eighty-seven years and i haven't updated.
at first i started this thing with the minuscule hope that there would be readers, but i'm a terrible self-promoter so that idea was rubbish to begin with. so now i'm writing here for me.
yeah, me.
mmhm. so i can look back on it and cringe to myself with how self-indulgent i was or corny or funny.
good ol' me.
i slipped up again and got involved with someone that i said i wouldn't. let's call him . . . Bob. cuz his real name's just as terribly generic and boring, though it has a tendency to make my heart race inappropriately anytime i hear it, which is a little more often than i'd like. and by "involved" i mean i fucked him.
yep, after two years and five months, the weekend before my twenty-seventh birthday, i gave my second virginity to yet another asshole. let someone in that would rather shit himself in public and eat it than become emotionally involved with me take the one thing i was holding onto.
my vag.
not to say i instantaneously fell in love with him or anything. we'd been involved before some years back and i thought i'd learned my lesson then, but apparently my masochistic side needed repeats. (he was the one i was pregnant by.) i don't seem to wake up until i'm in pain. like terrible pain. even resorted to cutting myself again a few weeks ago, i felt so bad.
last time i talked to him was early November. i was candid and honest with him, open, if you will. not professing love or adoration (neither of which i feel, honest), but just . . . honest. honest about the fact that i'm scared of my steadily declining health, about the fear of being alone, about having to handle everything alone.
and he did what he does best. he disappeared.
just as he had when i told him that i was starting to have feelings for him almost three years ago now. just as he had when i (childishly) told him that i not only was pregnant with his kid, but i'd lost it through a MySpace message. just as he had when i (stupidly) slept with him the weekend before my twenty-seventh birthday.
at first i was angry. angry at him, at myself, at how stupid this all was. and i guess to some degree i still am. i'm still fighting the duality of rational processing and emotional thought.
on one hand, i have a right to be angry. he claims to be my friend, but only seems to act in accordance to what would benefit himself.
on the other, i should just simply move on and forget about him, just as he's forgotten me.
act nonchalant and soon enough you'll start to feel it as well.
so that's what i've been doing. about alot of shit lately, not just him. i've been nonchalant about the bruises on my brain, been nonchalant about feeling like i want to off myself, been nonchalant about wanting to scream at the top of my lungs just to check and make sure i still exist to some goddamn body.
so far, i think i'm doing okay.
when i think back on it - and i can't help but think too fucking much - Bob never really ever knew me. never wanted to know me. it was evident in the small things he'd say, in the assumptions he'd share with me about myself or my friends, in the way he treated me. and i was too . . . hesitant to speak in order to dispute him. anyone that knows me well knows i'm very vocal, but only to a certain degree when i'm around certain people.
some people love to talk, love to hear themselves talk and feel good about their righteous opinions. and love to do so loudly. this is Bob. loud. very loud. he's very observant, but interestingly judgemental within a very small time-slot. he sections people off quickly, sees them as characters in comedy routine, rather than actual fluctuating humans. he claims to be a writer, though i've only seen one thing he's done. and it was . . . sub-par. not to say that i'm the greatest judge of all things written; i've only been published once and am struggling to get up the courage to push my serious work out there. my "career" under a pseudonym as a romance writer seems to have some merit though and hopefully by 2012 that'll be in full swing. but for now, i'm only just a fellow wanna-be artist, while he's doing the damn thing.
perhaps that's why i was so mum around him. i admire the hell out of his quiet determination and willingness to put himself and his skills out there. i don't stand a chance against myself. i have some faith in my writing, but i'm constantly comparing myself to others and thinking there's no way in hell my shit's that different, that out there that'll take notice.
but enough of that.
i've had enough of the self-pity. enough of this cyclical pattern of fear.
love may never happen for me. the happy family with the kids and the wonderful husband may not be in my future. i'm still . . . sorta young, but i can feel it. i'm pretty sure i'll be alone. i'm too weird, too quiet at times, too hypocritical with too many idiosyncrasies to even think that i'd be remotely comfortable enough with anyone to be completely myself around. i have my soul mates in my parents and my Robster (though she's pissing me off now) and that's good enough for me.
for now.
i'm also keeping myself away from Facebook until the New Year. don't want to fall into dumb habits that i had before of checking Bob's page for signs that he thinks of me in some regard other than a momentary comfort. i've been successful since the 6th of November and i think i'm good for it until the 2nd of January.
in lieu of that habit, i'm picking up a new one: throwing up my feelings here.
and just for me.
yay!
