Index - Profile - Archives - Notes - DiaryLand - Random ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I may take a holiday in Spain, leave my wings behind me. I had not so secretly hoped I had deleted the pictures you sent to me. Unfortunately, they were still there. I still don't have the heart to get rid of them. I think that says something about the level at which I've gotten over you, but I'm too tired to think about it. Everyone always says a good cry will make you feel better. And, I always say I've cried enough to not cry now. It's true. I've probably shed enough tears for everyone in the last 9 years of my life. In typing that, I realized how many of you haven't had 9 years from under your parent's wings. What have I done with my 9 years of failure? Today, I pulled papers apart and put them back together. I typed a lot, and took 2 phone calls. The last of which, at 4:45 pm, was a screaming woman. Then, on the way home, someone pulled in front of me while I was doing 75. Five minutes of cursing ensued. After, I thought you selfish fucking bitch, you have no value for my life, you act on your impulses, and you care not if anything you do would kill someone else. That, my friends, is why I hate life. Every day that I walk outside, I put my life into the hands of a greedy, self absorbed, piece of shit. I don't know when they'll decide to take it, I just know I'll have no say. Suicide is the ultimate in control, by my logic. Days like today remind me that I shouldn't care that you don't care. I shouldn't waste my time on typing this, or thinking this, nothing will change. Masturbation is the only cure for my loneliness. Because it's not on the surface, it's so far down deep, I don't know how to fix it. I'm good at letting you think I let you go. I'm good at pretending to be okay. And, I'm really good at taking all of the blame when things go wrong, to let you feel free of any guilt that may follow you around. But the truth is I'm not any good at any of those things. I'm just good at faking it. I thought it was a good idea to tattoo Hope on my wrist, on the side I use, giving. Give Hope. Because that's the only thing I still have. And it's the only thing I have enough of to give to you. But, this isn't giving you hope anymore, not since I proved to the world that love doesn't always win. I only ever wanted to have a song about me, and have someone sing it while they meant it. I wanted the freckle on my lip, and I wanted to keep it covered so that only someone who knew me well would know it's there. I wanted a motorcycle, and warm, and light. I only ever wanted to be the exception. I am simply ordinary. And, probably, I'd cut you off while you were doing 75 on the highway. . . . The paper. Just checks and invoices stapled to legal papers, kept in the two filing cabinets to my left. The spreadsheet no one thought to make to make this enormous project easier. The list from queries from the database I built. The duplicates removed, applicable rules applied. Because I'm smart. No. I'm fucking smart. And, I'm wasting. Pulling papers apart. Copies. Put papers back together. In the monotony, we had sex 12 bazillion times, and I kissed 4 people. Someone rubbed my neck, and turned the air conditioning on. We had a bomb scare, and had to go home early. Someone pulled a shot gun out of their car, in the parking lot to my right, and blew me away into a red mess. I quit my job 23 times. Heard Ani sing and my cunt is built like a wound that won't heal, so now you don't have to ask, because you know how I feel. I felt badly about 4 things, and told stories. I ate pretzels and drank a coke. Thought about what I wanted for lunch, debated it with coworkers. I killed 50 of my potential babies by making copies with the lid up. While I was pulling papers apart, we had sex 12 bazillion times. 6:53 p.m. - 2003-06-17 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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