Diary of a Nymphomaniac

Do-doom, do-doom—the base drops in the background. "Peep-peep-peep," the electronic pitch cuts through like the a razor wire—the rave, the chomp, the murmur, the drowned rebel yells, clicking of heels—martini glasses for the ladies against the Bud bottles, licking their lips clean of sweat and testosterone. Do-doom, do doom—I'm the chaos, and I type, the world drowned in the beat—a mean boss bitch inside—out. In the zone.