Boulevard Of Broken Dreams [ Wattys 2015 ]

XXV - "The Life of Me."

remember dat eminem song *IM GETTIN' WRITER'S BLOCK!* well taht's me right now and it's totally boring. i ended up scrolling to infinte on my tumblr dashboard, eating toats or just bread. *shame* anyway i decided to write again.

Being Demetria Devonne Lovato, sure gives you one hell of a life.

You're a fucked up teen on your late nineteens with some neon flipped, dip dyed hair, huge smile and horrible laugh.

You have a mother who works as a prostitute, and you don't even have a proper relationship with her. The only place you can visit you father is a grave and its gray brick with his name on.
You have nor brothers or sisters. You are somehow alone. Somehow not.

You have this funny ass job where you serve coffee to some old men with gray sweaters and nerd glasses, who're always complaining about the weather and the amount of sugar you add.

You come home to a crazy twenty years old pimp, short but big enough to beat the shit out of you even for eating his damn Jell-O or chocolate cake, and a dark but pale skinned, buttoned-to-death shirted, drug dealer girl, yelling all the curse words that exist in that vocabulary, to express their infinite care and love for each other.

There's a twenty years old Russian stripper at the table muttering unknown words for you to the pair, her head in her palms.

You spend your free time with this cute but lame ass, alien looking hairstyle boyfriend of yours, who puts himself in the most awkward situations on the planet and you just sit there red in the face trying to save his crazy ass.

And sometimes you wake up at night, looking at him like he's the last thing on Earth. You feel like if he stops breathing, eventually everything will break and shatter to a billion pieces. That might sure as shit be the most stupid thing ever but to you, it's important.

Sometimes you go low, deep in the darkness of your soul, and you don't want anybody to be near you, touch you or whisper that you'll be fine. You just want to disappear, literally fuck off, but no. You can't.

Being me, sure gives you one hell of a life.
There's three only choices about it; a) not giving a shit and going on enjoying almost any moment, b) crying yourself at night or c) jump out of the window and give it a beautiful end.
I can say that I have tried all of them, at least almost the third one, but I always come back to the first.
It's shitty and hard, but sometimes, it does work out like that.

But I'm happy about it. At least, everything is a little better than it was.

Because I have four people that I depend on.
That shithead of Mickey Milkovich.
The fucked up goth Kris Millena.
The I-don't-understand-a-word-of-yours Antonina Schnaiv.
The lame ass Harry Styles.
And even though he isn't part of the four, Mr. Awesome Ian Gallagher.
Because, I know that one day, if I fuck up they'll be there.