silly song sequence

It’s ridiculous to continue talking about it, stupid to keep thinking about it, and completely insane to keep puncturing holes in your left ventricle; hoping that the pattern of the polka dot will alter the rhythm of the beats and somehow change the song. But I'm an idiot. I'm put together with brightly colored block pieces that only seem to look pretty in one particular configuration. God has obviously created an alternate reality for my personal life fashioned after a 1950’s twilight zone episode where the pride blind hero sits in a diner unknowingly telling his “one true love” that he refuses to choose her; and as she cries heartbroken and confused, he kisses her cheek, stands, takes a nickel from his pocket, and finds the perfect goodbye melody from the jukebox that tragically sets his scenario into infinite loop; and though I am starkly aware of how the sequence plays out, heart heavy and weary of seeing the same lesson present itself, and adult enough to understand that a person offering to sit quietly by your side and simply share in a meal is no small find in this loudly laughing world, still. . . I LOVE THAT SONG! And I will do anything to hear it again; even if it means slicing my wrists, cutting off my nose, removing my entrails from my gut, and kicking my boot into her face over and over and over again until I can hear the semblance of a melody that reminds me of a song that proves that someone somewhere once loved me. Who needs love when I have the song? To steal a device: Michael (who will have his turn soon. His time is far overdue; and the collection of words that will represent my thoughts will never due him justice; for I am just not that brilliant) was sitting with me in a diner the other day, and he said “Corey I think you are too fond of that song. Give him a chance. I would hate to see you find yourself alone when time runs out, and your thirty minute episode has come to a close.” And I couldn’t even hear him become the song was playing so loud. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because it’s never just one thing with me. No one ever understands. I'm always juggling so many double edged swords, and bouncing blue balls, and old flames, that to add a partner to the circus act would only double the chances of failure. So I juggle alone. I follow the beat of my own drum. And when and if (or if and when) I get hurt, it will be my fault . . . . and God’s. After all “If God is the DJ, Life is the dace floor, Love is the rhythm; you are the Music. You get what you’re given; it’s all how you use it!” And what if I was given the role of eunuch: the loveless, the sacrifice, the one who will have but will never find? I think I would be okay with that (because the song is so good). I think I could live (well) with that! And perhaps someday the machine will brake; my functions will fall apart; the girl will finally grow a pair of balls, become a boy, grow up, be a man, and do something other than just sit there! Or maybe I’ll stop being such a sadist and refrain from kicking beautiful people in the face for doing things that they don’t know they’re doing wrong in the first place… But It’s ridiculous to continue talking about it, stupid to keep thinking about it, and completely insane to keep puncturing holes in your left ventricle; hoping that the pattern of the polka dot will alter the rhythm of the beats and somehow change the song.