(kill, kill, kill) Little Girls
Smoke signals from synthetic sisters leave me entirely unamused and unwilling to save their ships. Friends have fumbled and faked their ways from under uncomfortably chewed nails on fingertips for no other reason then an excuse to spend nights outside of ovarian vulnerability.
It's not that I don't care for (tend to, curse at) the woes of those girls I had grown with...it's that I feel like just as poor of a listener, a probability that monumentally pisses me off.
We weave and stumble through the lives of adolescent anchors, but why do we still feel forced to falsify their self-fufilled misfortune?
I see a light behind the all-knowing eyes of a select few souls my own has been blessed to love and know. My shoulder will "forever and almost always" be a dam for their tears to crash into. Yet, for most of this family untied by blood (and only strung together with liquified memories of park benches and aged inside jokes)...
...I feel nearly nothing.
The tragic truth is that I once thrived off of the melo-dramedy of my platonic relationships: sincerely feeding off lighthearted quips paired with you deserve more as they spilled shallow sorrow on my unfazed flannel. It was a comforting, immature medley of LIFE THREATENING (sigh) boy problems and my laughed off emotional disorders.
But now, calls must go ignored and I chose to be laughed at over unwittingly with. These little girls posses what appears to be moral attention deficiency, and the fluorescent spotlights they conjure from stale beer berating empty stomachs simply makes my Jameson taste all the sweeter now that I am not the one directing their exits to stage suburbia.