...I have lost all my energy for you.
I have lost all of the sense you used to make to me. Maybe it was because we were two fishes in a bowl, stuck together all of the time. Now, we are in the ocean, and I'm noticing just how fake you are - just how false your scales are. You like to lie about who you are. Because you are so terrified of being who you are - simply because there is no 'real' you.
With every person you are someone else.
If I'm wrong, correct me, prove me wrong then.
Let me explain....okay?
You used to be something very similar and comfortable. You used to act like you understood me, loved me, and wanted to be with me.
Now you act like you are better than me, smarter than me, and more fun than I am.
...You could not be more wrong.
You are so wrong, it hurts to watch.
You love lying now! Your lies are so thick in the air, I am choking on them - although you seem to be breathing fine. Your pathetic attempts at trying to be slick and sly, your backhanded comments that you don't think I understand.
The world is smart, but I'm not that dumb either.
I can't wait to be free once again.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The Magic Red Romper
Here's the beat, children, (the girl children), there really is a secret to attracting boys in bars - and attracting vicious stares from other women.
The secret?
The color red.
It's Miss Steal-Your-Booty-Call, here now, and that is totally the tonic. It's the complete elixir, the cure all for hanging on the edge of a bar, looking bored. It's the honey, it's the sticky tape, it's all of it.
Or at least, it was for me last night.
I retreated to my old stand by, Tir Na Nog, the Irish bar with a mighty fist of couple therapy last night -albeit with my partner in crime, Lennyn. The only difference was that instead of my usual black garb (a color that I completely believe in) I wore red. Bright red, at that. I've always been a bit uncomfortable in bright hues, I'm not completely sure why, but I have been. I think it's because they seem to disagree with my personality. Yeah, sure I'm a loud, obnoxious bitch - but I'm a moody one. I'm not 'Ms. Sunshine', if anything, I'm 'Miss Gag-and Stuff-You-in-a-motherfucking-trunk' - and I'm proud of that. I don't have goals to be the butterfly that everyone worships, my goal is to be the spider hanging on the ceiling above your bed. One wrong move or tough exhale from you, and I will fall into your bed, infiltrating your private areas, and scaring you to death. Truth be told, I'd rather be feared than liked.
Lennyn and I were bored last night. We nearly decided to leave, but then, the Bass player came by. whispering in my ear, while holding his bass guitar, he says. "That is a great dress, you're gorgeous." I smiled and told him I liked his kilt (Hey, it's St. Paddy's day weekend) and he stared at me throughout his whole set. But who needs a bass player? Lennyn and I had our eyes on these two guys who stared at us the whole time - A tough-looking Fred Savage look-a-like and his blond sidekick. Eventually, we snagged them, and they bought us shots of Jameson. (Ugh, I hate shots). Fred Savage had monies, and was a an artist with a mixed martial artist background - and I immediately wanted that one. The blond was post-divorce and extremely goofy and Lennyn wanted that one. Well, of course, it ended up the other way around - because it just always does. He kept telling me I had incredible eyes - saying they were 'very beautiful and honestly fierce." He was a goof, but I loved the way words rolled off of his tongue. I like compliments that include calling me a bitch in a backhanded way. Apparently, after noticing my red romper, the first thing he noticed were my eyes. It most likely was bullshit, but it was cool. But you see? it was the romper. I have to say, Lennyn and I did laps around the bar a few times, and all I really noticed were the stares of animosity from other girls. Yes, my legs were bare and I was wearing heels. And nope, I was not wearing a bra - so, suck on that, ladies. Don't penalize me for being more confident than you are - I worked out yesterday and I had whiskey on the rocks in my hand, you couldn't do shit to me. But was it the red? That's what I was wondering. In a sea of green and muted shades last night, I was a bright figure. The bright red silk was striking - even now as I write this I see it poking out of my dresser drawer and I can't help but look at it as my room grows darker as the sun goes down. The boy fell in love with me last night, I felt confident and great in the magic red romper. As our guys went outside to smoke and talk shit about us, two extremely cute guys came running into the bar. They came straight to us and shouted at me with wide smiles, "Jesus Christ, you are actually SO gorgeous!" Besides the fact that these guys were obviously coked out of their minds - they were sweet. They bought us shots of Johnny Walker Red and wanted to t take us home, before the original two came back in the bar and rescued us from them. Got to love a former mixed martial artist - Fred Savage protected us from rapists - it was the first time a man besides my father had protected me and acted like a tough guy - I have to admit it was sweet.
But was it the romper?
The stares and drinks? The whispers from annoying girls and the bass player? Did it all stem from the color red and the hottie Lennyn by my side? Going out with her is awesome - I feel like I'm part of this socially free team, where we both don't care of about stupid people and we accept each other for our unique and mutual disrespect for society.
But that romper, man...that fucking romper....
$17.80 well spent.
The secret?
The color red.
It's Miss Steal-Your-Booty-Call, here now, and that is totally the tonic. It's the complete elixir, the cure all for hanging on the edge of a bar, looking bored. It's the honey, it's the sticky tape, it's all of it.
Or at least, it was for me last night.
I retreated to my old stand by, Tir Na Nog, the Irish bar with a mighty fist of couple therapy last night -albeit with my partner in crime, Lennyn. The only difference was that instead of my usual black garb (a color that I completely believe in) I wore red. Bright red, at that. I've always been a bit uncomfortable in bright hues, I'm not completely sure why, but I have been. I think it's because they seem to disagree with my personality. Yeah, sure I'm a loud, obnoxious bitch - but I'm a moody one. I'm not 'Ms. Sunshine', if anything, I'm 'Miss Gag-and Stuff-You-in-a-motherfucking-trunk' - and I'm proud of that. I don't have goals to be the butterfly that everyone worships, my goal is to be the spider hanging on the ceiling above your bed. One wrong move or tough exhale from you, and I will fall into your bed, infiltrating your private areas, and scaring you to death. Truth be told, I'd rather be feared than liked.
