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Ms. Peach to You
It's been a while, hasn't it? Much has changed, much has stayed the same, much has transpired in the space between not writing – writing. So here I am again, here you are again, here we are. Again.
I'm waiting for the old thrills; the pressure of fingertips against keys, the exquisite satisfaction inherent in the one hundredth word. I'll find, I believe, it's like riding a bicycle (forgive my omnipresent clichés). I haven't forgotten – I'm only rusty. Layers of life collected against my skin, layers of life I'm ready to shed.
When I'm naked once more, the words will come.
At least, now, the monotony is gone – well, the old monotony, at least. It's been replaced by an entirely new set of things I'll have to do and responsibilities I'll have to fulfill, over and over again. I've decided that life is about settling into routine after routine. My theory may sound like a depressing outlook on the progression of a lifetime...but somehow, it's not. It's finding your favorite routine that brings real satisfaction. People live for comfort, for guidelines, for security. I've found only one small problem, thus far: Wherever I seem to be, I find I'm already bored.
There's your nom de plume, unassuming on the screen. I see it and remember the way you smiled, the way you smelled, laughed, tasted, touched. It makes me miss our moment.
Then, I wake up.
I have never been broken as you broke me. You split me into pieces and spat on me, peeled my skin away and left me shivering beside the shell of myself. And still, I loved you. I tried to make you trust me, tried to make everything work out like the fairytale I believed we could have been.
And that is the most important thing.
I'm sorry; if there was something I could do/ Forgive me for all those things I did to you/ I'd point the finger at myself/ Though my conscience clean/ I thought I knew it all/ Until I found I never knew a thing/ And there's nothing left to say/ There's nothing left for me/ After all, it's not that easy to forget/ That when the colors fade to grey/ And the night turns into day/ Uninvited, break the silence that you made/ Believe me/ I've found no shelter for my shame/ Deceive me/ I've found no comfort in this place
Upon events of last night:
I begin to wonder if I will ever learn my lesson. My greatest fault, it seems, is my passive/ active dichotomy. I am shy, I am unsure, but I see what I want and I stop at nothing to get it. So once more I wake to find myself exactly where I want to (but should not) be. The trouble with following one's heart is trusting it to lead one in the proper direction. I'm suspicious of myself, these days. Stepping is the same pile of shit over and over again can get somewhat messy.
I don't know about you, but my conscience is clean.
You said, "You
still stuck in high school....reminds you of what a lousy time you had."
It's times like these when I'd love to shove my foot right up your Jewish ass (and I, my dear, am certainly no anti-Semitist). These are just the days of our lives, right?
He said, "I'll be coming to visit you in London."
That, of course, was when he was up against me in the dark. There's a sickness in our love. These are just the nights of our lives, right?
Often I think that sadomasochism might be the life for me. No, really. Torture can be exquisite when administered by the right person.
You, for (perfect?) example. You are driving me out of my pretty little mind. When I'm with you I'm thinking about how I can please you. When I'm not with you I'm thinking about when I will be. This isn't how things usually work; I'm always in control. And, over it all, I have the distinct, somewhat painful, somewhat pleasurable feeling that you know exactly what you're doing to me.
And, my dear, that you like it.
I'm reflecting: Does absence truly make the heart grow fonder? The application of that cliche is very situational; it truly depends upon the person.
Chris, I miss the fuck out of you, you bastard. Truly, I've missed you more as every day flies by. I never realized how important you were to me, really, until you were (I was) gone. Everything reminds me of you, even if only because I know how much you would love it/them/him/her/whatever.....goof.
So, this entry became less about speculation and more about you. Funny...that's how it has always been.
Every time I am in a "relationship" I declare I've finally gotten to the bottom of the whole fucked-up way that relationships work. Inevitably, I haven't. Inevitably, I've trusted too much, given too much once more. Often I wonder how many more times I'll have to pick myself up before I find someone willing to help me. Not do it for me – just help me. At this point, I think even a little bit would be enough. I am strong, I am independent, but what I am more than anything else is fucking tired. I'm fucking tired of this bullshit.
Today I was happy. Today I took a walk. Today I saw a movie. Today I had a good conversation. Today I smiled. Today I cleaned my room. Today I laughed. Today I appreciated the world around me. Today I took nothing for granted. Today I was a good girl. Today I tried to quit smoking. Today I made new resolutions. Today I went to the gym. Today I wrote a short story. Today I ate a doughnut. Today I shaved my legs. Today I listened closely. Today I had an opinion. Today I loved somebody.
Today I was alone.
