I would rather have been shot straight-up in cold blood-but to be set up? By people who you trusted? That's bad.
Make me wanna kill myself, but I see death around the corner.
Don't cry through your dispair.
June 16, 1971, mama gave birth to a Hell rasing heavenly son.
Give me a paper and pen, so I can write about my life of sin. A couple of bottles of gin, in case I don't get in.
It's not like I idolize this one guy Machiavelli. I idolize that type of thinking where you do whatever's gonna make you achieve your goal.