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
BloggityBlah!
forever and a day since i properly updated this thing, huh?
i think what frustrates me most is my need to elaborate on background explanations for everything so i just give up, thinking i'm boring the one or two people that actually read this thing. bleh! fuckit. if there are questions, let there be.
from now on, i'm rambling, bitches.
lately, my head's been in the clouds. been listless and out-of-sorts. well, not really lately. been for a while now. and i'm apparently the biggest klutz on the planet. i have reason to believe i hurt myself something awful last week after i'd already left the doctor's office. waited until today, thinking, "yeah, i'm fuckin' young. i got dis shit!" only to feel like i'm closer to eighty-six years old without LifeCall. i can't sit without shifting, i can't walk without limping (granted, it is pretty pimp), and i can't sleep right.
oy!
so i gave up and went back to the doctor today, got an anesthetic injection to the area that helped for all of an hour. was sitting in the x-ray place, ready to burst into tears, my fucking leg hurt so bad. even sitting here on the couch is hurting.
my back feels better though. lol
i like my new doc though. he's a little less hesitant with the 'script pad than my PCP, so i've been doing some blood testing and things of that sort to get to the bottom of my symptoms as of late. we've discussed many possibilities that are beyond individual occurances and piecing everything together, it looks like lupus. he didn't want to necessarily pinpoint anything or make any affirmations about his speculations, but nervous, freak-out little ol' me started doing my own research and of course in this WebMD age we live in, i see one too many coincidinks with the various symptoms' lists that i've read. it makes sense, considering how i've felt for the past year or so, but nothing is known or definitive until my bloodwork comes back in a few days.
one part of me hopes it's not, the other would find relief in it, cuz then i'll know what the effshit is wrong with me and i won't feel so goddamn nuts. what i don't quite get is the shift in my health. i was as strong as a horse when i was a kid. sure, i'm much heavier than i used to be and there's a lot less physical activity, but my diet has never been destructive (for long), i am still somewhat active, and i don't do drugs. anymore. kidding. maybe.
but now, i've got daily aches and pains, i'm tired all of the fucking time (there's some days i'm a little less tired, but, hell, i'm beat all the time), i've got wicked heart palpitations that have been taking my breath away these last few months, i'm in a foul mood most of the damn time when i really don't want or mean to be, i can't pay attention to shit for more than two minutes . . . just simply feel a little - okay, so a lot off-kilter.
all i want to do is read, write, read some more, and watch movies all day. i lose weight on weekends cuz if i don't go anywhere, i don't eat (unless it's cereal; hotdamn, cereal's delish!), yet i'm still fat. ha! i'm just . . . a little more frightened than i ought to be. the not-knowing is what's getting to me.
only time shall tell, i suppose.
i think what frustrates me most is my need to elaborate on background explanations for everything so i just give up, thinking i'm boring the one or two people that actually read this thing. bleh! fuckit. if there are questions, let there be.
from now on, i'm rambling, bitches.
lately, my head's been in the clouds. been listless and out-of-sorts. well, not really lately. been for a while now. and i'm apparently the biggest klutz on the planet. i have reason to believe i hurt myself something awful last week after i'd already left the doctor's office. waited until today, thinking, "yeah, i'm fuckin' young. i got dis shit!" only to feel like i'm closer to eighty-six years old without LifeCall. i can't sit without shifting, i can't walk without limping (granted, it is pretty pimp), and i can't sleep right.
oy!
so i gave up and went back to the doctor today, got an anesthetic injection to the area that helped for all of an hour. was sitting in the x-ray place, ready to burst into tears, my fucking leg hurt so bad. even sitting here on the couch is hurting.
my back feels better though. lol
i like my new doc though. he's a little less hesitant with the 'script pad than my PCP, so i've been doing some blood testing and things of that sort to get to the bottom of my symptoms as of late. we've discussed many possibilities that are beyond individual occurances and piecing everything together, it looks like lupus. he didn't want to necessarily pinpoint anything or make any affirmations about his speculations, but nervous, freak-out little ol' me started doing my own research and of course in this WebMD age we live in, i see one too many coincidinks with the various symptoms' lists that i've read. it makes sense, considering how i've felt for the past year or so, but nothing is known or definitive until my bloodwork comes back in a few days.
one part of me hopes it's not, the other would find relief in it, cuz then i'll know what the effshit is wrong with me and i won't feel so goddamn nuts. what i don't quite get is the shift in my health. i was as strong as a horse when i was a kid. sure, i'm much heavier than i used to be and there's a lot less physical activity, but my diet has never been destructive (for long), i am still somewhat active, and i don't do drugs. anymore. kidding. maybe.
but now, i've got daily aches and pains, i'm tired all of the fucking time (there's some days i'm a little less tired, but, hell, i'm beat all the time), i've got wicked heart palpitations that have been taking my breath away these last few months, i'm in a foul mood most of the damn time when i really don't want or mean to be, i can't pay attention to shit for more than two minutes . . . just simply feel a little - okay, so a lot off-kilter.
