The Parasite | Eminem

06

- 2 Weeks Ago -

"Dude, I don't really think there's a point to doing this." Leah grumbles, adjusting the bow tie around her neck.
On the sixteenth floor of the MotorCity Casino Hotel in Detroit is the luxurious Iridescence restaurant.
It's where you go if you're here for a business trip and you happen to be loaded.

"Everything bad you can imagine is happening somewhere else, or happened here, a hundred years or a couple weeks ago. None of it resolved shit. We aren't here to find a point, we're here to destroy something elegant. We're here for the excitement"
Tonight, we're two waitresses who will immediately quit the next day.
Tonight, we're putting crushed laxatives in soups and sauces.
Tonight, we make a big mess of something meant to be perfect.

"This doesn't give me excitement, it just makes me profusely anxious." She sighs, rubbing at her eye profusely.
"Fucking god, you got any allergy pills on you?" She sniffles, suddenly stalling and sneezing several times, eyes going watery, she rubs at her nose harshly.
I hope she sneezes in a few drinks.
Always use the best skills of the people around you.

"Why would I have allergy pills on me? Everything is dead right now." I ask with a chuckle, straightening out my crisp white blazer.

"Hold on- wait." She tears her white dress shirt out from it's well tucked position, fishing around under it, sightlessly rummaging through her bra cups. "Yep. Got it"

"Leah, you've got pockets." I grumble, watching her awkwardly shove her previously wrinkle-free dress shirt back into her white slacks.

"Yeah, but I forget to move the pills from one pair of pants to the other, the bra is always on." She states as if she's genius, redoing her brown leather belt and giving me a thumbs up.

"Now we can go."

- Present -

Waiting outside Interscope records, I'm reminded why I'm not allowed to be in there with Marshall and my dad.
When I'm alone, I have time to think about my deeds.

My audience is God.
If he's real.
My spectacle of chaotic behavior can only be comprehended by something from above.
Something that isn't clouded by morals.
Who else could understand me?
Who else?
God is cruel.
God is jealous and tyrannical.
He would understand.

I stare down at the note book.
I sit on the pavement, sidewalk, whatever.
Waiting.
It's most of what humans do.
We wait.
We're always waiting.

'You're sad because you're sad.
It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
Or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll.
You need to sleep.'

A Margaret Atwood quote.
It helps me think of things to write. 
It brings out that lonely desperation of a kid who's lived with mental illness most their life.
It get's the gears turning.
I usually write down lyrics or poetry segments I like for inspiration.
If I need to cripple myself with emotion every time I need to write, so be it.

"Yo."
I turn my head to the right, peering up at that stupid yellow jumpsuit.
That freckled face and that pointy nose.
Those skeptical blue eyes.

"Where's my dad?" it's the first thing I ask.
He comes closer, staring down at me.

"Bathroom." Sitting down beside me, he can't help but crack a grin. "He fucking loves me. He fucking wants me to start recording fucking tomorrow" he gloats excitedly, playing with his fingers and waiting for me to express emotion.