Lennyn and I were bored last night. We nearly decided to leave, but then, the Bass player came by. whispering in my ear, while holding his bass guitar, he says. "That is a great dress, you're gorgeous." I smiled and told him I liked his kilt (Hey, it's St. Paddy's day weekend) and he stared at me throughout his whole set. But who needs a bass player? Lennyn and I had our eyes on these two guys who stared at us the whole time - A tough-looking Fred Savage look-a-like and his blond sidekick. Eventually, we snagged them, and they bought us shots of Jameson. (Ugh, I hate shots). Fred Savage had monies, and was a an artist with a mixed martial artist background - and I immediately wanted that one. The blond was post-divorce and extremely goofy and Lennyn wanted that one. Well, of course, it ended up the other way around - because it just always does. He kept telling me I had incredible eyes - saying they were 'very beautiful and honestly fierce." He was a goof, but I loved the way words rolled off of his tongue. I like compliments that include calling me a bitch in a backhanded way. Apparently, after noticing my red romper, the first thing he noticed were my eyes. It most likely was bullshit, but it was cool. But you see? it was the romper. I have to say, Lennyn and I did laps around the bar a few times, and all I really noticed were the stares of animosity from other girls. Yes, my legs were bare and I was wearing heels. And nope, I was not wearing a bra - so, suck on that, ladies. Don't penalize me for being more confident than you are - I worked out yesterday and I had whiskey on the rocks in my hand, you couldn't do shit to me. But was it the red? That's what I was wondering. In a sea of green and muted shades last night, I was a bright figure. The bright red silk was striking - even now as I write this I see it poking out of my dresser drawer and I can't help but look at it as my room grows darker as the sun goes down. The boy fell in love with me last night, I felt confident and great in the magic red romper. As our guys went outside to smoke and talk shit about us, two extremely cute guys came running into the bar. They came straight to us and shouted at me with wide smiles, "Jesus Christ, you are actually SO gorgeous!" Besides the fact that these guys were obviously coked out of their minds - they were sweet. They bought us shots of Johnny Walker Red and wanted to t take us home, before the original two came back in the bar and rescued us from them. Got to love a former mixed martial artist - Fred Savage protected us from rapists - it was the first time a man besides my father had protected me and acted like a tough guy - I have to admit it was sweet.
But was it the romper?
The stares and drinks? The whispers from annoying girls and the bass player? Did it all stem from the color red and the hottie Lennyn by my side? Going out with her is awesome - I feel like I'm part of this socially free team, where we both don't care of about stupid people and we accept each other for our unique and mutual disrespect for society.
But that romper, man...that fucking romper....
$17.80 well spent.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Why I'm not Carrie Bradshaw - and why I never will be or want to be her.
As one watches the sugar silk screen Sarah Jessica Horse-face Parker as wears an odd printed dress and real horses with stilettos, we see her run through NYC's streets like a fucking gazelle and - I'm sorry, I want her to trip. JUST FUCKING ONCE. OR TWICE. OR MAYBE FOUR TIMES. Don't get me wrong, it's a greatly written character, but I hate her. I don't think her fucking puns are funny, and she's the ugliest out of all them bitches, and why does she get all of the attention? She's so dumb and retarded, I hate her.
Your jokes are not funny.
Your outfits are retarded - you aren't pretty enough to pull them off.
And, you know what? She whines too much. And she complains too much - if I were a guy, I wouldn't want to pork that.
I'm sorry, she is stupid.
Samantha got her shit together, okay?
fuck what people think, fuck sugar - eat salt.
Get laid, because it feels good and it's fun to be naked with people. There is nothing bad about sex. However,
Carrie is always with her bra on. It's dumb.
I will never be carrie Bradshaw because I don't want other people's approval, I don't want to be the quirky cute type. I want to grab a guy and douse him with poison - I want to be the scary-good-lay type. Carrie cares about shoes. I don't really, I care about catching lies with butterfly nets.... ugh, who cares? I dont care about making babies just for the sake of giving up parts of my wild thorniness, and I don't believe in sacrificing myself on the altar of society's bullshit. I'm about to go crazy when I think of women like you. You don't even know who the fuck you are, do you? Stop trying to get to Heaven when your head will not leave Sodom and Gomorrah, and frankly, you don't want it to.
Your jokes are not funny.
Your outfits are retarded - you aren't pretty enough to pull them off.
And, you know what? She whines too much. And she complains too much - if I were a guy, I wouldn't want to pork that.
I'm sorry, she is stupid.
Samantha got her shit together, okay?
fuck what people think, fuck sugar - eat salt.
Get laid, because it feels good and it's fun to be naked with people. There is nothing bad about sex. However,
Carrie is always with her bra on. It's dumb.
I will never be carrie Bradshaw because I don't want other people's approval, I don't want to be the quirky cute type. I want to grab a guy and douse him with poison - I want to be the scary-good-lay type. Carrie cares about shoes. I don't really, I care about catching lies with butterfly nets.... ugh, who cares? I dont care about making babies just for the sake of giving up parts of my wild thorniness, and I don't believe in sacrificing myself on the altar of society's bullshit. I'm about to go crazy when I think of women like you. You don't even know who the fuck you are, do you? Stop trying to get to Heaven when your head will not leave Sodom and Gomorrah, and frankly, you don't want it to.
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