Radical Honesty, with a pinch of Plagiarism

I'd, at this juncture, prefer to write something on my own, but seeing as this blog is public, and I don't really want to put myself out there (despite what it may seem to you), I'm going to take this opportunity to post Snow Patrol's Make This Go On Forever, because it's a really really nice song.

Please don't let this turn into something it's not
I can only give you everything I've got
I can't be as sorry as you think I should
But I still love you more than anyone else could

All that I keep thinking throughout this whole flight
Is 'it could take my whole damn life to make this right'
This splintered mast I'm holding on won't save me long
Because I know fine well that what I did was wrong

The last girl in the last reason to make this last for as long as I could
First kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything
The weight of water, the way you taught me to look past everything I had ever learned
The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love

We have got through so much worse than this before
What's so different this time that you can't ignore?
You say it is much more than just my last mistake
And we should spend some time apart for both our sakes

The last girl in the last reason to make this last for as long as I could
First kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything
The weight of water, the way you taught me to look past everything I had ever learned
The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love

The last girl in the last reason to make this last for as long as I could
First kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything
The weight of water, the way you taught me to look past everything I had ever learned
The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love

And I don't know where to look
My words just break and melt
Please just save me from this darkness
Please just save me from this darkness

return trip. ohgodd.

we live. and then we leave.
we are part of someone else's scenery.
you make friends and then they disappoint you.
and then you make new friends.





home, has never been so saddening to return to.

I look over at him, slouching as if draped over the side of a chair like a roll of fabric. With the headphones plugged in, nothing will matter, as long as the legs tap rhythmically, as long as the throat silently hums and the fingers play frenetic chords, riffs,
Whatever.

And I think to myself, that I am so very stupid.

Did I say that I loathe you, that we should leave all this behind? So much more. In flashes of white hot anger I have hurled words that, in retrospect, have sounded so childish that I both laugh and cringe at myself.

I’ve always longed for a lover who would double up as my best friend when I needed one, and a sibling for when I needed someone to look out for me. To grow up as a single child may have its perks of a large inheritance and whatnot, but it makes for a lonely childhood. Especially lonely, in fact, when you were a fat lonely kid with tall, skinny neighbours with far too many friends. While all the others were away hopping on bouncy castles that I wasn’t allowed because of my girth, I began to read.

Voraciously.

And as I read I made up worlds – fanciful portals that led to complicated lands.

And then, like God, I created my Adam.

He was so tall and so wonderful, with a crinkly smile and crooked teeth. He would have strong arms that I could melt in, a rich wonderful voice. He would ask me about my favourite things, naturally some things we would love alike, some we would have a mutual distaste for, and the things we did not agree upon we would debate hotly but reconcile in the end, for that is what lovers do.
It’s just what all young lovers do.

I reach up to your nose, and I’m as tall as you if I stand on tiptoe.
You cannot sing, not even if you tried.
I could lift you up if I wanted to. I think.
The way your jeans threaten to fall off while mine cling on like second skin-in a minute I’m reminded of my fat kid past and it scares me and saddens me to see your friends with those skinny bombshells with matching-clothes-shoes-handbags-accessories. They never have bad hair days. Days of crippling self doubt and days where calories must be counted but they aren’t for fear you have eaten too much – so much that you will explode and never be heard of. They have longer legs and thinner arms and t-shirts that flatter their every curve and hide their every flaw. Not that they have any of course.

I am rendered inadequate in every measure and I wonder why you would even like me. Me, with the hair that flies off in different cardinal directions on any given day of the week. Myopic me, I’m prone to spells of superciliousness and bouts of anger. I bite my nails and I cannot stand defeat.

And I am short. Not lissome and wispy like I should be. I once spent an entire month listening only to Flo Rida’s Right Round. I cannot dance and if I do I look like a spastic monkey, no offence to spastic monkeys.

And I am jealous, so very jealous, that every time you treat another girl the way you treat me, in spite of myself I am stabbed with a pinprick that is sharp and painful but mostly shameful.

But like a favourite song you make me forget and you make me discover.

With every word I scream I know I push you away. I know that one day you may no longer return.

But overlaying everything is fear. That no one will ever understand me the way you do. I am afraid that one day someone smarter and prettier and less blustery will take you away and make you work less and appreciate you more.

