She hadn’t changed. Not a bit. She’s bad and cannot read. Not a bit. She used to be the kind of bird that would’ve sold her soul for rock and roll, but now she’ll sell that measly little thing for 800 dollars and a vodka cranberry. Probably a well drink. They say dogs sit on your lap because they love you, but cats only do it because it’s warmer. I think the reason we like cats is because they present themselves as free creatures. But they aren’t. They don’t care one way or the other, that’s the beauty of cats. This one wandered in, and I took care of it like the Queen of England’s cat, but like a true alley cat, it just up and wandered away again.
Take a look at you, your body’s falling apart at the ankles upward. Your mind can barely keep a grip on itself in the mornings. Your stomach won’t allow you to enjoy the fruits of the world. But I wouldn’t have minded. Fuck, I would’ve joined you. But you couldn’t tell me the truth that my lap was the warmest. In the end, you haven’t changed. It’s become so critical that you’ve begun rotting on the outside too. I wish I could help, but sometimes we don’t realize we hurt and push the ones who love us most away. You’ve hurt and pushed me for the last time, but I still have just enough soul to say, “have a nice life, asshole.” I sent you out to have fun and cheer up, not as an escort collecting teeth and claw marks on your body. I deserve a fucking cut.
Shopping for music isn’t easy, but I’m getting outta the soul section. Find me in the blues.