Perfectionism: the Clients' Epidemic

Insufferable is the life lived according to the Client's whims and fancies.
Hellish is the deadly combination of the spineless Client and the anal Consultant.

Perfectionism is a gloriously devilish ideal in this fucked-up, sick game. We're just pawns wrestling for meagre survival without any scrap of dignity or respect, in this hypocritical war for power, control, and right of way.

This is what voodoo dolls are for, I guess. Oh the fantasies of gory violence and sweet retaliation!

Pain, coffee, cheese, and bad breath

Oh the agony of miserable Monday.

Weekends don't ease backaches. They worsen them.

Cheese sandwiches and coffee give you bad breath, and a horrid aftertaste.

Urgh!!! The stomach revolts.

Silence is violence

It's not Keane's famous songs that pierce your heart most.

Have you heard "We Might As Well Be Strangers"?

I don't know your thoughts these days
We're strangers in an empty space
I don't understand your heart
It's easier to be apart

We might as well be strangers in another town
We might as well be living in another time
We might as well be strangers

For all I know of you now
For all I know

It makes me cry.

And there's "She Has No Time"

You think your days are ordinary
And no one ever thinks about you
But we're all the same
And she can hardly breathe without you

She says she has no time for you now
She says she has no time

Think about the lonely people
And think about the day she found you
Or lie to yourself
And see it all dissolve around you

She says she has no time for you now
She says she has no time

Lonely people tumble downwards
My heart opens up to you
When she says she has no time for you now
She says she has no time

I suppose when one feels down, melancholic rock really impales you like a knife in the chest.

We keep quiet, but really, we are fighting a vicious battle, but neither of us will ever admit to the glaring truths in this detached, strained, hidden war. Our silence is a subtle violence that rips up the insides, a clawed animal insane, frenzied, imprisoned, repressed, desperate.

It's all wrong. Everything is wrong now.

My mind is a blank, and it is like death.
How I yearn for it all to be bloody, and exploded anger, and real, physical wounds that will then heal. But it's not possible, because you are too kind. I don't know what to do, and how to live with all this.

Can I just disappear, just cease to exist for a while? Complete escape from this life, this monstrous trap, away from all its ruthlessness and vicious cycles and suffocating burdens.

Can I just stop breathing...inhaling, exhaling, all this stale, recycled, polluted air...for a while?

What's out there, in the great beyond?

Tears?

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