Appreciate you I do, in my mind more than I say it loud for reasons unknown. All my swagger and all my bravado, all the things that I say about how I would be better off without you – they would collapse if you leave. Even though you should be loved more.

I know how stupid I sound. What anyone would say if they saw this. That if I know all of this, then why don’t I?

Because, you see, I am so very stupid.

So stupid that I would do anything to rebuild the things I break down over and over again, in the hope that one day, I’ll learn to not demolish things that aren’t meant to be broken.

And everyday I promise you that this will be the last time I hurt you; everyday I meticulously prove myself to be a liar, again and again and again.

Like The Boy Who Cried Wolf, I shall become The Girl Who Cried Love, and karma will smile silently.

As much as I am afraid that no one else will ever understand me, I am afraid that you don’t understand me.

Just as I am terrified that I don’t know you at all.

You want a mature relationship. With a friend who turned out to be more. I don’t know where you got your calm from, I missed the lessons I should have learnt about patience. I am a hypocrite so worried about losing my identity with you that I don’t see how I’m forcing you into a mould.

And for every one of these things I am sorry. You are your own person just as I am mine. You deserve someone who appreciates you for all that you do. For all that you are. Someone that probably isn’t me.

But should you ever feel like you want to settle, I’ll still be here. Stupid, stupid me.

A day in the exciting life of.. well, not me.

This World Cup is becoming the weirdest one yet.
You know what's weird? Almost every single football player is hot. Seriously. Exceptions abound, you know, like Carlos Tevez, Peter Crouch, and the entire United States team. I don't get it. How can one ENTIRE team be so bad-looking? Have you seen Dempsey's face? He looks like a bush-baby. A very tall bush-baby.
Ick I say.

Toy Story 3 releases on the 25th of June. I have not been so excited since I found out that a thing called Mulan 2 existed. Eeeeeeeeeeee.
The only major thing I've done till now is made a decision to grow out my hair again. That is all.

Your Royal Sighness.

I've never counted years from the 1st of January, because the start of academic years have always been the greater deal - and when I think about how far (both literally and metaphorically) I've come in one year, I surprise myself.
2009 started off with my mother asking me to not crash and burn at the ISCs, and I tried, I really did, to not crash and burn, because believe it or not, I do have standards for myself. But ISC studies was one of the toughest phases to get through, even though I did enjoy Science - I adored Biology but that was about it. I thought I understood Physics but didn't, Chemistry was a disaster and Math was an even bigger disaster. Hindi was a waste of time, and English was the only other thing I enjoyed. So studying for the ISC was a terrible, terrible chore. Lord knows how I got through it. The exams themselves were strange, and Math and Physics reduced me to craziness. While I was glad the exams were over, I knew I had crashed and burned. Biology was a paper unlike what we'd predicted for ourselves, but it was my THING.
Once the ordeal of the Boards were over, it was time for the Eeeeeeeeeee-ntrances to begin, and the days I got to study for those I spent reading Kinsella and Cabot chick flicks on my laptop. No, I don't know what I was thinking. The medical entrance was a waste of time, my excuse being that, hey, people study two years for it, what chance do I have? The AIEEE was a waste, because, hey, people study two years for it, what chance do I have? Escapist, you're thinking. Escapist, I was.
By some freak stroke of luck, I got a shot at the VIT counselling, I'm guessing that's because they don't mark you negative on your wrong answers. Er. Yeah.
While everyone was gearing up for moving away from home for college, I was gearing up to move away from the city I'd grown up in. After a whirlwind of goodbyes and Glubclubbing, I was out of Calcutta and into Chennai, with probably the worst case of withdrawal symptoms anyone's ever had.
Shifting from Chennai to college was something that my parents kind of forgot about in the flurry of moving from Calcutta to Chennai, and I went to college with one suitcase of clothes and absolutely no clue.
College was weird, because the first month went by and I was still pretending to be on a camping trip. It didn't hit me that I was out of the house. I would never live there full time. I was out of school.
I didn't have to tie my hair for class anymore. I didn't even have to GO for class if I didn't want to. I wasn't under mother-surveillance anymore, except for phone calls that I could avoid and vaguely say - "Classes, um, warden er.. yeah, okay dinner, bye." It meant I had to eat my own fruits. It meant I had to use an alarm clock for the first time in my life. I could stay up and stay in for as long as I wanted. Freedom was strange. And college was strange.
Making friends was harder than I thought, and making friends with girls was just harder than anticipated. Once you ran out of stories from your past, you tend to discover that you really share nothing in common, that they've never heard the bands you've heard, that you're essentially done with the interaction and dinner's going to be just you. Again. And the food isn't that great either.
But somewhere down the line, we all learn to make compromises (and stop wishing for ways to move into the boys hostel because let's face it. Boys are kind of really disgusting anyway.). You make friends, sort of. You learn to stop being so angry. You learn to stop singing out loud except in the shower, and you are pleasantly surprised when your room mate likes a song, and it feels nice. You let yourself loose without meaning to and it doesn't feel too bad. You learn to stop being disgusted by and embrace the innuendo.
And you kind of start enjoying it too.
It's been one hell of a year, and I won't be sanctimonious enough to say that I wouldn't change a thing. I'd have appreciated it if I'd at least TRIED to study in Class 12. I could've convinced the parents to take my SATs a little more seriously.
Things could have been different, but this is my version of different, the one I've chosen.
I could complain but I've complained enough and now I'm just going to work on this version of different, so when I write about myself next year, I can try and say that this is the best different I could have been.

