2004-11-09 - 11:07 p.m.
fuck you, roxanne

y'know what, roxanne? fuck you. fuck you. you expect me to climb over this wall? it's not a wall, bitch. it's a bubble. it's a cell. there ain't shit anyone can do about it. you can see it in my clothes, in my face? that i'm trying to be all hard and saying nobody can fucking touch me? well, fuck you. nobody can touch me. ain't nobody ever gonna pop this bubble. what am i supposed to fucking do? huh? just fucking start putting on skirts and giggling and shit? yeah? is that it? what else is there? i'm in hiding--i'm undercover. there's nothing anyone can do about it 'cause there's nothing left inside. nothing. if i come out--if i stop with the sarcasm and the wifebeaters--if i smile--then i'll get my ass beat again. and again. and again. and i will not have it, roxanne. i will NOT have it. i hate that world, roxanne--i hate falling in love. i hate getting my feelings hurt. and you know what? before this bubble, before this cell, i fell in love with everything and my feelings got hurt all the time and as a result i was depressed and suicidal and i lost the one thing, the one person, the one life that ever meant anything to me and it's over, okay? it's all over. i will not get hurt again.

yeah, it's all been words. words and words and words. there is nothing else. the fucking "real rachel" does not exist, dearest. she does not exist.

ooh, you touch my tra-la-la... mmm, my ding-ding-dong