Dear Zoloft, I’d really like my penis back - there are people I need to fuck. Dear Klonopin, you’re really fun with alcohol, but I’d like to remember who I am tomorrow. Dear Klonopin, you’re really fun with alcohol, but I’d like to remember who I am tomorrow. Shit. Dear Wellbutrin, I’m having a really hard time remembering what it’s like to be human, so please give me my feelings back. Dear Remeron, what, where, what, zombie not like feeling icky. Dear lobotomies in a bottle, I know some of you have saved a lot of people, but sometimes, sometimes I just question the cost.
They sit so prettily in a row, headphones in every shade of every conceivable color in identical ears, faces somber as a funeral. I see no wetness in their eyes, no involuntary dancing in their seats, no lips screaming unheard lyrics. By god, I think these men have turned to stone.
You heard about another atrocity on the news today, one of a particularly evil nature. You examine the face they show in the paper, searching for a sign of the damage inside. But he has no dead eyes, no terrible sneer, and even a hint of a smile. You can’t understand how such inward evil hasn’t reflected at all on his face. It scares you to realize that you’d never know it just by looking in his eyes. It disturbs you a little when you look in the mirror and your faces look almost the same. You remember the cliche about beauty and skin, apparently it also applies to sin. So you walk down the street and look past the faces and you see just how little their looks really matter. It saddens you to know that they always will.