Optimism versus pessimism versus realism. My friend and I spoke at length on that (those?) topic(s) tonight. Optimists, we decided, often equate pessimism and realism. Realists know that pessimists and optimists are both right and wrong to some degree. Pessimists know we're all going to die anyway, so they just don't give a shit. Privately, I decided that I'm an opti-pessi-realist. Optimists irritate me with their idealism, pessimists disappoint me with their depression, and realists annoy me with their arrogance. So I'm going to draw from all three and create a new definition. Join the movement – I promise, it's growing.
Why are writers so obsessed with the amount of material they can churn out? Really, if one cares most about one's work, whether or not one is prolific matters very little. Take Victor Hugo, for example. What did he write, other than The Hunchback of Notre Dame (which is quite beautiful) that made any impact on anything whatsoever? I would hate to see Victor Hugo become another Ayn Rand. After her first book, she decided to focus on recreating the magic that sold copies. Instead, she was left with a bunch of really long-winded bullshit that doesn't mean a thing.
It is utterly inconceivable to me that any high school graduate would have trouble writing a "paper" of 500 words. I've just churned out five 100 Words entries in a row; if that's a "paper", then I'm Burt Reynolds. And just for the record – I'm not a man, I have no wrinkles, I have a vagina, and I like to talk about my feelings. But I digress; when did the craft, the basic skill of stringing words into sentences become so unimportant? I think about not being able to write and write well, and it makes me want to cry.
So I've been cast in my university's production of The Vagina Monologues. I'm pretty excited (no pun intended, gutterbrains). Finally, something well-written that doesn't require I dress up like a tart and cake on the stage makeup. It's going to be simple and clean, the way a classy production should be. Only problem is, some of my castmates haven't been showing up for rehearsals. The stupid bitches. I'm going to personally demean anyone who ruins this experience for me. Yes, that was mean. Yes, that was selfish. No, I don't give a shit. My vagina is really fucking pissed off.
Talk to me. I'll listen, I promise. Stop putting up these ridiculous defences it seems you can't live without. I'm a gentle girl when you give me no reason to retaliate. Listen to me, too. You might learn something – you never know until you try. You and I could compliment each other perfectly, I'm sure. You're beautiful, you're funny, you're smart, you're ambitious. Let me in. There's nothing I'd rather be given than just one chance. I promise, please, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm waiting for the night you curl up against me and cry in my arms.
I know you never wash your hands after you piss. I know when you're lying in bed and you don't feel like rolling over to grab a tissue, you pick your nose. I know, too, that sometimes, you eat it. I know you've lied to your mother, your father, your significant other. I know you've thrown trash onto the street. I know you've gotten so drunk you puked everywhere. I know you've cheated on tests. I know you've backstabbed the friends you said you'd never hurt. It'd be nice if everyone was as wise as I. It'd make life clearer.
A liar, you said? Fake, you said? There are no two things which could have hurt me more. And you did yell – I don't care what you claim. You ripped me apart because of something completely out of my control, something nowhere near my fault. I took it well, however – kept my composure as best I could under the barrage of insults you hurled. It's interesting, now, that your apology was so sweeping, grandiose, even. I deserved that apology. When it was all over, you asked me (gently), "Could you sleep in my room tonight?" I couldn't believe your audacity.
I read the letter. I saw one word. Dying. Dying. My grandfather is dying and I'm an ocean away. Send him a letter; it'd mean so much. Dying. Dying. My grandfather is dying and I'm an ocean away. Give him a call. Dying. Dying. My grandfather is dying and I'm an ocean away. No one can make him smile like you. Dying. Dying. My grandfather is dying and I'm an ocean away. The pain is intense, constant. He can't walk anymore. Dying. Dying. My grandfather is dying and there's not a godforsaken fucking damned thing I can do about it.
Trouble: that's what I'm in, that's what you've gotten me into, and it's not a surprise. We walked through the city together, hands clasped. I was in dominatrix high heels that tore my feet. You took me to a restaurant and we had steak and drinks and strawberries. We talked – we laughed. We left for an underground bar in the heart of town. We drank. You must have spent nearly two hundred pounds on me, last night. We went home and it was very beautiful. It's hard for anything not to be beautiful to me, especially when I'm around you.
Imagine a subject about which you have many preconceived notions. See those notions as a slate covered with thoughts and ideas. Wipe that slate entirely clean, and, more neatly then you thought possible, write one simple phrase that refutes everything you held true. That is the experience of City of Glass; it turns your mind in circles at dizzying speeds, stops on a dime, rewrites your thoughts for you and begins turning once more. I was left moved without knowing exactly why – which was the very reason I loved the book: It distracted my head and spoke to my heart.
Japanese anime porn is the most revolting thing in the universe. Anyone who could gets off on it is just gross! For those of you that haven't seen it (consider yourselves lucky), it involves girls – with enormous eyes, very tiny lips, and impossibly small waists – sucking off guys – with pointy hair, 6-inch girths (if you know what I mean), and less than .06% body fat. I'm curious about the people who draw this trash.
