Happiness is a Warm Gun




I suppose my story is a long one.
Do you really want me to tell it?
Really?

O.k.

Well, I lived on a farm. I am the youngest of four children.
Two sisters and a brother.
I havenít spoken to them in years.
Itís not really a loss.
They remind me of what I left in the first place.

My mother was a victim to the era.
The 30ís, 40ís, 50ísÖ
Bad time to be a woman.
My father, well, what can I say about my father?
He did things to me and my sisters.
So when he died, a few years back, I couldnít care less.

Moved to Washington D.C. in the 70ís.
Got into my gig for money.
Got degraded a bit, yeah,
But I wasnít meant for astrophysics, you know?
The johns paid, lots of drugs, and I like sex.

I ran into some pretty prominent men.
Youíd be surprised who is in my little black book.

People always go at me with God this and God that.
What I do, what I am is a sin...
Blah blah.
I think God is really not for me.
Iím for me, you know?
I got myself through the shit so I depend on me.
Now Iím working for high end people.
You wouldnít believe some of these men.
People think I am in the objectified position?
Not with men who like to wear diapers, you know?

So, yeah, I canít say I am too ashamed of my story.
And fuck feminists who yell at me for misrepresting woman
There are a lot of forms of woman I am a woman.
Iím me, you know?

So thatís really it, I suppose.
Thatís about all I can say.
Talk to you all later.




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