please don't confront me with my failures

too drunk to fuck, too honest to lie, too tired to write. writer's block is slowly killing me. the skin on my left thumb is cracked open and i'm sick of life. at least i'm leaving in less than a week, i'll ride doubledecker buses all the way through my youth, forget all about the snowy streets and tired jokes, i'll quote oscar wilde and hope that no one realizes what i'm doing, that everyone thinks i actually come up with these witty comments as i go, i'll sing and dance and live under the influence, and i'll manage when sober, the books i read will never be finished because once finished they're in the past and i'd like to stay for as long as i possibly can, in due time i will know the ballad of reading gaol by heart, i'll spraypaint all the grey into black, if i can i'll write a book that will change absolutely no one's life except perhaps my own, when i feel like it i will stop listening and start imagine things in my head, i'll drink too much coffee, i don't care if it's good or if it's bad, maybe i won't get alzheimers maybe i will get cancer, i'll never read the newspaper except when i'm on the train and if someone decides to discuss recent events i'll just act as if i know what they're talking about, i'll be right in front at gigs and i'll push my way up to the singer if i have to and then i won't know any of the lyrics, i'll just be there, drunk and fucked up, and when i come home i won't go to sleep because i'll write stupid blog posts, and i won't trust anybody, not even my closest friends, because god knows people are cunning and everyone might just be waiting to stab my back, and i'll listen to conor oberst and think he knows my pains and sufferings simply because he writes sad songs because he does too much drugs, and i'll romanticise peter doherty even though the magazines call him junkie and my mother says he's gross and he might seem like a douchebag but he writes amazing poetry, he really does, and i'll still be addicted to facebook even though it makes me stressed, and if you're still reading this text you're worthy of a big round of applause, too bad there's no one there to hand it to you, and in my head i'll always be the heroine while in reality i'm not even the heroin, when i let my hands go they always write this shit, i have no idea what i just wrote, and this will be the end of it. when rock 'n' roll is dead where the fuck will i put my hopes and trusts and dreams and longings?