or
seal my kitchen, blast carbon monoxide, and place my head in the oven
?
they both look like people i know.
but apparently, i can't respect a female author unless she's already killed herself. don't ever quote me on that. (no one ever quotes me on anything, btw). i'm variably sick in the head. i've been daydreaming about being a satirical thespian, alright? i've been thinking about getting people to convulse in sheer amusement. choke in hilarity. or just kill 'em dead. but consider my lack in any form of comedic focus. i'm not very funny. i will make you laugh anyway (most likely due to my threatening undertones of murdering you and/or myself if you don't laugh [or you just truly feel sorry for me]). why am i not getting paid for all my artful and free form entertainment? i should be getting paid for my words. or no. nah. this is not a voice to be heard nor is it a voice to stand on its own.
my sporadic and astonishing self-confidence vs. my consistent and comfortable self-deprecation
can you handle it?
can
you
handle
it
track 14 of Confessions, album by artist Usher, 2004
