out of my mind

If happiness is a warm gun,

I’ll gladly take one in the head.

                You see, I’ve got this problem; it’s called a conscience. And it wouldn’t be such an issue if it weren’t so heavily comprised of everything this subliminal society is made of. If it would take a second to think before it makes me think, maybe we would find a middle ground. But we don’t.

                My conscience, the nasty little bastard that she is, has this amazing habit of just putting her two-cents in where it’s not needed (or wanted). If she would just shut up I could be happy. I could be excited. I could be something a lot more awesome than I am. But I’m not because my fucking conscience won’t shut the fuck up. She likes to fret over stupid things; “Ooh, are you sure you want to wear that?” and “I don’t know, what kind of person would that make you?” Shit like that. Shit that I, initially, don’t care about until she decides to say something about it. For once I would like to do what I’m going to enjoy, never mind if it’s instant or delayed enjoyment. I’ll make those choices for myself.

UGH.

I don’t know man, sometimes I just wish my conscience and I were not what I was made of. I am not my conscience. In fact, you are not your conscience.

…god damn it, I lost my train of thought.

Fuck.

Oh well, maybe I’ll just scan the black market for a frontal lobotomy.