Historians burning through paper / Shyness and the
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Answer me, Vanessa.
Please, please answer me.
I've waited by the phone, danced around like a goddamn buffoon, thinking maybe I can get away with speaking what I feel and going where I please. Fuck Bush and all the others; Brittany, the lifeguard down the street, Scottie, the cousin the same age as me. No, I need them to tell me when I've lost and when I've won. Of course, we all know what we want. We all want to be playas. We want to reach the point where our nerves are fed with non-stop positive electrons and exponential stimulation, where we become this limp sack of pleasure. We'll trade years to the devil for a taste of that drug.
I'm sorry, God. But no matter what I say, it always comes back to you.