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I want to shake it out of you, and bleed it out of you.

I want to see anger rise in place of apathy.

I want a fucking storm to blow in and wipe out the buildings, a flood to cover the streets.

I want less time and more action.

I want this frustration to change into something tangible, something I can hold, and feel, and throw against the wall.

I want unlimited gas and endless daylight.

I want to have tears left to shed.

I want to catch this nervous energy and put it into something, bottle it, and save it for when I want to sleep for years.

I want you to stop reaching, stop pulling, stop. Stop.

. . .

I want the week off of work, and a pay check twice the size. A bottle of rum, and a case of Coke, 3 cartons of smokes, pizza, and a new pair of fuzzy pants.

I want a party bigger than Spundae, bigger than 1015 Folsom, bigger than the DNA Lounge, bigger than this city, filled with people I don�t know. Except I want everyone to love me without expectations and eventuallys and somedays and more-times.

. . .

I want the fucking golden ticket and the midgets without having to listen to the fucking singing.

8:42 p.m. - 2002-10-14


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