So, I believe i'm a sensible person.
You see, I don't like pain.
I'm not too big on blood, either.
Its not that I pass out, or I hate it, or its disgusting.
It gets on my clothes, and it pisses me off.
You stab me, my first words are:
'Red does not mix with purple, you stupid fuck!'
pain and I don't get along,
a'cause pain is your brain saying
"Yeah, that thing you're doing? Is fucking you up. Stop."
and so I stop, as soon as possible.
The whips, the chains, the razors, the bottle openers, the glass.
All of that stuff, that novelty and that crude stuff,
just irks me.
irk
You can defend it all you want,
and bring up all your statistics, and magazines, and experiences.
It'll still all irk me.

Now I have a vice myself,
and right now I wish I was drunk.
Drunk, right off of my ass.
Shitfaced. Done. Wasted. Totally gone. Strikin' up a conversation.
The difference between my hobby and pain is that my vice is a depressant.
It won't cause sharp, stinging pains and it won't leave any exterior marks.
It may ruin my liver, and it may reroute my brain,
but there is another difference between my vice and yours.
I would give up MY vice in an instant if you dropped yours.
Serious.
No lie.
Not a fan of my drinking? Stop cutting and I stop drinking.
Not a fan of my drinking? Put down those cuffs and hang up your 'wardrobe', and i'll stop drinking.
Ooooh, not too keen on seeing me quit now, are you?
Sad.

I can quit whenever I want to- I just don't want to. I want a reason.
Give me a reason to.
Give up yours and i'll give up on mine.
Just one friend- just one aquaintance that has a problem, and i'll give my problem up
For that ONE person.
Not too keen on seeing me quiet now, are you?
Sad.

I'm pretty lucky, in many areas, I suppose.
I've never had any broken bones,
or much permenant damage.
I have a long cut down my chest, I don't know how it got there.
I cut my neck a few times, and I never noticed.
This messy blood just gets on my clothes and my keyboard,
and i get obsessed over the mess instead of the wound.
I sit here and i shed tears for the living,
because the living go through more grief than the dead.
I want to be a tool- I want to be utilized, to aid somebody.
To stop someone else drinking, stop someone else bleeding, stop someone else screaming.
I want to be used for the good of someone- I actualy want to be used .
I don't want to be used to tear into someone, or to make someone scream.
I want to be used to wrap a wound, I want to be used to hold someone close.

Me, the young little philisophical drunk- use me for good.