all i want to do is read, write, read some more, and watch movies all day. i lose weight on weekends cuz if i don't go anywhere, i don't eat (unless it's cereal; hotdamn, cereal's delish!), yet i'm still fat. ha! i'm just . . . a little more frightened than i ought to be. the not-knowing is what's getting to me.
only time shall tell, i suppose.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Circles
round and round
round, i go . . .
i heard somewhere, more than likely from my dad, that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, hoping to gain a different result. then i heard somewhere else not too long ago that when going in circles, you can discover something you missed the first time around.
a question i'm posing to myself is: Just how many fucking times do you need to do this in order to realize, it ain't workin'?
you'd think by now i'd know the answer, as insightful and reflective as i can be. but yet, i do the same things, hang out with the same people, rotate the same fucking wheel hoping, wishing, praying something will give, something will change, a new light will illuminate my life and purpose of being.
nope.
twenty-six and still single. still at the same dead-end job. still relatively unhappy. i'm grateful, don't get me wrong, for the blessings in my life. the same dead-end job, my apartment, my independence. to a certain degree, i'm doing well. but there's something i keep grasping at, but admittedly without much effort.
i become consummed by the task and eventually overwhelmed. so i sit back down on my haunches and pout like an insolent child. like even now, i'm struggling to get this entry together, get my mind in order. what do i really want to do? sleep. crawl under the sheets and go back to that warm and happy dream of me and that dominican-looking guy slowly falling in love with one another. i feel like i have so much to give, but no one's paying attention. no one to give it to.
like this entry.
who the fuck's reading it? besides me, when i feel like reminding myself of . . . i don't even know.
and pause.
no idea what to say next when there's so much running through my head. no one's seeing me anyway. no one's paying attention.
round, i go . . .
i heard somewhere, more than likely from my dad, that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, hoping to gain a different result. then i heard somewhere else not too long ago that when going in circles, you can discover something you missed the first time around.
a question i'm posing to myself is: Just how many fucking times do you need to do this in order to realize, it ain't workin'?
you'd think by now i'd know the answer, as insightful and reflective as i can be. but yet, i do the same things, hang out with the same people, rotate the same fucking wheel hoping, wishing, praying something will give, something will change, a new light will illuminate my life and purpose of being.
nope.
twenty-six and still single. still at the same dead-end job. still relatively unhappy. i'm grateful, don't get me wrong, for the blessings in my life. the same dead-end job, my apartment, my independence. to a certain degree, i'm doing well. but there's something i keep grasping at, but admittedly without much effort.
i become consummed by the task and eventually overwhelmed. so i sit back down on my haunches and pout like an insolent child. like even now, i'm struggling to get this entry together, get my mind in order. what do i really want to do? sleep. crawl under the sheets and go back to that warm and happy dream of me and that dominican-looking guy slowly falling in love with one another. i feel like i have so much to give, but no one's paying attention. no one to give it to.
like this entry.
who the fuck's reading it? besides me, when i feel like reminding myself of . . . i don't even know.
and pause.
no idea what to say next when there's so much running through my head. no one's seeing me anyway. no one's paying attention.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Another Lonely Day
i've been listening to a lot of terrible singer/songwriter indie music as of late. terrible in the sense of warm baths after downing some illegally purchased percs and decorating your forearms with an effective slit from elbow to wrist.
Horse Feathers, Kensington Prairie, Mazzy Star, Lou Barlow, and Ben Harper have been in heavy in rotation, ol' Benny-boy's Another Lonely Day being my lullaby at night. the song fills me with a strange conflict of emotions, giddy as shit but solemnly unproductive. ideas have been hatching, maturing, and taking serious flight to the point of me dedicating nearly four nights out of the week to maintain entries when before i was forcing myself once a month to get a sentence right and giving up after staring at the screen like an idiot.
that's supposed to be a good thing, but instead i've become more frustrated. i almost feel like the writer's block was more a reprieve than this. i'm still looking for that approval, looking for someone to say, "hey, this shit is good. i'd buy it." i've been listless enough to even wonder if my presence as a person is even worth the space i occupy.
everyone wants to be noticed. beyond being loved and appreciated and lauded, you want to be fucking noticed. you want to feel important to some goddamn body and lately . . . not feeling that so much. been feeling like a mooch. want to hang out with friends, but don't have the dough to do it. the anxiety level of such a prospect has shut me in like a fucking hermit. writing. about fantastical lives filled with people that care mercilessly about others, who have money, who are comfortable for the most part within their position and purpose in life.
everything that i'm not.
