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jesus god christ

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post #110
bio: kristen

first post
that week

Category List
The ones about love
The ones about men

Previous Posts
Dutch Ultimatum
The Ludditette
Friday Party #347
The Wizard of Uz
Taking One 4 the Team
Leap and the Net Will Appear

I was talking around the problem.

I have been muttering curses under my breath for two days. I am livid as a skunk. I am pissed that things that should be aren't and things that are shouldn't be.

I would gladly be self-destructive. I may do so. To me, I don't judge those actions. Self-destruction is really just a hairshirt isn't it.
Rending to show grief.

I am grieving a bit.

I am trying not to panic and to be patient, but I'm so scared that it will be for nothing. I am craving a shit or get off the pot moment, but simultaneously, if it's 'get off the pot', I will



I am tired of the great white whales. I am tired of everything. Let it all burn. Fuck it. I want to scream like a mother fucker, but there is no place I can do it where I wouldn't think people could hear.

I have a scream inside of me that would leave me hoarse.

Love is often a game of chess is it not?

I never mastered chess. I'm not really much of a game player. As i've stated before, my sort of intelligence rarely gets awoken unless there is something in it for me - unless I am motivated. Even the games I do play, I mostly do it to show off to opponent how clever I am. Playing games with children is the ultimate bore - but I suppose their games are just luck: spin the dial and pick up some cards. The fates decide.
I don't do puzzles for fun.

I am no good at them. That newspaper game - jumble - makes me feel like a 'tard.

I think I love him. I don't want to. I don't want to love him until he loves me first and harder. I don't have a magnanimous love. I am selfish and greedy and want it all to myself. I want to be bowed down to - apologized to - sucked wet.

The wait is OK, but I have to have just the smallest morsel to chew.
I'm starving.

I have to have the smallest twig to burn.

Of course, it hasn't happened yet. I have done things that will be detrimental to it. It is like trying to catch a wild animal that I don't even know exists.

I don't even have the satisfaction of this person allowing me to edit him - hit the delete key.

My curiousity is at the brink.


I want to know.

I want to know.

Sure, I'm to be alone likely. Sure that wouldn't be the curse of the
mayans. I feel that I wouldn't be on the market that long (oh gods, I
have tempted you)... I don't want to be on the market at all. I have no interest in that except to perhaps procure friends and hang-out buddies. I could be the girl they secretly have a crush on and go to for girl advice (oh wait, I think I've already played that role - but I'll retool it, and it will be fresh for the new play).

The few people that have accepted me - chuck and mark - have wanted to protect me and be my buddy forever. I have needed them to do so, and it worked quite well. I have NEEDED them to do so, and it worked quite well. Until I tore their hearts out and said "next" as I'm standing in a bloody pool from ripping my arm off.

I have no such luck with the other.

The feaster - the poetry reader - the song player - the writer - the lover - the bloody one.

They have never loved me until after I deleted them.

You should think that is arrogant of me to say, but one of the tragedies of my life is that I become embedded in lovers' minds like absinthe... a great ride but who wants to drink it every day. I am a flame in love. They are mistaken. Ask mark and chuck. I have another side that is revealed only after the tease is over.

They know this after I leave and miss it, but I'm alone.

Hell, I'm only 33 - perhaps they'll look me up and they can boost my bruised ego and I can laugh with them and call them silly.

I am in pain. I hurt like I've never hurt before.

But it is hidden for now - I am riding on anger.

But I understand.

It has to be this way.

I'm sorry to have hurt any of you reading this.

I am such a bad liar.

I have the biggest most violet balls (figuratively).

Stories I'm telling you.

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