLY bad (because that'll show 'em. Ohhhh it will. It certainly, certainly will.)
But no.
Those lessons are not an interesting relearn their seventy-second time round.
So I listen, and I grin my deafening grin. And I gnash my terrrrrrible vowels. And I ROOOOAR my terrible whore's roar with elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist in readiness; an old prom court wave to send that leaky bucket off to another unlucky shore.
Because beginnings are good.
