So Fucking Special
You've gone off to a world of nothingness, sailed to where the sun never rises and never sets because it was never there to begin with.
You live on a boat of dreams with your music and your thoughts and nothing else, and none of those really exists; not even the round suitcase you held in your hand when you left. You like to think that this is what happened, that it's what people think of you now, that you are magical and unique and do your thing, and maybe you'll sort yourself out now.
(Fat chance.)
Maybe you are a racist and a controversial artist and a punk rock chick and a Jew and a lousy friend and whatever everyone says you are, but not really, no. And maybe you're an ephemeron and a paradox and written in iambic verse and ugh, maybe. You're a metaphor now, kiddo, for what happens to the losers; you've disappeared, up and vanished into thin air. That's what happens to the unemployed and antisocialists. They never become anything -- they become nothing.
You listen to the same vinyl you bought at Seymour's god knows how long ago, over and over again, and you smile a little smile, because at least you've succeeded in doing that: you are the ultimate loser, with a stupid name and so full of alcohol and drugs and that song that keeps playing itself over and over again in your mind until you can't stand it anymore; you're just space, and that's how you've planned it all along, of course; being a waste of nonexistent space.
(You're not even fooling yourself with that one.)
Alcohol drizzles from the half-empty bottle onto your pinstripe skirt until it lands, tinking and tapping, spilling on the cold floor and making it even stickier than it was to begin with. And maybe you're not a loser because you didn't have much to lose -- that song is all you need, and it doesn't let you go for a fucking minute.
(You're not a punk, she's just angry.)
It's nice to think that Dad and Francine still miss you; that he can't stand living alone with that horrible woman; that maybe Rebecca doesn't have another roommate and is still stuck doing the same crappy job for obnoxious people. To hope she doesn't have a new best friend and still gazes longingly at the memories of your shared time, that maybe nobody gets her like you do. Like you did. To think that maybe Seymour thinks of you from time to time, or has a sharp pain in his back to forever remind him of you. Your eyes close then, eyelashes and eyelids protecting your vision from this sunless existence, and you're really just an egomaniac for thinking that the world has the decency to change when you leave it.
(I'd rather be the devil, to be that woman man, I'd rather be the devil, to be that woman man. Aw, nothin' but the devil, changed my baby's mind, was nothin' but the devil, changed my baby's mind.)
If you could just make that goddamn song stop, you could get some decent sleep. You analyze it in your head and count the words, breaking the song into parts and lines and scattered words all over your subconscious until it is forever meaningless, however sentimental and constantly playing in your mind, like a '75 with a tight crack.
(That was a particularly sad joke, but it worked back then.)
You like to think that you're so special, but you don't even know where the hell you are.