i've come to loathe my job, but strangely passionate about it. it's still torturous to be there, taking phone calls, getting cussed out for something that you as an individual had nothing to do with, getting overlooked, being lumped in with people that can't spell beyond a third-grade level and speak in so-called professional settings as if they've learned the English language from watching Juice one too many times. but this is where i am. and like they say, whoever the fuck "they" is (i'd like to fucking punch "them"), work with what you've got. save a few people i can count one hand, i hate everyone there. they never left that high school mentality and their maturity level is somewhere in the vicinity of mud-slinging at the girl that reads books. i lose braincells sitting in my cubicle row, which quite unfortunatley is an open setting, letting any stupid conversation about Halle Berry having a baby with a white dude instead of sticking with her own kind pierce my normally impenetrable bubble.
fucking awful.
and so the cycle starts. i want a new job, but can't seem to get past someone looking at my resume. which means to some degree i can't write for shit. which means i'm destined for a desk job that utilizes none of the skills i think i may possess. which means eternal misery.
awesome title for a B movie. Eternal Misery. i'd watch it. repeatedly.
naturally, companionship has been at the back of my mind as well. i'm okay when i'm home, either writing these glourious plots with sweet loves and adorations of the plain, yet awesome heroine or just talking to myself while reading or watching something mind-numbing on the tube. but when i do go out, i find myself wanting that guy to look from the other end of the PATH car and do that weird double-take. he oddly enough walks, or stumbles since the PATH is a rickety piece of shit, over and says, "hey." and we fall in love from there. or hell, date for a month and hate each other at the end. or just become friends. something that would put my emotions to work. i feel a little numbed. perhaps that's why Another Lonely Day doesn't make me burst into the tears i almost feel i should when i listen to it repeatedly.
like i am now.
i want to be a girl that turns heads and not just of the homeless man or the forty-five year old with balding cornrows rocking one pant-leg up and a FuBu jersey. i want to turn heads like my friends do; from the colombian/el salvadorian that nearly causes accidents when, wearing sweatpants and wife-beater to the mixed girl with those huge light brown eyes, adorable smile and laugh. or my chocolate homie with the body of banger, even after two kids and one helluva life, and the face of a model. something. anything. cuz it does come down to physical attractive at the gate. and i seem to not have that. unless the prospects fit the aforementioned description. or they just want to fuck and they see that underlying eargerness to want to be noticed beneath my coolcalmcollected exterior.
but i'm not doing that.
yeppers, still going strong with the whole "no sex" policy. one of my former . . . things was shouldering his way back into my life something hardcore. he was the last person i honestly really and truly liked and saw a true possibility with. with him, i'd pushed aside all of my pessimism and thought i could have something, really and truly, healthy and lovely.
dead wrong.
he started pulling back, claiming busy and i, in some moment of retard-zen, spilled my guts. i didn't say anything along the lines of even a relationship. i just said, "hey, just wanted to tell you, i'm feeling you. that's all." this a-hole took it as a marraige proposal and bailed completely. then i found out i was preggo. ha! wonderful timing. decided to keep it and even that bailed on me about a week later. i told him about tackily through an email. there was no other way of getting through to him, since he egotistically thought i was in love. we exchanged for a bit. he apologized, i let him.
then a year passed. and some change.
and he started calling. pushed and pushed and pushed, until finally, hard-up on excuses and in serious need of attention, i accepted an invite to a local diner for some hot chocolate and a talk. he apologized again. and again i let him.
i'm a fucking punk.
i didn't go as far as letting him in my "no sex" zone, but we did continue to hang out and he did push a little further each time. a hug that lasted a little too long, a peck on the lips, a long, slow kiss. one night i went as far as letting him crash and we messed around. at one point things got a little out of hand. i was listening to my body instead of the voice screaming at me to stop and he pulled at something and moved something else and it honestly felt like rape.
and i freaked.
that's how i knew this copulation sabatical was something so much more than just limiting myself as some sort of redemption. it was truly about me setting my standards and sticking to it. instead of letting people do shit to me constantly. going along with something just to please that other person and maybe me for the moment, but that eventually made me feel like shit later on. in imposing such a determination, i've found myself quite lonely. even he has stopped calling. i've had some sloppy make-outs in questionable places, but even that has left me feeling used up and gross. it still leaves me wondering if someone could truly love me and have the patience to do so.
but fuck it.
like Ben says:
yes, indeed, i'm alone again.
here comes emptiness, crashing in . . .
and it's just another lonely day . . .
like a terribly selfish friend told me once, "i'd rather you be alone than to be heartbroken." i'm beginning to understand the true sentiment behind that rotten phrase. she had other purposes for saying such bullshit, but for my own uses, it does mean something. it means that i have enough love for myself to realize that i indeed deserve what i want and that, no, i'm not fucking picky, i'm self-preserving. i'm not bullheaded as to not compromise. it's not like i have a fucking list, for Christ's sake. but, goddamn it, i want what i want for a fucking reason.
it's what i said and i'm sticking to it.
