I'd rather be a cack-eyed awkward knob than you, for all your perfect teeth and hand-jobs. I'd rather be the silently resentful, weird one than the backslapped, chest-poking young gun. For every moment you've had of adolescent bliss, I've spent ten regretting everything I've missed. For every stroke, every goal, every glance and kiss, there were blows, failure, mockery and less. Yet I'd rather be me. You preening, dumb tool. You vacuous, confident, ignorant, poor dumb tool. Who wants to be me? No-one. You? They sell magazines with how-to guides. People shell out money, jog, get surgery, but mainly just dream of the day they will be more like you. Grass green, never greener, grows over the fence between us. They didn't break the mould when they made you, mate. That mould was mass-produced. Does it grate that on every corner and every bar, there's you? You have never said one thing completely new, not thought one thought not thought before. You Cleo Mag, Channel V, As-Seen-On-TV bore. You schoolkid's idea of bliss. You teen idol, package, construct, robot, product, lackey, baggage. I would rather be me, despite my self-disappointment. I would rather be me because of that disappointment. I would rather be me, unknown, bent, weak and poor. I would rather be me, with every mistake and flaw. I would rather be me, because in the whole universe of us, in the galaxies of people, in the glowing incalculable nimbus, you provide the great system with nought, whilst, from afar, burning, lonely, and nearly invisible ... I, a star.   --TISM

  WHAT'S IN A NAME?

  DEAD INSIDE THE CHRYSALIS

  TABS AND SHEET MUSIC

  NAFF ART

  FRIENDS AND PHOTOS

  LINKS

  EMAIL ME

ICQ# 20918379