If you're wondering about the oddly hopeful tone at the end, it's called self-improvement.
I'm tired of being bitter.

The look on your face, was delicate.

I never want my life to be like a Damien Rice song. I'm afraid of pain and loneliness and regret, but I never want it to be so wispy and wistful that each moment of it is heartbreaking in so many different ways.
I want my rage to be fast, to be angry, to be wild and to be over with. Grudges are scary, the ones you harbour in your heart for so long, with all those layers of stealth that you wrap it in with, and then sooner or later you will release it, when I'm vulnerable, when I let down my guard. You make me never want to relax.

Now why would you do that?

Like when I forget you, and I forget you exist, I forget the things you say that I used to remember. And then you come rushing back to fill my synapses and bloodstream, suddenly my hair's a mess and my clothes matter, but mixed with the self-doubt there is the elation that you'd rather be here than anywhere else.

Maago.

Kichu blog korar nei.
Aar kichu bolar nei.
Aamar phone charger haariye geche.
Aamar braces Wednesday theke.
Aamar jibon ekta dukho-r golpo, bujhle?

If you think about it, sir, maybe it was self-defence after all.

I saw him for the first time and it was just confusing, you know. He
was newborn then. I should have been happy, like those other
teary-eyed pussies outside the maternity ward too conscious to smoke
cigars to kill the tension. He was newborn then. Kicking squealing
bundle of frigging joy. The nurse who brought him in had a nice ass.
That's all I saw. Then I saw him, that bloody slimy oozing noise
machine. Rat-like face, albino-rat, mind you. Fuzzy downy hair. I
wanted, I wanted to carry him like the lions did, by the scruff of his
neck. God he was so disgusting.
Now don't go thinking I'm a psychologically depraved fuck of an excuse
of a human being, no. My other kid, he loved me. He's a real boy. They
say he took after his mother, they lied. He was mine, I saw him and I
saw me. My heart beat for him. My boy he was. My son. See? That's
normal enough, innit? Normal as normal can be.
But when Junior-Junior came along, I saw them all in the first moment
in the white light of the cheap hospital wing with yellow peeling
walls. The idiotic grin on my wife's face, god, she looked so proud to
have birthed that monster and my son. That little kid looking on so
adoringly from the sidelines. Like a donkey in a Nativity play looking
on at the runty little Jesus, I don't hate God, now officer, don't put
that down in your records, it was, it was a metaphor. I was being
literary. My son went from lead actor to understudy in that one
second and my heart bled for him.
No, no.
That's not when I snapped.
I'm not an animal.
I put my best false face, my best pretend grin. I pretended to like
that tufty little thing.
As he grew chubbier and cuter, I didn't mind him so much anymore.
He was so darned cute, putting things in his mouth when he shouldn't,
pooping in his little white pants, and giggling all the time. Like a
puppy.
Who doesn't like puppies?
My wife, god, she was an indecisive cunt though. Told me I had to love
my kids, now she tells me, "Larry", she says. "Larry, you can't
neglect Junior. He needs you too."
The fuck he needed me. He was grown-up. He was old. JJ was YOUNG. It
was simple, but Junior didn't understand.
"Larry", she said, "You gotta learn to divide your love, both your
little boys need their father."
I stayed awake that night thinking about that.
The fat bitch was right.
But I couldn't just divide my love like that. Love's precious, y'know?
Not a slice of pie, not Lola the neighbourhood whore, that slag's gone
around more than a hash-filled cupcake at Woodstock. I'm not a
love-whore. I couldn't just tear off hunks of my love and just GIVE it
to people.
Love's sacred and unique like that, yeh? It's, it's exclusive like that, innit?
THAT'S when I snapped.
So you see, officers, that's why I killed them.
Junior doesn't talk cute anymore, and JJ doesn't giggle or poop in his
pants. I don't love either of them anymore. They're not even alive for
God's sake, what am I, a dead-person-lover, like those stoners down
Main Street who orgasming over Kurt Cobain?
That's my explanation.
Happy now, officers?
Can I have my phone call now?