Horse Feathers, Kensington Prairie, Mazzy Star, Lou Barlow, and Ben Harper have been in heavy in rotation, ol' Benny-boy's Another Lonely Day being my lullaby at night. the song fills me with a strange conflict of emotions, giddy as shit but solemnly unproductive. ideas have been hatching, maturing, and taking serious flight to the point of me dedicating nearly four nights out of the week to maintain entries when before i was forcing myself once a month to get a sentence right and giving up after staring at the screen like an idiot.
that's supposed to be a good thing, but instead i've become more frustrated. i almost feel like the writer's block was more a reprieve than this. i'm still looking for that approval, looking for someone to say, "hey, this shit is good. i'd buy it." i've been listless enough to even wonder if my presence as a person is even worth the space i occupy.
everyone wants to be noticed. beyond being loved and appreciated and lauded, you want to be fucking noticed. you want to feel important to some goddamn body and lately . . . not feeling that so much. been feeling like a mooch. want to hang out with friends, but don't have the dough to do it. the anxiety level of such a prospect has shut me in like a fucking hermit. writing. about fantastical lives filled with people that care mercilessly about others, who have money, who are comfortable for the most part within their position and purpose in life.
everything that i'm not.
i've come to loathe my job, but strangely passionate about it. it's still torturous to be there, taking phone calls, getting cussed out for something that you as an individual had nothing to do with, getting overlooked, being lumped in with people that can't spell beyond a third-grade level and speak in so-called professional settings as if they've learned the English language from watching Juice one too many times. but this is where i am. and like they say, whoever the fuck "they" is (i'd like to fucking punch "them"), work with what you've got. save a few people i can count one hand, i hate everyone there. they never left that high school mentality and their maturity level is somewhere in the vicinity of mud-slinging at the girl that reads books. i lose braincells sitting in my cubicle row, which quite unfortunatley is an open setting, letting any stupid conversation about Halle Berry having a baby with a white dude instead of sticking with her own kind pierce my normally impenetrable bubble.
fucking awful.
and so the cycle starts. i want a new job, but can't seem to get past someone looking at my resume. which means to some degree i can't write for shit. which means i'm destined for a desk job that utilizes none of the skills i think i may possess. which means eternal misery.
awesome title for a B movie. Eternal Misery. i'd watch it. repeatedly.
naturally, companionship has been at the back of my mind as well. i'm okay when i'm home, either writing these glourious plots with sweet loves and adorations of the plain, yet awesome heroine or just talking to myself while reading or watching something mind-numbing on the tube. but when i do go out, i find myself wanting that guy to look from the other end of the PATH car and do that weird double-take. he oddly enough walks, or stumbles since the PATH is a rickety piece of shit, over and says, "hey." and we fall in love from there. or hell, date for a month and hate each other at the end. or just become friends. something that would put my emotions to work. i feel a little numbed. perhaps that's why Another Lonely Day doesn't make me burst into the tears i almost feel i should when i listen to it repeatedly.
like i am now.
i want to be a girl that turns heads and not just of the homeless man or the forty-five year old with balding cornrows rocking one pant-leg up and a FuBu jersey. i want to turn heads like my friends do; from the colombian/el salvadorian that nearly causes accidents when, wearing sweatpants and wife-beater to the mixed girl with those huge light brown eyes, adorable smile and laugh. or my chocolate homie with the body of banger, even after two kids and one helluva life, and the face of a model. something. anything. cuz it does come down to physical attractive at the gate. and i seem to not have that. unless the prospects fit the aforementioned description. or they just want to fuck and they see that underlying eargerness to want to be noticed beneath my coolcalmcollected exterior.
but i'm not doing that.
yeppers, still going strong with the whole "no sex" policy. one of my former . . . things was shouldering his way back into my life something hardcore. he was the last person i honestly really and truly liked and saw a true possibility with. with him, i'd pushed aside all of my pessimism and thought i could have something, really and truly, healthy and lovely.
dead wrong.
he started pulling back, claiming busy and i, in some moment of retard-zen, spilled my guts. i didn't say anything along the lines of even a relationship. i just said, "hey, just wanted to tell you, i'm feeling you. that's all." this a-hole took it as a marraige proposal and bailed completely. then i found out i was preggo. ha! wonderful timing. decided to keep it and even that bailed on me about a week later. i told him about tackily through an email. there was no other way of getting through to him, since he egotistically thought i was in love. we exchanged for a bit. he apologized, i let him.
then a year passed. and some change.
and he started calling. pushed and pushed and pushed, until finally, hard-up on excuses and in serious need of attention, i accepted an invite to a local diner for some hot chocolate and a talk. he apologized again. and again i let him.
i'm a fucking punk.
