Semi-Daily Scribbles

If I'm perfectly honest, that's one toxic act you've got, and I can't get enough. I stand in front of your window–you've always got the lights on–and soak up all the icky details of your sick and twisted, touchy-feely fabricated history. Whenever I wait outside your house there's always a long line so I come early. Don't worry, I always elbow my way to the front so it's my face you see in that sea of craned necks and limbs. If I'm to be truthful about this arrangement, I want you all to myself but I'm glad I'm not alone in my neuroses. Psychoses? Ring around the rosies and I'll gladly hand you my last dollar bill just to watch you ignore me. It's a thrill, you know. The sweaty crowd, your cruelty slash compassion, the messages you shout through your megaphone:

"I'm a thief! Give me all your money and I'll teach you how to steal!"
"I'm a fraud! Learn how to live the lie so you can sell it to others!"
"I'm a guru! Fake it and then make it your mission to rig the system!"

Foiled, I am, once again to pretend your poison isn't the sweetest thing I have ever swallowed.