| March 10 2002 3:15 AM I'm upset.. and a guy asks me to use him as my punching bag.. I tell him that's not how things work for me. Agression cannot leave my veins through those means. But he, just wants me to cuss him out so he can feel kinky or some shit. Man, what the fuck is up with you people? Really I don't care. I don't care if you're into all that.. but man.... here I am, down on life, lashing out at pain I feel, and this guy.. wants to get off on.. me cussing him out? err.. and he pretends he's just a shoulder to cry on... I came online to type this.. that I just wrote in my journal. I hate my face in the mirror, sometimes late at night. I hate knowing who I have the potential to be and sometimes am.. I hate who I have the potential to be and fear that I will not. Sex, the thought of it, emotions that follow, seems inconsequential and horrible in this moment.. I feel that I have a habit of self-destructive behavior sometimes.. by allowing people into my heart and mind who seek what I should not, cannot give. I hate the way people will pick and choose whose opinions to follow and consider when others have said the same things. I hate how little things bother me, like when my roommate's feet stretch over to underneath my desk and as I sit on my bed writing this, her foot bobs, her skin raking against the wood under my desk where my feet belong. I hate falling in love.. and realizing that boy you adored for so long is actually just like all the other guys, perhaps.. if not half as interesting... and the profundities he whispers cleverly into your ear are like cold steel shutting your heart away, into a far away small box, far from a Pandora to offer hope for mankind. I feel surrounded and lonely.. and brooding. And odd, and imparticular, amused by quirky profundity, amazed and appaled by selflessness. A minor chord in a major key to a door never opened. *g* j/k... I want to be taken and far away. Alone and in love. I guess singing bothers me too. Prose is so refreshing when surrounded by bad poetry. I want to love life and be loved by it and everyone and no one.. because it's so difficult. oh.. and I HATE when girls think they're taller than me just because they're wearing heels. They're only shoes, and life is difficult. I want to be that easily beautiful, unbeknownst-trendy girl who reads a lot.. but I'm not. I'm the girl that tries too hard, and almost bites her fingernails, and cries sometimes because she feels she's slipping.. and.will never have that bliss of un-understanding some seem to. She feels locked out and unable to walk beside people. Her pace is unlike any other she has walked with. And she is aware when she walks, of her shadow, her hips, the breeze from the west, the fact that some other girl lost her virginity in that dark alley over there.. and we don't know what to feel about it. Was she happy? Was she sad? Was her heart running away from him, her body pinned? Does she cry, remember, laugh, roll up her program and breathe, her eyes wide at the exhiliration of a crescendo by the Podunk County Symphony Orchestra? Does she sing? Does she like it? Is she nearsighted? Does she give blood?.. or odd looks at the flavored-condom-machine in the restroom at the movie theatre? Cherry, Grape, Vanilla condoms, gum, tampons, and temporary tattoos. 75 cents. She's tired. Tired of winning and afraid of losing. she misses being loved and loving, and fears it's recurrence because that boy said she was dead to him. Dead to him and hated--hated as strongly as he once loved her.. at least he said. He fucking said he'd burn my teddy bear I gave him.. the one I took to NYC back in the 90's, Ohio, everywhere.. the bear whose fur absorbed my tears of joy and unrequited love. I loved him, I felt sorry for him.. I gave him my fucking teddy bear. Never do that. Please. No bear deserves to be touched by a boy who flails maddeningly at any scrap of something he can use to hurt a girl who grew up and found she could no longer love him.. his bad breath, his stubble, squirming from his skin like painful worms. His hungry and pained eyes.. his unibrow that bothered me so.. the fact that he shaved his thights and wore flipflops, and put clear polish on his nails and was called Gorgeous DeGeorgis by all the guys.. that he wouldn't believe that i loved him when I did.. and couldn't accept the fact, couldn't see when I had stopped. I feel so aware of being a "girl." I feel vulnerable and used.. I hate falling for people unattainable, who are far away, and self-sufficient, and perfect (ha, yea right), and soo unlike me. I hate how no one calls, or sends me letters, or stops by just to say hey. I'm tired of feeling negative, of being awake, of sleeping, of people with beautiful hands who are more talented than me. I hate when writing doesn't suffice, and misunderstandings increase... but I love this life. Damn... it's nice to be a little crude, a little crass, sweet to the unsuspecting, and random.. I wanna.. be. I miss kissing. In a month it will have been a year. Sheesh. I love this life.. I keep saying it.. it's a nice little cliche. Nice to live.. to believe.. to be aware that it is a cliche.. but to be afraid of it's mainstream quality. Perhaps if I say it in latin it will feel more mine, more me.. hah.. but what does it matter? I feel as though I could type forever tonight.. but who wants to read that much of one train of thought.. thank you to all who listen to me.. and who break my heart and mend it.. thank you for just reading.. Until we meet again, Adieu. |