"I now wear Saudade instead of Lanvin.
My neural architecture is built on a foundation of sand. Bloated fucking synapses, like chicks in desperate need of diuretics, bogart my memories like Sour Diesel. It is as involuntary as a muscle twitch; my brain’s heuristics have been hijacked.
My hippocampus should be in a cage.
My amygdalae betray me by the second.
Reasoning fades, the memories will not.
Oh, what bliss, to find a hot man who fucks me right and performs Trepanation in a sterile environment!
My heart is only two chambers; the others absorbed by the Teratoma twin who lives inside my chest.
One chamber is soft and wrapped in spun sugar. It pulses in a cadence like the giggle of a Geisha. It holds in it the remembrance of civility and satisfaction; companionship and delight. It asks for love, but sleeps often and is crystallized like the honey it ingests.
The other chamber is lined in cigarette foil, a bed to lay its cancer upon. It is strong and superficial and beats with an unmerciful fury that perforates eardrums. It holds in its tank the ego’s honor and lewd pleasures and lascivious superiority and unbound violence and wicked vanity. It steals love from whomever it wants and fucks it full of misery.
This chamber is Evil’s muse."
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