**I love the sentiment of this, but the typo pisses me off. I guess we’re all fucking sandwiches, huh?? Oh well, life is never perfect is it?
“YOU FAT FUCKING BITCH!”
“Do you have a red sundress? Because I would really like to see you in a red sundress.”
“YOU DON’T KNOW WHEN TO SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
“You have the most beautiful eyes.”
“YOU’RE EDUCATED BEYOND YOUR INTELLIGENCE, AREN’T YOU?”
“Your skin is so soft, it feels really nice.”
*I don’t ever again want to hear the stuff in all caps, the stuff that Fuck Stick said. I want to hear the other kind of stuff. I want to hear it all the time. Whether I will hear it again from “whatshisname” or not, remains to be seen, but it felt really great to hear it once.
Shit just got real. I just got the papers for switching residential custody of my son to his dad. I knew they were coming, and I thought I was prepared to deal with it, but guess what? I’m not. I was fooling myself. I was trying to play make-believe, and dress-up, and pretend I was a big girl that could handle this shit. It feels like I am giving him up. I know that’s not what’s happening, but it reminds me of a day 28 years ago, when I gave up my other child. Why do I have to give up another one?? It’s not fair, and I know life isn’t fair, but god dammit!! I don’t want to do it. I want to change my mind. I want him to come home, and be here with me until he’s 18. I don’t want to let him go.
“I feel broken. I feel different than everyone else.”
“How long have you felt this way?”
“For as long as I can remember. Even as I child I felt it.”
“I never knew. I don’t know why you feel that way.”
“Me neither. Maybe it’s just my nature. Maybe it’s just who I am and I need to accept it instead of trying to change it.”
“I am sorry you feel that way.”
“I am sorry only in the sense that I feel like it makes me difficult to love. Also, because I think my feeling of brokenness makes me attractive to broken men, and vice versa. It makes me think I will never have a normal relationship, because I am too broken. Why would any man who isn’t as broken as me, want to love me?”
walk of shame
played the game
what’s your name
whose to blame
I need the fame
now don’t feel the same
I’m just some dame
walk of shame
*I have never been fond of verse that rhymes for some reason, but am quite aware this one does. It might also be considered a type of alliteration. Really, I don’t have to have a name for it, and don’t really know why I am explaining myself–I used it specifically for effect.
your icy tendrils grip my heart
you claw at my gut
my head reels from you
I am unable to escape
though I run
knowing I can’t slow down
because at every turn
there you are
why do you pursue me so
you stalk me
you hunt me down wherever I am
the only relief it seems
will come from death
whether it be of me or you
I know not
Yep, that’s me. Always seeing the potential in a man. “A victim of my own optimism” on numerous occasions. I have high expectations of myself, and therefore tend to have high expectations of men I become involved with. I know. . . most of them never seem to live up to the expectations, but I continue to have them! Is this the same as believing someone can change? Yes, I think it’s very similar, and we all know we can’t go into a relationship with someone expecting them to change. I wouldn’t want someone to go into a relationship with me, and expect me to change, so it seems silly for me to expect that. And, I can sit around and say that I don’t expect them to change, that I like them just as they are, but when it comes to the majority of the guys I’ve been with in the last 12 years, that isn’t true. Really, there were these glaring things about them I knew I couldn’t live with, but I glossed them over with my cock-eyed optimism.
I need to remember what Maya Angelou says, “The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them.” The first time The Fuck Stick kicked me and left the bruise on my leg he showed me exactly who he was, and I didn’t believe him. The second time, when he pushed me down and I almost hit my head on the paving stones, he confirmed it, and I knew, but I ignored him. The third time when he cut my face open, and had his hands around my throat, all optimism went out the window, and I saw him for the total fuck stick he was(is!).
I want to be optimistic about love, but I don’t want to be foolish. I want to be strong enough to walk away from men when they show me they aren’t worthy of my time. If they’re not worthy, and I stay, it is out of a sense of desperation, and I’m not desperate. I don’t need to be desperate. I just need to be happy.
Still histrionic, still a bookwhore; just faking competence because of my kid.
May the novel bring you inspiration in your daily ruminations.
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