Hold On

They say we should 'keep holding on'. The only thing that piece advice reminds me of,

would be that awful song that Avril-I'm-so-angsty-and-I'm-so-different Lavigne wails in.

I understand that cliched like entirely. I see the merits of saying it to someone who's about to jump off a cliff.

I find its usefulness and practicality questionable, though.

What am I expected to hold on to? And why on earth would i want to KEEP holding on to something I don't even know I want to hold on to?

If we revert to the example I gave a moment ago, I would say these words of advice make perfect sense.

If Tom decides to jump off a cliff, and decides in the last minute he could overcome the countless problems he's been constantly encountering in his hopeless life,

he could 'keep holding on'.

Maybe to the edge of the cliff, if he had uber cool Neo-from-Matrix kind of lightning fast reflexes.

Or maybe to a tuft of grass, though it wouldn't be of much use. He'll pull the grass out by its roots, and down he goes.

A big Tom-mess on the ground beneath him.

So much for the word 'Keep' in the 'holding on' phrase eh?

But I do find those 3 words very useful sometimes, though.

When the world is just a big fat problem in the equation. When the people around you are downright nasty, which is pretty much ALL the time.

You just lash out. Hit them with your fist. The more noses you break, the better.

Reach out to them, and claw whatever you can reach.

Let the world know what you think of the world.

Yes, let it all out.

And the beauty of it all?

You get to KEEP HOLDING ON to that hate and anger.

Let it pour in a cascade, let your soul drown in it. Make sure the people around you smell its presence.

Let everyone FEEL your pain until they can remember it in their sleep.

Keep holding on to that grudge. Pull every hateful bone in your body, and let it seep through your bloodstream. And boil. And seethe.

Until it all ends.

You can still hold on after that.

Holding a grudge from the grave, (As a very popular horror movie has taught us) is extremely effective on the people who still happen to be alive.

Keep holding on.

Keep Holding On - Boyce Avenue


Hate the song. But these guys make a little more bearable. I seem to have developed a taste for Youtube covers of mainstream pop songs.

To My Love

Sweetie,

You shouldn't try to be nice and perfect all the time. I see through it. It's obvious really. You're just as messed up as everyone else. You love to be called sweetie, but honestly, are you all that sweet? I say it to be polite, but calling you "bitter" or simply "ugh" would be far more accurate. You are vengeful, you are selfish, you are a simpering hypocrite. I'm getting you a mirror for your birthday, sweetie. 'cause you're so pretty. And 'cause you need to see the adder you are underneath it all. You're welcome.

Honey,

Stop using those dulcet tones. I know what you're implying underneath all those caramelised words. You hate me. You always have. You only put up with me because you're too cowardly to do anything more than stab me with a blunt object behind my back. It's a wonder you manage to keep that sunny disposition after punching a hundred different holes in my spinal cord per minute. I have stopped adding honey to my afternoon cup of Earl Grey. I'll drink it plain. Black tea. Funny, even after taking the honey out of the equation, honey, the black tea reminds me more of who you really are. The black widow. Or just simply, the colour black, the shadow, the darkness. Just pure evil. There you go, honey. Taste your own brand of simple sugars.

Darling,

Oh, quit trying to pretend that you're all pleasant, reasonable and understanding. Those three words don't suit you at all. In fact, it would be an insult to you. You're nasty, you never hesitate to show it. If someone was standing at the edge of the cliff contemplating suicide, you would just push them off it while texting your girlfriends about the biggest thing in fashion right now. You file your nails to make the look pretty. You paint them red to look pretty. Nobody realises, being the darling you are, you scratch with those nails. Nobody realises, you never used any nail polish. The red nails came to be after you drew far too much blood from far too many victims. You've been scratching my back for a long time. Injecting your acidic venom into my torn flesh. You've been nurturing that festering boil in my derriere, and bursting it at the most opportune time. You rub dirt in it everyday, so that the oozing infection doesn't go away. The pus is the symbol of your love, darling. And the blood is your souvenir.

Oh, how I love you honey. You have been so sweet to me. If we ever get married, and have children together, God bless those innocent kids. Imminent death would be inevitable for them.

You called me today. Wanted to have dinner. Would love to. I would absolutely love to have dinner with my ultimate love. I'd have to pass though, 'cause your honey's laced with cyanide. 'cause you are the sweetie pie that's loaded with a wonderful concoction of fentanyl and barbiturates.

Call me again, darling.

I dare you.

My, you do hate me.

This isn't working.

I'm getting a restraining order.