I’ve. Got. Nothing.

I am so far from being on top of my game that it’s as if I don’t even know The Game exists. I’m like, Game? WHAT GAME?

Or else it’s like: I find myself standing barefoot on the field in a tattered nightgown with cold cream on my face and curlers in my hair, and everybody else has cleats and shiny-new uniforms, and they’re biting down on their mouthguards, and they mean business, and I can’t figure which way I’m supposed to run, or what the lines on the grass mean, or anything.

It’s a night game. The lights give off an evil buzz. The sidelines are dark.

Somebody please block this metaphor before I hurt myself!

by Pistol Whip | 11 April 2007 | not OTOMG, slit my wrists, pms | Comments