(So I found this in the middle of a bunch of solved problems in my math register this morning and I had no idea where it came from. It's something I've never tried writing about so you'll have to excuse the novice-ness of it all.)

Chasing Cars and Chowringhee.

After a long while, I get to sit alone in my room because the room mates are at classes and I have half a load of labwork to finish, but I decided to make life a little better by playing some old Snow Patrol. I found an old backup data disc yesterday which had all my PDFs of Megan McCafferty, Sophie Kinsella and Meg Cabot, and I haven't been this distracted in a while, which is saying a lot these days. Undomesticated Goddess is one of the happiest books ever written, it makes me happy, but then it makes me sad to realise that to appreciate what Samantha did, I need to become a workaholic first, and I don't see that happening anytime in the near future.
My mum dropped by yesterday, it was the sweetest thing. She left behind sambar-rice and curd-rice, and a bottle of hot and sweet sauce, and I think I love her. :D
My backup disc also had a post that I'd written almost a year ago, in fact it's exactly a year since I wrote it, I think. In my opinion, it's the best thing I've ever written, but I will probably show it to no one because I'm afraid you'll think otherwise.
I miss being contemplative and quiet, the kid in the corner who used to blog a little too much. I miss writing for fun, and I would like to miss writing my lab journals because they are a waste of my time. I miss writing stories about wispy love and love gone sour. I miss writing about people with no names. I don't think I'll ever be capable of writing something oddly romantic again because I'm afraid of setting standards for myself. And I'm afraid of writing morbid things because I don't want them to come true. Although status quo isn't much to write home about either. So much for emotions setting you free and all that jazz.
I like angsty Snow Patrol better than cutesy Snow Patrol, or maybe it's just the mood I'm in. I miss my iPod. I miss Calcutta. It's one of those days again when I miss Calcutta. I know I'm going back but I'm never going back to what I left behind. All I will be returning to are empty cupboards and cobwebs. Part of me wants to go back, but if I go back, it will only serve to cement the fact that Calcutta is a phase that is most definitely over. School is over. Classes are over. The little store outside school where we ate like crazy are over. We know other people we're involved in other lives now. It will take me more than a year to deal with this. I want to go back I don't want to go back. Because people will have changed. Our lives have changed. In the long run it is for the best but it makes withdrawal symptoms harder.
I live in Chennai now. To say that sentence with conviction will take me a lifetime. I will live in any other city with more willingness than Chennai. It's not Chennai's fault, but I'm too egotistical to admit otherwise. No song reminds me of Chennai. No song will remind me of the streets I used to walk in the evenings and watch people play football. No clue to the way I could walk up to Sreeja and Harshita's houses. I can't do that anymore. We'll never be in the first row of school again. We'll never stare at balloons named Jeff Buckley II instead of listening to Chemistry.
Never say Never is a STUPID saying.
Never happens always. To deal with it is the hardest thing you'll put yourself through. I never understood cold turkey quitting in Shantaram, but I get it now. I used to be addicted to Calcutta I guess. I will probably not be able to define exactly why. Just the way I can never define why I love Snow Patrol so much.
But probably Lightbody and Landsdowne are more connected than you think.

Shameful loss, too soon, I say, too soon. :(

Sahana Srinivasan

Crushed to death by the sheer weight of protein biochemistry

A rather bad daughter, useless friend, jealous lover (heh!).

