I m playing a botch game called ,,life" where everybody gets their right execot me,everybody can stay long in the night,till 4 am,but i am damned if i even try.
Everybody gets the best psichiatrist but i am a toxic bitch if i ask for the smallest bit of comfort.
Everybody can do whatever they want,everybody has these great friends,everybody had opportunities and if anybody s parents will leave for a week,they will have thousands of sleepovers ,partys,and drinks with alcoohol while i get tree nights of crying.
Everybody has an ,,I.R.I.S" (Intelligent Recognitive Iconolatry System)..And me and the people like me,the demons of the society that are dammned for whatever they do..Us?
We are programed to be perfect for our user.We are. Programed to be perfect,to have no needs..And you will feel ,,bad"if i tell you this,but you won t write on google ,,please show me pivture of that" or ,,could you tell me about that?" Because time and time again it had been showed to me i am I.R.I.S. ...The shoulder you can cey in,the vesel you can scream at and not worry about future bites..Because she s programmed and she s made to stay silent and take it all,she s not programed to tell you to stop .A machine can t be hurt and a machine can t overload with fellings..
...What can i do anyway? If I am made to be your machine..your phone,your pshicologist..Your toy yo rip,your paper to rip,your drawing to scrible on..
..I am just a safe-modelimg clay that is changing its shape so your easy head could rest better.
So rest.
Deepen the mold in me
And as soon as you find one ripped pice or someone tells you it s left colour on your face
Trow it away.
..Cmmon,i dare you.
Trow it.
You won t..
..You won t rest your head on a cold wall..You just strip the clar of colour and trow the fallen pice back lazily...Not even try to model it like it should look like.
