You're a vessel for sickness, you pay it forward, perpetuate. The little girl isn't worth saving, she's beyond salvage, innocent kool-aid drinker, no need for no acid test, skip straight to poison. Paper over your sickness with a red eye patch. Strawberry ice cream color. Doesn't it make you feel good? It's all about you. Your pleasure is my own. Am I being sarcastic? I don't even know anymore. Irony though, that's always operational. Operational exhaustion, battle fatigue, well beyond the days of shell shock, there's no poetic way to describe it, just algorithms.
It'll take another global cataclysm closer to home to kill irony again. What will another season of dead irony dread feel like these days? In these times, I guess they'll be different times. At least I won't be quite as alone, I'll have an epic bacon win reason to live. Actually, a much better flavour than that.
I look like a pirate... Manic giggle. The red dead redemption mission where you get to kill KKK guys and not lose any honour points, there's much to be gained. The dread pirate Janine, red in deeds, so pink in countenance, bloody in words, a hot mess, dumpster fire. So fucked up. Can't turn away.
The apocalypse was always coming, I was always obsessed. Twas ever thus, I heard a chant that soothed me enough to feel like I could spin off the wheel of life and death for a playlet, aesthetically pleasing, elegant like an attractive equation.