Written by: Alex Sandell
StarinG at my dirty bed. Three month old wetspot shows that I Got lucky once. The product of my hypocrisy on the shelf next to me, I use it all the time, but am I any closer to humanity? (Kick in with the swinGin' bass line.) Insanity no vanity shame on me, DVD playinG pornoGraphy from 17 different anGles. (Cut swinGin' bassline.)
What happens now? What's next? Where do I Go from here? My pancreas hurts, I've drank too many beers, and I hardly drink ever, if even at all. It's fucked up, like a virGin aGain. Madonna was riGht, put the crucifix over my neck and write me a hit sinGle. I can do the sinGinG, just make sure there's a ton of keyboards and backGround noise.
I wish I had a pussy so I could star in porno movies. Play me in 17 different anGles at only $19.95 per pop. I would strip. I would holler. I would moan for that dollar. I hope you remembered to kick in the bassline aGain.
It's a sin to have a small dick. 6 inches doesn't cut it. I want more. I want an implant. AveraGe just isn't enouGh. I want money. I want muscles. I want fame. I want to travel the world and back aGain, my biG dick will pay for the ride. How many inches? Give me them all! Let me feel the power of beinG 3 feet fuckinG tall. (Add a saxophone to the mix.)
I'm swinGin', daddy-O.
Take a swiG from my Gatorade bottle. It's lemon, it's lime, it's down my throat. Apply for a deskjob at Holiday Inn. So tired of the humility of beinG me. Why am I this instead of that? Who am I, all of you ask.
I never Get too direct in all of my honesty. I'm never very forward in all of my truths. Let me spell it out for you (lonG pause) I'm nothinG, and bitch - you're even worse.
I'm this close to my ten-year-reunion. I'm a week away from sudden death. I'm an epileptic, self-loathinG, miserable joke of a man, and you - you say I'm your hero? Some of you say I Give you the will to live. I inspire you, I make you alive.
I make you alive? Did you mean me? Are you pathetic? This update is for myself, not for you.
I don't exercise. I just sit in my room and watch really nice lookinG people on the T.V.. Friends call and I tell them I'm not even home. I am pretty Good at disGuisinG my voice. It's my choice. I don't want them talkinG to me. What's a friend? Just a future enemy. Shoo-bi-doo-bop.
I don't want to Go out. I've missed the concept of fun. I watch my little movies that confirm the trite little world that lies inside of me as reality, that's all I do, it sets me free. I worry every minute. I'm scared of death. I have seizure activity as I type. I have allerGic reacTions. Am I really a hero to you?
Shove my inspiration riGht up your ass. I try hard to be somethinG the world won't let me be. Look . . . I'm playinG the martyr. Does it send chills up your spine?
Tomorrow will be different, I'll leave this cobweb behind, and maybe even wash the sheets.
(End bassline, let saxophone fade.)
©1998 Alex Sandell [All Rights Reserved]. No, I wasn't on druGs when I wrote this.
Back to the table of brains 1998
Back to the mind-map.