i didn't go as far as letting him in my "no sex" zone, but we did continue to hang out and he did push a little further each time. a hug that lasted a little too long, a peck on the lips, a long, slow kiss. one night i went as far as letting him crash and we messed around. at one point things got a little out of hand. i was listening to my body instead of the voice screaming at me to stop and he pulled at something and moved something else and it honestly felt like rape.
and i freaked.
that's how i knew this copulation sabatical was something so much more than just limiting myself as some sort of redemption. it was truly about me setting my standards and sticking to it. instead of letting people do shit to me constantly. going along with something just to please that other person and maybe me for the moment, but that eventually made me feel like shit later on. in imposing such a determination, i've found myself quite lonely. even he has stopped calling. i've had some sloppy make-outs in questionable places, but even that has left me feeling used up and gross. it still leaves me wondering if someone could truly love me and have the patience to do so.
but fuck it.
like Ben says:
yes, indeed, i'm alone again.
here comes emptiness, crashing in . . .
and it's just another lonely day . . .
like a terribly selfish friend told me once, "i'd rather you be alone than to be heartbroken." i'm beginning to understand the true sentiment behind that rotten phrase. she had other purposes for saying such bullshit, but for my own uses, it does mean something. it means that i have enough love for myself to realize that i indeed deserve what i want and that, no, i'm not fucking picky, i'm self-preserving. i'm not bullheaded as to not compromise. it's not like i have a fucking list, for Christ's sake. but, goddamn it, i want what i want for a fucking reason.
it's what i said and i'm sticking to it.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Celibacy Pt. 2
i didn't go into as much detail as i would've liked to in the previous blog about this . . . situation, but i'd begun it in june and forgot about it until now. in trying to finish it, i started using current situations to illustrate the weight and sincerity of my dilemma, therefore making it irrelevent to june 9th 2008.
needless to say (if you read the fucking title correctly anyway), i still haven't gotten laid. it's no easier than june 9th but . . . the feelings are the same. i recently went on a boatride and nearly had a coniption, i was needing it so bad. but i haven't slipped in any way. i haven't even kissed anyone since april 20th (the initiation date).
that's right; on my birthday it'll be five months. and damn if it hasn't been hard. i've been having dreams about throwing down with my friends' boyfriends it's so bad (and fuck freud, i do not want that guy!). but i haven't wavered. masturbation most certainly is not in the clause; it is with the utmost sobriety in the exclusions of this here self-imposed year-long contract. that is honestly what has been keeping me sane for the most part. i'm still snappy, still bitchy. still wander off in my mind somewhere at work wondering what my manager looks like naked, but i've been very much alone.
and naturally that had got me thinking.
and that is a dangerous thing.
as i've mentioned (hundreds of times at this point), i overthink. even when i have shit to do i will still manage to overthink, i will find the time to do so. lately when i dream, i have this feeling of . . . puppy love. not true love or marraige love, but puppy love; that wonderful, fresh feeling, past liking, just this way beyond dating but not quite exclusive. just sweet innocent 'i like you' 'i like you' back, 'let's hang out and enjoy laughing at inane shit and not thinking about missing you when we part cuz it ain't that serious.' yet.
yeah that. i miss that.
and that's unfolded in my subconscious. now does that make me horny or lonely?
i'd hate to think lonely. i really don't want it to be lonely but at times when i'm walking home from work, i fantasize about having someone to call when i walk through the door or some calling me before i even hit the door. when my phone rings these days, 98.67% of the time it's my parents. god bless 'em and i miss them terribly, but c'mon! i just talked to you twenty minutes ago!
it doesn't make it any better when i do get in touch with friends from college when one of the first things they ask is whether or not i have a fucking boyfriend. i am proud [at times] to admit that, no, i don't and i'm doing bad all by myself. it's at those same times that i'm damn proud of what i've accomplished. i live on my own, have a decent job, college-graduate, damn muthafuckin' smart as hell, and have a charming personality to boot. i mean i'm not the bitter, weird cat-lady at the top floor - or maybe i am, without the cats. boog-boogz! (shout out to my homie, illest black cat now reppin' NW DC, Nani aka BoogBoogz aka Boogz aka my doods.) so maybe i do have a cat. in a long distance relationship.
this is sad. and now i'm sad. when i know i shouldn't be. but hell if i can't help it right now.
needless to say (if you read the fucking title correctly anyway), i still haven't gotten laid. it's no easier than june 9th but . . . the feelings are the same. i recently went on a boatride and nearly had a coniption, i was needing it so bad. but i haven't slipped in any way. i haven't even kissed anyone since april 20th (the initiation date).
