I’m the kind of person who will burn my pots (and your pots too, if I happen to be using them). And what? If I was the kettle, and I saw the pot looking black, I’d be like ‘Hey, bro, you look like you’ve cooked some mean dinners in your time’. Which it probably has.
Am I happy with who I am? I dunno. I’m a human, and as far as humans go, I’m pretty awesome. I’ve nice enough boobs, and a smile; apparently as far as reproduction is concerned, that’s enough. But as for the human condition itself…. Well. Who wrote this shit? A script where we are squeezed out of a hairy cunt (which we probably rip open, causing immeasurable pain to she who created us). Death sneaks up, with a whole jumbly, unpredictable mess inbetween.
He’s into Darren Brown? Of course he is. Pieces fall into place. He touched my temple, my hand then my ankle, and I was done for. You sure? I’m sure. No emergency contraception this time.
I’ve gotten rid of all my friends who betrayed me, and made space for a new set who are also likely to. My trembling fingers type less ineptly than usual, but more adeptly than they used to. I intended to write lots of stereotypical generalisations about men; about how my mother was right, even though I hoped it was just the weed speaking. About how they really are truly, deeply motivated by sex (and money and power… but mostly sex). About how affection from a woman says ‘I love you’ and tends to be unerring (unless she is punishing… but that’s another conversation), whereas affection from a man says ‘I am attempting to seduce you’. Purely, fucking, functional.
I’ve repierced my tongue. Sexual guilt? Anger at my own words? Whatever. I like it.
One time I lived with someone’s nonsensical rules and slamming doors. And again, and again. How disheartening.
I call a Christian and ask about God, try to reframe into a concept I can believe in. Cos I really want to.
You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.
All plan B’s have bitten the dust, boys included. I curled on the couch and cried. Then got up and initiated what is, on closer inspection, yet another plan B. B for ‘backup’, ‘broke’ and ‘ busting my own balls’.
I’ve started martial arts, and apparently its just what the doctor ordered.