caught in another headline, one after the other.

his mouth is a crash, losers on a dash — an all too familiar routine, but the cycle is to fire back. nepo babies, gnarly eat my shorts, manic pixie dreams, bitch incognitos, oppenheimer sonics, shitty engines.

crocodile speech except the toothpick visuals, the implication that he'll do fricking charity, not like he don't mind cause he would love that. be an uptown samaritan, social media meme, the big deal rookie said to be the thorn on his pal lando's side. a pop-up superstar that gets fame from deadpanning.

then, there's you.

a case. typical strat executioner headache of the century eye-drilling him three seconds away through the rearview mirror. bad, boring, super massive villain bigger than all these bricks he's piling up on himself. that he could be as massive as senna or as massive as daniel ricciardo is in his heart.

you had a hold over him, which was his only reason to resent you so much. you made his inner cursing self rage at each overtake a rookie like you were doing to him and he just had to hold back himself from throwing his helmet at each walk down the garage at each podium loss.

sorry not sorry. the world thinks he'd let you take podiums from him and end up happier than ever? no frickin' way. you, earth shit, doesn't get to win. if he had to bite you, maul you. he will. his parliament's on fire and his hands are down. he ain't surrendering.

cause he's the worst it.