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Sebastyne

A rock fan. A thinker. A psychic empath and a channel, a Tarot reader. The lover of men, kings, and gods. An eternal romance analyser. A polyandrist. A romantic pervert. (A psycho-spiritual life coach.)

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Last night something happened that makes me care less

Trying to give people the credit they deserve, the love they deserve, and make them feel fantastic...

This was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back.

I wrote a comment on Nuno Bettencourt’s Facebook post, lamenting on how I keep hearing him and Joe Perry play together and tried to describe the sound by comparing Nuno to something¬†pristine and clean, and Joe to drunk, corrugated iron, and said that the contrast would sound so freaking amazing it has to be done. One of those angel-to-the-rescue-airhead-bimbos commented: “drunk, corrugated? Please!” completely missing the point, thinking I called Joe drunk and corrugated. Tells a bit about what she is trying not to see in Joe, much more so than what I was saying. So I reply to her: “the way his guitar sounds, silly.” And thought that would be the end of it…

I wrote a few things to the effect of “stop being such snowflakes, people” on Instagram, and somehow, that got me onto a huge rant on how I have to turn into a fucking bitch for people to believe what I say, but that everything that I say will be somehow magically interpreted completely the opposite to what I mean, because EVERYONE FUCKING LIES in this world. You say “I hate you” when you mean “I love you”, and you have to piss on people to make them feel appreciated, and the angrier and more fed up with people I get, the more certainly they hang onto me like I was their fucking savior. The more I adore someone, the more they go around me like I was infected with the Black Death… Nuno himself, included. I was the only one at his show who he didn’t even look at when the band came down to “give everyone a hug”… Everyone except me, that is. I was right there, and the only one noticing I was there was K-Fig, the man who I’ve been berating as “the K stands for Kosh-Kosh-Kosh-Fig” because I hate the over-use of cymbals that Paul was never guilty of. As I said. The less I like someone, the more they like me. I don’t hate K-Fig, he’s lovely. I just have an issue with his use of cymbals.

This feeling of “I have to treat everyone like shit and lie to them” got me to thinking that maybe I’ll just have to lie, maybe I’ll just have to succumb and treat “them” (my True Spirit Mirrors) as poorly as men expect women to treat them so they’ll know to trust my fucking love for them, but the idea of having to lie in order to be believed went so far over my limit of tolerance, that this Wrath came out of me, a ghost of hate, and I released a plague on this world, to attack everyone who has ever given me a bad name. Everyone who has ever contributed to the fact that telling the truth is not believed. “Tear the flesh off their bones!” I told it, “make them suffer inconceivable pain!” “Make their worst nightmares a reality!”

Sometime later, I told my love, that I’ll follow him to Hell, alright, after this lifetime, deserving to go to Hell, too. I’d make sure of it.

This is the price you pay for giving love a bad name.

If there’s an uprise of a terrifying epidemic¬†disease that looks a bit like a zombie virus that doctors cannot name nor cure, it’s not caused by pollution or a poison, it’s me.

 

I don’t care as much anymore.

It was important to them I don’t care. I will make them pay for that.

 



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I said

A man does his everything for the woman he loves except betrays his best friend.

Sebastyne

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