What This is About.

This is about when you fall asleep at night, and you never wake up. And no matter how many times they plug you into the wall and recharge you, they can't bring you back to life.

This is about when they keep trying to dig into your brain to speed up your internal processing unit.

This is about when you would rather cry because of the tragedy of your greatest love story, of the world's greatest love story, than stop feeling.

This is about when you love the broken things, and they keep beating you to the ground until you admit that you denounce the flawed, and that you confess you only worship the perfect. Even though you never did think these things. Until you couldn't think of anything but wanting the pain to stop.

This is about when your hard drive is broken and you can't remember the first time your father promised he wouldn't hit you again. When you can't remember your first memory.

This is about when you never got over the girl who said that one thing in that one place when you were ten. Or the first boy who called you fat in middle school.

This is about night terrors, showers when you're half asleep, and praying to your own version of Steve Jobs.

This is about your first bra fitting, the kid who proposed to you in preschool, and dreams about girls when you're supposed to like boys. Youre nOT followinG the PRogram. The owner's manual doesn't apply to you anymore, and honestly, you couldn't care less about the goddamn owner's manual. Let the next guy figure you out himself, like boys have to figure out girls. Like girls have to figure out what they're "supposed" to look like based on fashion magazines and the world wide web.

This is a criticism of the robot race. This is a criticism of mankind and how "far" we've come.

This is about therapists ("and how do you feel about that?"), about learning to walk in high heels, and having to brush your teeth.

Or maybe it's not about you having to brush your teeth.

Maybe it's about me having to brush mine.