Automatic Lover

Ok. It's late. I'm just staring at nothing or what I imagine is nothing until I'm finally moved to say, "As a general rule you shouldn't expect too much from people, darling," and then I kiss you on the cheek."You can't make me cry", you say blinking into the dark space in front of us-

"I am so tired of looking at that empty hole that's supposed to be your face-"

"A smart suit," you sigh. "Being buff. A cool haircut. Worrying about whether people think you're famous enough or cool enough or in good enough shape or . . . or whatever." You sigh, give up, stare at the ceiling. "These are not signs of wisdom, darling," you say. "This is the bad planet."

I can imagine that my virtual absence of humanity fills you with some sort of mind-bending horror. I can see it in your eyes. Tough. Rock'n'roll. It's too late now.

"I think that tonight will be my last...my last night. Okay, baby? I don't think I can do this anymore. I'm just so sick of feeling so...sad all the time and I can't...". I look at you and don't smile. "Fuck you-", I hear myself saying. Silence. Depeche Mode play "The Dead Of Night" too loud, somewhere. I smash your head in with the prized baseball bat. "You look great". I smile. "But now you're dead". Done. I check my watch. Guess i'm hungry. Good night, baby. Out.

Bret Easton Ellis Remixed. Shake it.