My Personal Life Songtext
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(spoken)
My personal life: like an anger disease, spreading pain and misery all across the planet.
My personal life: like the hatred towards me I inspire in everyone I come in contact with.
My personal life: like a lesson in how to fuck over everybody through dishonesty, indecision, and poor planning.
My personal life: like perfect stupidity, like purgatory, like pure poverty, like "Can I borrow more money from the few who will still talk to me?"
My personal life: semi-insane, semi-homeless, and no, I don't have a number I can be reached at, and besides, you don't really wanna talk to me anyway.
My personal life. My pathetic personal life: crying, sniveling, stupid, stupid, stupid. Why do I do these things? Why do I behave so always, so badly? When will I be punished? How come no one stays mad? Why doesn't anyone see me for the shit I am? Why is everyone so forgiving? When people are so beautiful, I could almost feel beautiful myself. At the ashram two days ago, a woman gave me a rose picked before it could bloom, and that's the tragedy, the human tragedy: that most of us die before we attain anything real, and my personal life drives this sad pseudo-reality home, and cries, "No hope, no hope, no hope," and yes, it's a lie, but it's so hard not to believe sometimes.
My personal life: like an anger disease, spreading pain and misery all across the planet.
My personal life: like the hatred towards me I inspire in everyone I come in contact with.
My personal life: like a lesson in how to fuck over everybody through dishonesty, indecision, and poor planning.
My personal life: like perfect stupidity, like purgatory, like pure poverty, like "Can I borrow more money from the few who will still talk to me?"
My personal life: semi-insane, semi-homeless, and no, I don't have a number I can be reached at, and besides, you don't really wanna talk to me anyway.
My personal life. My pathetic personal life: crying, sniveling, stupid, stupid, stupid. Why do I do these things? Why do I behave so always, so badly? When will I be punished? How come no one stays mad? Why doesn't anyone see me for the shit I am? Why is everyone so forgiving? When people are so beautiful, I could almost feel beautiful myself. At the ashram two days ago, a woman gave me a rose picked before it could bloom, and that's the tragedy, the human tragedy: that most of us die before we attain anything real, and my personal life drives this sad pseudo-reality home, and cries, "No hope, no hope, no hope," and yes, it's a lie, but it's so hard not to believe sometimes.
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