that's right; on my birthday it'll be five months. and damn if it hasn't been hard. i've been having dreams about throwing down with my friends' boyfriends it's so bad (and fuck freud, i do not want that guy!). but i haven't wavered. masturbation most certainly is not in the clause; it is with the utmost sobriety in the exclusions of this here self-imposed year-long contract. that is honestly what has been keeping me sane for the most part. i'm still snappy, still bitchy. still wander off in my mind somewhere at work wondering what my manager looks like naked, but i've been very much alone.
and naturally that had got me thinking.
and that is a dangerous thing.
as i've mentioned (hundreds of times at this point), i overthink. even when i have shit to do i will still manage to overthink, i will find the time to do so. lately when i dream, i have this feeling of . . . puppy love. not true love or marraige love, but puppy love; that wonderful, fresh feeling, past liking, just this way beyond dating but not quite exclusive. just sweet innocent 'i like you' 'i like you' back, 'let's hang out and enjoy laughing at inane shit and not thinking about missing you when we part cuz it ain't that serious.' yet.
yeah that. i miss that.
and that's unfolded in my subconscious. now does that make me horny or lonely?
i'd hate to think lonely. i really don't want it to be lonely but at times when i'm walking home from work, i fantasize about having someone to call when i walk through the door or some calling me before i even hit the door. when my phone rings these days, 98.67% of the time it's my parents. god bless 'em and i miss them terribly, but c'mon! i just talked to you twenty minutes ago!
it doesn't make it any better when i do get in touch with friends from college when one of the first things they ask is whether or not i have a fucking boyfriend. i am proud [at times] to admit that, no, i don't and i'm doing bad all by myself. it's at those same times that i'm damn proud of what i've accomplished. i live on my own, have a decent job, college-graduate, damn muthafuckin' smart as hell, and have a charming personality to boot. i mean i'm not the bitter, weird cat-lady at the top floor - or maybe i am, without the cats. boog-boogz! (shout out to my homie, illest black cat now reppin' NW DC, Nani aka BoogBoogz aka Boogz aka my doods.) so maybe i do have a cat. in a long distance relationship.
this is sad. and now i'm sad. when i know i shouldn't be. but hell if i can't help it right now.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Renew
The pressure in her head continued to grow as she sat at the window, her face in her hands. She watched the streaks of rain race their way down, down until her eyes could follow no further, until she found another to concentrate on. She wondered just how long this would persist. His eyes were on her, tracing her back and arms and legs, slowly admiring the grotesque swell of her ankles, the most recent physical flaw she'd gained.
A flutter shifted her liver slightly and she smirked, a hand automatically going to large mound of her abdomen. It sat low, giving indication [hope] that it was a boy.
"Sorry, baby," she whispered. She grazed her fingernails lightly over the area she believed his head to be, cooing him back to sleep. But he had other plans. A fist, foot jutted up into her stomach, startling her and not pleasantly. She gasped at the impact and fought the urge to puke. One more shove and the baby was down. It was too late for her dinner though, which now rested on her South Beach T-shirt. She'd never been to South Beach, but her parents had brought it back three sizes too big to compensate.
"Linc, could you get me a paper towel, please?" She wiped her chin with the back of her hand as he slowly rose from the table to retrieve the roll. He tossed it at her and sat back down, the roll itself landing three feet short. Without much hesitation she got up and waddled over.
"Don't get that shit on the floor," he growled. "You just had me mop it." She ignored him and snatched up the paper towel, ripping off several pieces to take care of the solids resting on her chest. A tear slipped her eye as the baby shifted yet again. "He movin'?"
She looked up, the sudden urge to punch him in the neck powerful and nearly consuming enough to be carried through. She took a breath instead and closed her eyes. "Yes, Linc. Dreamin' hard tonight." He cleared his throat and dragged a hand over his clean-shaved head.
"Must be the storm. Got everybody stirred up," he offered pathetically. She shrugged and chuckled slightly at his attempt at a decent conversation.
"Must be." She turned to walk out of the kitchen, ready in more ways than one to say goodnight without speaking.
"Want some ice cream?" She stopped, just shy of the threshold and turned to him.
"What?" He swallowed, trying his best not to attack her. Again.
"I asked if you wanted some ice cream," he said as evenly as he could. Even took to cracking his knuckles instead of her face. "Maybe it'll calm him down or something." If it had been anyone else, she would've smiled sweetly, given him a kiss, and told him to come upstairs, that all she needed and all this baby needed was some warmth.
But this was Linc and such words and gestures meant weakness and weakness meant she wasn't fit to be with him and this baby wasn't fit for this world. So she shrugged lightly instead.
"Yeah, I'll take ice cream. Chocolate, if we got any." And she made her way upstairs.
A flutter shifted her liver slightly and she smirked, a hand automatically going to large mound of her abdomen. It sat low, giving indication [hope] that it was a boy.
