The Parasite | Eminem

03

"There's three-hundred and sixty-five days in the year, never a problem. Today? I've had three nosebleeds... Nosebleeds."
I could be dying.
I deserve it.
People like me don't deserve the universe's grace.
Something about both my nostrils leaking blood is strangely appealing to me.
I don't bother wiping them, I'll deal with it later.
Plus it will be fun when people give me strange looks.
That or they'll stop me and ask if I'm ok and I'll say something deranged to freak them out.

"Maybe it's God's payback for when you ran up to that guy the other night in front of his girlfriend and pretended to be the girl he was having an affair with." Paul always has some shit to say about my behavior.
I stopped telling him about it.
Though, I do the really vanilla stuff when he's around... just to remind him that I'm not 'getting better'.

"Come on man, that was fucking funny, I'm shocked she fell for it, I mean, he's got himself a beach-blonde, sundress wearing beauty and she thinks he'd fuck a degenerate like me?" Today is cargo pants and a monochrome Hawaiian t-shirt, the other night it was a pinstripe suit.. so at least I was a little more presentable.
It muddles into a big jumble of nothing.

"Stop calling me, 'man' or my first name... I'm your father, also- when you go up to a guy and start calling him a cheating pig in front of his girlfriend... she's going to assume he's fucking you... no matter what you look like" He's sighing at my dysfunctional behavior.
He's always sighing or massaging his temples over something.
Me or that stupid white boy he thinks is gonna be famous.
The kid is a fumbling moron.
Marshall.
The kid I had to convince not to kill himself last week.

I'm not always getting on people's nerves.
Usually I do things to give people stories to tell.
I call random people in Yellow Pages to have serious conversations about things like economics or possibly the meaning of life.
Shit that leads to long, intense discussions.
They get off of those phone calls feeling something new, different, something worth telling people about.
Me? That's the tenth call I made that night.
Each is special, sure, but they blend into another.
You know... stuff like that.

"I'm a grown person, I'm not calling you dad, especially not around other people. I apologize, but I'm succumbing to my ego." I give him a cheeky grin before awkwardly wiping my upper lip with my palm.
I believe that acting out of ego to save from humiliation is stupid, but somethings I will not do.
I realize I'm a hypocrite.
I never said I was a good person.
Clearly not.

I stare at my blood covered palm before stuffing it in my khaki colored shorts, not caring too much for it.
Work for me is editing and making beats for 'up-and-coming' artists that decided my dad was the perfect man to manage them.
They've got potential or whatever, but not everyone can be the center of the spotlight.
Unless you want to hand yourself over to the blood sucking parasite that is the masses, good luck.

"I just threw up everything I ate"
Oh right.
That fucking moron is here.
I swing my swiveled chair around and stare at the short nuisance.
I fully believe Marshall is so desperate for money that he'll do anything to get famous.
That or suicide.
I couldn't get through to him earlier.
He still thinks it's gonna solve most his problems.

Marshall.
Marshall and his yellow-blonde buzzed hair.
Marshall and his strangely pointy nose.
Marshall and his squeaky voice that makes me wonder if the poor bastard went through puberty... I've never seen him with facial hair either, come to think of it... none.

"Heh- Hey Marlow- remind me to introduce you to Dee" He giggles.
His eyes are watery, dilated.
He's drunk and high... at this hour.
A fucking childish moron.
That's how I'd describe this motherfucker who is, by the way, several years older than me.