May she rest in peace.

God, I hate you. Or do I? Yes I do. Not. Gahhhh.

So I wish I had the balls to tell you - 

You are what is both wrong and right with/for me.

P.S. - This isn't about you. Just saying.

"YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE? YOU'RE A MEAN GIRL! YOU'RE A BITCH!"

Life is my Regina George and I am Cady Malloy.

One more day.

I can DO this.

ONE.

MORE.

DAY.

And I can go back to regular classes.

fuck biotechnology, i'm building a time-machine

I miss Calcutta.

Calcutta winters smell like home.

Calcutta was easier because there was only one parent.

One extremely mostly co-operative parent.

Another absentee phone parent.

Because there was carpet floor and fake Tibetan soup and orange streetlight glow under my window in December.

Because Harshita and Sreeja were always only one local SMS or about five minutes away.

And I saw most of my friend five times a week unless they were bunking. I didn't have to care about what to wear in the morning.

If my parents yelled I could only hear one of them. And I never had to hear the Ominous Revving of the Car and the Slam of the Door.

Loser hai hum.

From the time we've all been little kids, we've been fascinated by Christmas. It's one of those holidays that's gone beyond religion and into regular consciousness, and this year, there are no lights and there's no hoopla. Which really puts me off. My parents stopped giving me Christmas presents after they told me Santa doesn't exist, and after a point I stopped caring too, but I just really LIKE presents. Christmas is an excuse. I want to go to stores and make a list of people and put thought into it and all of that. I want fake/real snow and trala-lalala-lalala. I want Park Street, I want barbecue, I want a movie I haven't watched before and am guaranteed to like, I want to be less of a hermit tonight.

And I could really use an iPod, now that my cell phone has conked and I'm back again to the Nokia 1100. That phone is joining the list of things that'll survive the Apocalypse. Along with cockroaches, my cockroach-like grandmother, and Twinkies. 

Someone tell my grandmum to screw off, like, SERIOUSLY. She has to stop bonding with me, my head might explode. It might explode anyway, what with this retarded cold. But I just liked it better when she didn't give a flying fuck about me. Those were the days.

I'm mortally afraid I'm turning into a bitter bitch who can't stop waving her arms around, trying to gather attention with my mouth in a perpetual grimace. It's only fun to be antisocial when there are social events to be ignored. Right now I'm just a loser.

Abstinence and a Message in a Bottle

So I'm taking a trip for two days, and judging by the way I'm whining about this, you'd think they were sending me to boot camp. I have nothing against villages, hey, I go to college in one, but it's just, okay, there's my mum. And my dad. And my uncle. And my aunt. And my dad's mum. And my cousin who is three and very screechy and is cute, but seriously?

I'm going to be grown up about this, indeed I am. I'm going to a temple of great architectural beauty, get my future mapped out, bond with my family (Oh snap), and be happy. I have a book and a notepad in my backpad, a discman in it too (I know, so 90's,  but I don't have an iPod), and the Snow Patrol-Pearl Jam discography to keep me going. 

So it's going to be okay. 

Please let it be okay?

Went back to the Wordpress blog today and it was snowing. Reading my old blogs make me all weird. I watched some show called Jonas on the Disney Channel today, my god, why is everything so colourful these days? All bubble-gum-pastel, ohmy. My mild revulsion towards our inefficient postal system is snowballing again. I'm making no sense. I really don't want to go.

Oh wait. Dinner.

Okay I'm out. Wish me luck, send me texts. 

I hate my family and I want to run away and live in the woods.

OH SHIT

My laptop won't boot anymore. The reason I still have internet is because I'm using Opera and fixed line connection at the Chennai Home, and the second I get back to the hostel I won't have internet. Unless the IBM people fix it tomorrow. Which I doubt they will.
So I is fucked.
DAMMMMIIIITTTTTTT.

"I got secrets in my garden shed, I got people underneath my bed"

Arre, exam shuru ho gaya hai.

I had a hysterical, nervous breakdown in Computer Lab today. Like several of my more human moments, I would prefer to NOT TALK ABOUT IT. I'm serious.

I studied Chemistry (fuggyoo) for like, five hours today, and just when I was beginning to simultaneously disappoint and astound myself, I suddenly got up, and went "Dhur saala" and I came online.

