i would like to apologize now if i talk too fast, if i breathe a little out of tune and if i can't recall your name by the end of next week, because the truth is that we're not good at this game, and we will lose this event, because the odds aren't even and we can't feel our feet in these frozen socks, ankle deep in this burning sin we call socializing. our fingernails are painted black to match the white of our eyes and our souls are all boarded up for the spring. we're allergic to bumblebees and we're drawn to the flowers, and our floral print shoes happen to attract some unwanted attention from a certain insect but it can't be helped, they call us morbid but we're the realest people they've ever met so who's the real killer here? the river flows smoothly but it's hardly an easy journey, and we've made it several times and call it an adventure even though we can't feel our legs and we can't see anything except the empty promise down in the deep, the promise of coldness and a quick death. and they call us morbid.
