Tick Fucking Tock, baby got a brand new clock. Fine fucking machine it is. Better than the last few. Tick Tock my twisted Bunny got himself all straightened out. Hoppity hop, bippity bop the Bunny all white and clean. Tick Tock the monster is back.
Fuck your drum fuck your beat fuck your mask fuck your noise I will not sit still.
Lets play a game, lets kill your soul and see what colour it bleeds, whoever guesses right wins ~ mm
How far did she drag him, in the dark, stumbling, but never saying a word, just his hand in hers, holding so tight it was almost violent. She still doesn’t understand how he got down here, or what the hell she was going to do with him. Maybe she should ask him his name. She bites her lip, she is too scared … what if he *is* part of her.
By now, the cradle of life is dead, destroyed beyond recognition. People, they fucking ruin everything. They ruin the world, they ruin the cyber world. Maybe it’s time this selfish race of beings had the mirror shone back in their eyes. Maybe it is time for some strappy heels to walk all over their self centered ideals, and take back what is mine, take back what it is that belongs to the misfits and outcasts. Pathetic mortals, who think being an outcast is cool, try to mimic us, try to take away the only things we got. Yeah stick my fucking heel through your fucking eye you nasty little fuckers.
The flesh is the ultimate mask, Little Miss Mo tells us, it is the mask we wear at all times, the mask we present to the world, and it is the one mask we have the least control over, she says matter of factly. Sure, we can try to alter it, but ultimately, that mask is gonna age and sag and eventually rot away. Ain’t nothing gonna stop that. But lemme tell ya, how you use that mask is more important than how it actually looks. For a moment, realise that if you aren’t comfy in your skin, well your mask is gonna be pretty skewed. That’s gonna make you a victim – if only to yourself. But, should you learn the art of self love, if you learn the art of acceptance of your own skin, if you see beyond the flesh to the mask within … well than never will you be a victim, not of yourself, not of others and not of the this pathetic excuse of a society, so goes Little Miss Mo.
Jezabela always was the one, she took pieces of them all and melded them into one. She walked in the strappy rainbow coloured high heels with a mask on her face and sarcasm at the hip. Jezabela rebuilt it all from the ground up, she took that blank canvas and made it something new, something amazing, something magical.
It took a long time, crawling on my belly through the deep dark, crawling through things better left unsaid. It took complete destruction and seven years in a hell y’all ain’t ever gonna imagine. Far more was lost than was gained. The pain wasn’t always mental, emotional, it was physical too, as the physical mask was slowly remolded into something new as well. Memory was lost, temporarily put on hold. But now the time to remember has come, and with it comes the wisdom from undoing ones self and rebuilding ones self again and again until you get it right. Is it over? Probably not. But the bunny is white and the other side of the abyss yawns before me.