WebMD entices me to be my own doctor
To locate the pain and navigate my brain
And come up with a clear diagnosis,
One that offers a pretty grim prognosis;
I work myself up into a tizzy
I grow nauseous, I get dizzy
Yet I have no medical degree,
Just trusty old WebMD
Which is conveniently free
Kinda like most new sources, you see
They feed us their agendas, sell us lies
And most of us wonder who’s stupid enough to buy
Yet it’s us who are the suckers
Who suckle at the teet of those fuckers
Religiously ascribing to a certain set of ways
So that in more than one way we pay —
Blood, sweat, tears, currency we don’t have —
To remain where we are — depressed, broken, sad.
—
I have to ensure that everyone else is okay
Otherwise, I have no choice but to join in the pain
Inflict wounds upon myself so that others can’t hurt me
Protect my well-being with metaphysical injury
Welcome in panic so it can bathe me clean
And throw myself in the scrapyard, cursed, broken-down machine
Others hurt, then hurt me, so what’s the harm in shortcuts?
Take the knife to my own wrists, slitting in the deep cuts
My brain takes me on a ride and alarm bells ring
Causing my body to shut down but my imagination to sing
To project the worst onto my reality
And give me a dose of life’s finality
A tough pill to swallow, but swallow I must
To make sure others see I hurt too, they can trust
See? No need to stomp me down when I’ve done the work for you
I’ll make sure I bleed or bruise or feel used or contract a flu
