You're cornered inside an oven, waiting for the 100 degrees to hit, the boiling point. You're sitting there waiting, anticipating a let go. You know it's coming. You know that when it hits, words will run down like a broken shower of sewage.

Sit there and quietly judge them. Wait for words that never formed. You flip the dictionary pages in search for words that might bring you comfort but alas… what makes you think that things would go easy on you now? What makes you think you've earned it?

Life. Such a tough teacher. I believe conniving bitch is an appropriate synonym for the word.

Dreams… linger every night when you're most ready to give in. I believe haunting can explain the process thoroughly, especially when thrown in to a sentence with the word delusion.

Life teaches the lesson no school can ever teach. It tells you all about loss, convincing you that it's only trying to turn you into a man. The truth is you know that you're a man if you're born with a prick and whatever comes later is just a useless appendix to a road you take chasing a shadow of something you've already become.

Be an asshole… yeah that's a tip alright. If only somebody would have taught me that earlier.

Silence… happens when you know that a lie is about to fill the air you breathe in hoping not to die. I have never minded the lies.

Dreams would hover over your brain at night, wrap up logic, and transform it into something shiny.

Like a brand new pair of shoes, I guess.

Tempting, taunting, teasing, deluding.

Taking over.

Addicting you beyond all recognition.

Injecting you with something sweet and acidic to melt your worries and release them into the dark sewers of the mind.

Your arms have more holes than the ozone now and your mind is fixated on your next shot.

In this case, however, rehab ain't the answer you're looking for.

And it just so happens that when you've got yourself labeled as a junkie, you become cheap and dispensable, a million dollars written in fancy calligraphy on a bounced cheque. Sure your penmanship may be attractive and unique, but still you're a worthless piece of paper, and if they really, really like the font, they can always frame you, hang you on their bathroom wall to stare at you when they've run out of boring articles in toilet magazines to read. You're worth that much then.

Ay. There's the rub.

Rub it hard, lad. Let it scar. Mark it across your face so you would always look at it every time you look at yourself in the mirror, the same mirror you stared through, the one that you've asked 'Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all' over and over, the same mirror that told you you're special.

And the more you listened, the more you fell into believing it.

And before you know it you start treating it contrarily.

Human nature I guess. Ego is the god of fulfillment for most of us.

An alternative definition of a leader is a person who fucks everybody else in a way that seems like he's actually doing them a favor. Similar to love where half the female populace fall for men who treat them like they're cheap property by falling into the challenge of winning their approval. Yes that's the beef of all relationships, the main course, the primary Olympic game of hide and seek. Those women… they seek promotion in the eyes of an else.

It would have been easier if I were created as sand to be used to create somebody's glass mirror.

Lying would have been easier then, I suppose.

The oven's broken and the gas is leaking. The 100 degrees are far from here.

The dictionary pages all show the letter B with words like bullshit, betrayal, bitch, bastards, blasphemy, bricks, bricks, and bricks piling up in every page. Comfort ain't listed.

Life is an analog clock hand you chase down a circle. It'll get to you.

I'd say be the bounced cheque, screw the ozone, lie and deceive, bullshit them all, be the egoistic manipulative monster that everybody should glorify, break the mirror, smile in triumph. B what you wanna B.

Such is life, my glorious king.

Fucking deal with it and stop whining.