"What do you do for a living?"
"Well, I sketch pictures of alienesque beings contorted into any number of freakish sexual positions."
It's a living.
Tonight, at work, they put me on the door, carding people and charging a fee for entrance. Sorting the tens and twenties, I got to thinking...where has this money been before? In the hands of a drug dealer? Stuffed in some stripper's g-string? A church collection plate, perhaps (interesting to wonder how it might have jumped the purity track)? Or payment for a cheap hooker, or a gambler's last bit of green from a now-empty wallet?
I think too much. But it really makes one speculate: What else in our nation binds all people together, regardless of --
Why do so many people bitch about jury duty? I think jury duty would be a titillating break from the monotony of the real world. Something about having another person's fate in my hands really excites me. Sure, you might not be in the box for a murder trial, but...hey. Some criminals are classified "common."
I wrote "...the real world." Strange how my mind associates the criminal world with unreality.
I can't wait to get a piece of certified mail that calls me away from my world. I'll dominate that courtroom, a Prada goddess, hair slicked back, salivating during cross-examination.
Sometimes, when I see you, I feel ill.
Wait. I take that back. Sometimes, when you are mentioned, or when something having anything to do with you is brought up, or when someone talks about something that reminds me of you, I feel ill.
I hate that. But I guess that I can't change it.
Wait. I take that back. I could probably stop or at least control the anger that roils up in me when you're in proximity, mentally or physically. But you didn't control yours…never even attempted to.
Fuck it. I am tired of thinking about you.
I hate it when people cannot spell. That infuriates me even more than the occasional grammatical mistake. I was looking at my ex-boyfriend's profile today, counting the misspelled words, and began thinking to myself, "I kissed this boy? What the hell was the matter with me?" It may seem incredibly superficial, but even if I find someone extremely attractive, their command of language can make or break our relationship.
Wait a minute...Why do I feel guilty about that?! I have the right to create standards. And if you confuse the words "feel" and "fell", you don't meet them.
My little brother watches Japanimation cartoons. These things really astound me. My mother often wonders why my brother is so violent; if she really stopped and considered what she was exposing him to, she'd probably get it. I remember what shows were like when I was young. I wasn't allowed to watch anything but stuff like Sesame Street and Reading Rainbow. Daily, my little brother watches assorted strangulations, decapitations, and any other manner of gruesome and painful murders. When did cartoons become so sadistic? Yeah, so you've got yellow hair and a huge sword to chop people in half. Jesus.
I really get irritated when my foot (or feet, or any other extremity – it's just usually my foot) falls asleep. I think that the resultant sensation is incredibly...well, irritating! There must be something wrong with the blood flow to my foot, because I swear, it falls asleep if I stand up too quickly. Incredibly obnoxious. I can just see it: someday I'll be naked with my dream man (another entry entirely) and I'll have to blurt, "Can you hold on a second? My foot's fallen asleep, and I can't concentrate," then stand up and walk around like an idiot.
Did you know that if you place a fork – or any other metallic object, for that matter – into a glass of Coke or Pepsi, it will disintegrate within a matter of days? That's a really terrifying thought. Next time that you drink a soda, think about that. Think about the acid you're putting into yourself. If that stuff can dissolve metal, you might think, couldn't it possibly dissolve me? I am hiding in my closet (from Coke and Pepsi). I know they're out to get me, and dissolving would be an awful way to die. Didn't you see Terminator 2?
It was sin, the water clear as true love and black as two AM. I dipped my fingers and ran them across your shoulders, knowing that I was very wrong and very lost. It's an incredible feeling, living a sin; it's like being, simultaneously, suffused in light and suffocated by darkness – there's a taint, a film on your existence that reminds you always of pain in the midst of pleasure. Would I do this again? Perhaps. Soon we'll say goodbye, possibly for always, but I first want to live this fantasy. Lovely: artificial long-stemmed roses, wilting at my dusky kiss.
It seems that every time I am around you, my radar switches into high gear. I peruse our surroundings, just waiting for some girl to run her eyes scandalously up and down what is expressly mine. I'm not a jealous lover (a lie, of course), and I would never dream of murderously clawing some chit's face to shreds, but things like this do bother me. Why don't you cast some spell on yourself so you are only attractive to me? Wait; no. I wouldn't get to enjoy the looks on the girls' faces when you twine your fingers with mine.
So I'm in London, and I just bullshitted my way through nine entries. I was in a panic, because here it's the seventh, and yesterday was the sixth, AND, as we all know, the sixth is the deadline and oh my god I could have missed it, like, totally!
Yeah. So anyway. I'm sitting here waiting for myself to be finished so that I can go do something more (or less, depending upon how one looks at it) productive.
Wow. Eighty words already. And now, my friend has insulted me, and that should be enough to fill up twenty more.
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