Sanity prevails. Satyanarayan Bhagwan ki Jai ho. (Hey, I only said it because my Hindi teacher once said this, and it's so quotable, y'know?)

My room mates are all under the impression that I have OCD because I clean my space twice a day and more.

They think it's cute and adorable and borderline maniacal.

I think it's necessary.

There is a box in my corridor near the dustbin. It is a nice large carton. It has Pan America labelled all over it.

It's not mine.

The Durbhash Communication Theory -

At any given moment, there will be an average of three people roaming the fourth floor corridor of F-Block giggling and mumbling into their cellphones.

Corollary -

This is a confirmed phenomenon on all corridors in the nine-storey building.

Corollary -

Hell, it probably happens all over the damn Girls' Hostel.

Even the ugly chicks get doods. Yeh kya nainsafi hai.

Ex-Friend owns a pair of Hanuman-tika colour ballet flats.

O.O

I know, right? ZOMFGWTF moment.

Sometimes, you just want someone to hug you, you know? Like, inconsequentially. Like this-is-the-beginning-and-the-end it's-going-to-be-okay-why-you-so-hyper-you-crazy-little-fool-it'll-be-fine-here-have-my-arms-now-collapse-into-them-please.

A real life boyfriend would be nice to have I am thinking, you comprehend?

"The moment that you stepped into the room you took my breath away"

There are wilted roses in my room, stuck in a bottle of drinking water, and the scarlet is slowly curling to crusty black.

In Calcutta on Valentine's Day everyone would rush to buy overpriced roses, the flower-lady would twist up two blown roses with scattering pollen and pointy thorns in aluminium foils with a sprig of Gypsies.

I miss Gypsies. I miss the vagabond look of their tiny flower heads and the lime green of their stalks.

I miss how Gypsies make me happy, like a happy song, a good book, a quilt in the cold, or a nice long conversation about nothing in particular that makes you laugh.

I want Gypsies. Like, right now.

I want to sink my face into a huge, hulking mass of them.

Even though they smell of nothing in particular.

"Love Lies Bleeding in My Hand"

So you know what? The idea of a boyfriend pisses me off a tad.
I mean seriously.
R2 has an ex she has not gotten over since forever, and even though he's made it quite clear that they're O-V-U-R (I refer of course, to Kath and Kim), she will not and is physically incapable of not talking about him.
R3 is going out with someone in her class. And they just started going out yesterday so she will not and is physically incapable of not being able to grin and hop and skip and re-enact scenes. It's dinner AND a show.
R4 is single. But she doesn't care. (No, I do not refer to myself as R4, R4 is an actual another person.)
R5 is practically married and R5 spends all her time on telecommunication devices. (This isn't me either, she's another person also.)

Me?
I'm a cynical bastard who is physically incapable of sneering at all romantic stereotypes.
I've never had an ex so I do not know what it's like to be hung up on someone, and frankly, I think I'm kind of over the waiting-and-wishing-for-Johnny-Depp-to-wake-up-and-notice me thing.
I'm not going out with someone in my class. Even if I had a lobotomy, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest style, I would not consider going out with any of those horny bastards. They're just too much fun to actually care about.
I am not single either, neither am I practically married. Rather, I am both, but then again, you know what? I'm neither also.
So that brings us down to the singular realisation that I, R1, am a cynical bastard.
I scoff at stories of roses delivered across seven seas.
I do not melt at songs that typically make a group pair up and sigh and dance.
But, but, but, don't label me heartless just yet, you know what, I do have a heart. (I'm going to not refer to anything for a while here).
I DO have a heart. I do *clap* I do.
The kind that makes me want to stalk Gary Lightbody.
The kind that makes me spend nothing on myself for two months so I can spend 800/- on Indiapost.
You know that thing that sometimes aches (only when I have a cold, but then I guess it's the phlegm and not the heart, but I'm not erasing this because it makes me poetic) and reminds me that I'm human. You know, because sometimes parents will not understand, and you just want a best friend you can kiss.
And this THING, this stupid black stone heart, it reminds me that one day I'm going to die.

Tell me you'll remember me.
Tell me you thought I was the awesomest person you ever knew. And I'll wave a little fire spark your way from Hell, which is where I'll be.