Look. Maybe I'm really not all that miserable. As this. I don't moan around my days playing at fine razors edges. Or brood around the window shades plotting ways to hang myself up in their wires. And maybe there are times when I am happy. Content. When I cook dinner and wash up and lull around in front of the tv with a glass of wine and cigarettes and my wonderful partner. And I don't feel discontent. At all. I don't think about the stifling ways that life can feel like, sometimes, lived under someone else's grasp. I just laugh a lot. Or say nothing. And switch the stations on all the commercial breaks. But even if you asked me a year ago what you might ask me now I wouldn't know how to answer you. So the-fuck-what that I'm attracted to bad words. That I can't cure the miserable way I like to play in and out of the universe of experience of the way my insides sometimes burn and I know the world felt like at one point. When I didn't have myself and the television and you to blame. It's like my attraction to bad men, only worse. Cause this one doesn't seem to want a stop.