Living like I do. I can't feel my face part deux. Got sucked into a culture, living like I do. Spinning by the hour, living like I do. Can't make ends meet, living like I do. This life will turn you sober, living like I do. As the tension builds, names fly. The sky is spinning, the room is talking and you're on display. People like you don't walk in here, sit down, order a burger and shut up. No, it's a full on show from door to dusk. It's free champagne and smoking inside, because you're you. They're all staring, eyes-wide shut.
You live for the show. Teen sociopath. West Coast ghost. Hair tired from bleaching, eyes tired from not sleeping. We're all skin and bones, losing our cell phones. High on hunger from morning to midnight. Fries are only okay if they come with champagne, and cigarettes are only good if they're making someone else uncomfortable. Wake up in a leather jacket, sleep on the sofa, shake in the shower. Piss them all off. It's all a show, and you're suffering in the performer's skin. Is it normal to feel this alive and dead at the same time? Is it normal to get this high and this low in one day? I have no clue. I'm swinging from Venice to Hollywood and I can't remember the car ride. The music is so loud, the cigarette smoke is so thick. I'm staring at my thigh gap listening to Iggy Azalea. Inside the duration of her song, I feel alive. I am every lyric, screaming at the top of my lungs in Los Angeles traffic. Hollywood and Highland, turn signals, lights, people, houses and flashes of sound. The song stops, and suddenly I fall back into my body, blonde and boney as I was before.
i can't feel my face book by Kris Kidd
shakuhachi boots by Neoprene
hat by nasty gal
lost sweater by wildfox couture