Excerpts from a March 2008 post on my old bog, mixed with new content. Toll Gate lyrics by Hale
I’m leaving, I’m buckling tight.
I turn on the radio.
I’m driving out of sight.
And I’m in the freeway.
The lights are lost in your eyes.
Things have been said.
I’m lost in my head.
It’s time to go home.
I want to stop. And think. Just for a minute. About what all this mindless deluge means. A scarred face. Fluctuating weight. Recurring bad habits. Impulsive tendencies. Vices I’ve been trying to avoid like the plague — to no success of course. History repeats itself time and time again. What now? Is it really possible to go back in time? To find what is lost?
I need a respite from the uncontrollable frenzy that is me. I just don’t know how to stop.
I’m moving so fast.
I can’t look back.
The street lights are changing.
They mean nothing at all.
Maybe I’m stranded.
I’m stuck in this place alone.
I look out the window.
Tomorrow will be fine.
Let’s call it a day.
When something (or someone, to be precise) catches my eye, I get to work. Like a tiger on the prowl. Scrutinize. Entice. Advance. I do what I can to get what I want, so to speak. Because I know that at the end of each rainbow (pun intended), lies a pot of “Cheerios” — and then some. And then.. And then.. What?
Move on to the next target. I can’t stop, because I don’t want to feel. I’m on a high. Rampage.
I’m insecure. I can’t have just one pot of “Cheerios.” I go through them like I go through gossip blogs. Mindless hoarding. It’s pathetic. I’m a sleaze. A sad, lonely sleaze with lots of booze to keep me up at night and put me to sleep at day. So I can forget. So I can start anew after every hangover.
So I can forget that I can be a decent person. That I can be loyal. And that my heart is capable of beating for just one single special pot of “Cheerios.”
But then again, who wants to be a decent person anyway? Decent people always get the shorter end of the stick. I’d rather be a crude bitch. Yeah. I get what I want that way. Hmmm.. A semblance of justification for my selfish schemes? Reverse psychology on my own parody, perhaps? I don’t know.
I’m turning off the lights.
This day may be through,
I’m here without you.
And I don’t have a clue.
Tomorrow you’ll come.
Tomorrow you’ll come.
I don’t know what’s real. I refuse to see what’s real. It’s safer living in a world I know I made up — where I am the queen bitch of my own story. Why? Because it’s so much easier to be hurtful than to be the one being hurt.
However, I can only hold back for so long. Sooner or later, the queer in me will have to wake up to her folly. Until then, I can only hope. And wait. Until she opens her heart… and grows a fucking backbone.