"Sorry, baby," she whispered. She grazed her fingernails lightly over the area she believed his head to be, cooing him back to sleep. But he had other plans. A fist, foot jutted up into her stomach, startling her and not pleasantly. She gasped at the impact and fought the urge to puke. One more shove and the baby was down. It was too late for her dinner though, which now rested on her South Beach T-shirt. She'd never been to South Beach, but her parents had brought it back three sizes too big to compensate.
"Linc, could you get me a paper towel, please?" She wiped her chin with the back of her hand as he slowly rose from the table to retrieve the roll. He tossed it at her and sat back down, the roll itself landing three feet short. Without much hesitation she got up and waddled over.
"Don't get that shit on the floor," he growled. "You just had me mop it." She ignored him and snatched up the paper towel, ripping off several pieces to take care of the solids resting on her chest. A tear slipped her eye as the baby shifted yet again. "He movin'?"
She looked up, the sudden urge to punch him in the neck powerful and nearly consuming enough to be carried through. She took a breath instead and closed her eyes. "Yes, Linc. Dreamin' hard tonight." He cleared his throat and dragged a hand over his clean-shaved head.
"Must be the storm. Got everybody stirred up," he offered pathetically. She shrugged and chuckled slightly at his attempt at a decent conversation.
"Must be." She turned to walk out of the kitchen, ready in more ways than one to say goodnight without speaking.
"Want some ice cream?" She stopped, just shy of the threshold and turned to him.
"What?" He swallowed, trying his best not to attack her. Again.
"I asked if you wanted some ice cream," he said as evenly as he could. Even took to cracking his knuckles instead of her face. "Maybe it'll calm him down or something." If it had been anyone else, she would've smiled sweetly, given him a kiss, and told him to come upstairs, that all she needed and all this baby needed was some warmth.
But this was Linc and such words and gestures meant weakness and weakness meant she wasn't fit to be with him and this baby wasn't fit for this world. So she shrugged lightly instead.
"Yeah, I'll take ice cream. Chocolate, if we got any." And she made her way upstairs.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Celibacy Pt. 1
i think too much. it's my nature. i overanalyze and dwell and repeat until whatever i've originally obsessed about has become some warped deviation from any remote rational train of thought.
and this is applicable to just about everything.
as of late, i've been thinking about my sex life, or as recent, the lack thereof. it's on purpose; i've decided to go celibate and, no, not because i secretly think i'm a whore that needs to hang up her tramp-ways in order to get herself wholesome for her future husband. it's not like my number is astronomical (58) and it sincerely is not about that. i enjoy sex. gawd, do i enjoy sex! but call it maturity, call it some sort of self-repent, but i can't do meaningless sex anymore.
::clears throat::
yes, i just said that i can't do meaningless, carnal, casual sex.
though the only relationship in which i've been [shamefully] admittedly in love was oprah, lifetime movie worthy, my feelings were genuine for him, for it. to be blunt it was the first time i'd ever had an orgasm with a man. (And that statement is to imply that i've been the only other, nothing else.) at one point i was perplexed with the possibility that i associated the orgasms with love, but then i had my last fling in which the sex was infuckingcredible and i orgasmed and i dropped it like it was nothing. at this point, it's been months and he still wonders when we're going to get back together. i've never been a playette of any kind so confrontation with feelings that are not mine put me in a bit of a stuttering jam. i continuously, not too deftly, avoid, change, eviscerate the subject to save face (over the phone of course). it's hard trust me, but something in me won't let my vagina take over.
and trust, she is ready.
and this is applicable to just about everything.
as of late, i've been thinking about my sex life, or as recent, the lack thereof. it's on purpose; i've decided to go celibate and, no, not because i secretly think i'm a whore that needs to hang up her tramp-ways in order to get herself wholesome for her future husband. it's not like my number is astronomical (58) and it sincerely is not about that. i enjoy sex. gawd, do i enjoy sex! but call it maturity, call it some sort of self-repent, but i can't do meaningless sex anymore.
::clears throat::
yes, i just said that i can't do meaningless, carnal, casual sex.
though the only relationship in which i've been [shamefully] admittedly in love was oprah, lifetime movie worthy, my feelings were genuine for him, for it. to be blunt it was the first time i'd ever had an orgasm with a man. (And that statement is to imply that i've been the only other, nothing else.) at one point i was perplexed with the possibility that i associated the orgasms with love, but then i had my last fling in which the sex was infuckingcredible and i orgasmed and i dropped it like it was nothing. at this point, it's been months and he still wonders when we're going to get back together. i've never been a playette of any kind so confrontation with feelings that are not mine put me in a bit of a stuttering jam. i continuously, not too deftly, avoid, change, eviscerate the subject to save face (over the phone of course). it's hard trust me, but something in me won't let my vagina take over.
and trust, she is ready.
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