Sunday, August 14, 2005

What Are Little Girls Made Of?

"..sugar, and spice, and everything nice,
that's what you believe we're made of.."

Dear lonely isle,

Sometimes I want to just scream at the world, to yell out dissatisfaction, irritation, and annoyance. I want to cast these god awful feelings at the sky and ask, "Why me?!!". But even then, the sky would probably remain quiet, oblivious to my whining, not a cloud stirring. And the universe would mock in silence, "Oh, really? Well, we're very sorry then."
And still I would remain with my three companions. How the hell do you dispose of them?
I could ask that over and over. And yet in the end, only I can make them disappear. With the help of good will, humour and forgiveness. All those stupidly noble jerks.
But when you require the assistance of others, it is prudent to reserve one's judgement to oneself. So I shall mention nought of what I feel towards my imbecillic saviours. With time, clenched teeth, a forced smile, and a whole lot of inward wincing, this might just work out.
So maybe time will prove itself useful once in a while, and who knows, maybe a little good will, humour and forgiveness never hurt anyone, except my pride, perhaps, but all in all, I guess I owe a bunch of moronic suckers an apology, and maybe even gratitude.
You'll probably never hear me say this ever again, so listen well,

Take that stupid look off your face. I ain't saying anything, you motherfuckering sons of bitches.

love, joyce.