Keep salting the wound I'm close

i know cheating is bad but i'd like to thank it for what it has done for music & movie industry

What? WHAT? It's morning! I lost time, things got a little heated—With a boy. Things got HEATED with a BOY! I was at home picking lint off the sofa. I said to join us. The night's gone, the room's soiled and once again, I'm here, with mop and mindlessness to clean it up! So the room got dirty. So what? I'll clean it up—NO! I clean it up! YOU make the mess, and I clean it up. Mark it on the calendar, align it with Ursa Major; Louis' tri-annual FUCK OFF AND FIND ME with apologies to follow. I'm sorry. To seek comfort in the arms of lowlifes, and unfortunates, and broken children, fine—Oh, "fine." Fine. That doesn't sound like fine—BUT REVEALING OUR NATURE TO A REPORTER you met at a bar 10 hours ago! What if it was published? I was having some fun! We don't have enough to fear from Paris? I was in the middle of ending things when you—No, you'd have passed out on the floor next to him, Louis. Out on your feet from the drugs you stuffed him with! Oh, this is boring! You're boring! YOU ARE SO BORING! And here come the drugs; COLORLESS! Up the fangs, FLAVORLESS! Down the throat, Dull. Into the heart, Dull. And off the fingers, feet, and wallowing brain! Dull nights, dull weeks, dull months, dull as FUCK! Suffocation! By the world's softest, BEIGEST pillow. The 10 hours I spent with that boy were more EXCITING, more FASCINATING, than DECADES with YOU! Oh, there it is. The half-blank, half-apocalyptic look, but what does it mean tonight? Huh? Does he wanna lick my boots, or chop my hands off? Is it the gremlin or the good nurse tonight? Huh? Okay. Okay, perhaps. But am I as BORING as the BLATHER committed onto the FERRIC TAPES of your FASCINATING boy? "Oh! It's so—it's so hard to be me!" "Picking LINT off the SOFA?" "It's so hard to kill humans! I can feel their feelings as I drain them, Louis de Pointe du Lac—" There he goes again, coming home. "It's so hard being me!" You sat on your hands, and put your ears to the wind. "Everyone I know wrongs me!" Okay, okay, let's wake the boy up and let's try you. "I'm the vampire Armand and my daddy vampire groomed me into a little BITCH!" "My brother, he tossed himself off a roof. MY SISTER! She buried me alive!" "But the vampires that murdered my daddy made me pretend I didn't have a DICK for 240 years!" "My daughter was my sister was my throw pillow, when he wouldn't look at me kindly. Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat—" I talked shit about him the whole time! So what—THE NAME! THE NAME; UNUTTERED IN OUR HOME FOR 23 YEARS SAID OVER AND OVER AGAIN UNTIL IT WAS POUNDING IN MY BRAIN LIKE A HAMMER. Our problems aren't about HIM! And you threw HER name around just for cover but it always circled back to him. I loved her—BUT SHE DIDN'T LOVE YOU. Not like he did, not like I have. I know. I KNOW! Yes! I know! Thank you for saying it. It's all creeping back. Paris... And the, uh, what, what, what? What the—it's—all of it, coming back. There's, uh, Paris. Paris—hey, can you hear that? Can you hear that, hm? Can you hear her? Is she calling me?