an A without studying, it was proper sex
See if tonight's dreams are any better—well of course all I've done is dwell on her. I can't watch any movies about relationships or Europe or people living fulfilling lives without it getting started. I want to be above my resentments, kill off envy, I want to be free. I can't hear Russian, I can't hear German, I can't hear fearkin Spanish—There's no other way for me. One day when I'm 50 I'm going to meet a 54 year old and get mad at her cause she's not a virgin and have to obsess on her history. I sure as hell have nothing to offer now. I'm going to die lonely and meaningless. I have to break down my ego. Any songs about sex forget about it it's her at a club. I couldn't watch The Interpreter today with Nicole Kidman cause she worked at the UN and lived on her own. That means she can have people over anytime! I hate Carrie Bradshaw and I hate that fuckin Madonna, but I feel the little man talking. I've dumbed myself down so much just to not be reminded of her. I won't read anything intellectual because I see her having intellectual banter, maybe, just maybe, in another language with someone across the table while I'm trying to grasp what this stupid smart e-mail newsletter has to...whatever...and they're on a double date. Oh, she's had a good morning, and I'm at best a crossing thought that she shouldn't have messed with an infant. Well, we can't all go into the city and Ego isn't thinking you're better than others or being too sensitive, it's more than that—it's worse. It's not being able to accept life isn't made for you. And I've seen the others do it, the crazies...but I'm crazy too. I'm crazier than they are, this whole time I assumed she'd just wait for me while my life hasn't changed in years but just got some unexpected attention. What was she going to wait for? I'd still abuse her. I couldn't accept her as she was—why would she? Every opinion I'd undermine as sullied and therefore see as thinking that had adapted. If you'll notice there aren't any actual love poems here. I was more manipulative or naive here than I realized; I may have kept one scent but there's a few colognes. Well common arguments hold that check this I'm listening my subconscious could be utilizing a literary umm, to underscore some kind—oh will you shut up mr big artist! You do realize you were being catfished, right? eh I prolly realized that a few years back. Shit, I'm probably the unwitting pioneer of all reality TV...I thought she liked me—How could she like you while you're being catfished? I imagined her laughing. You mean the girl whose tone you used to imagine her laughing. But the tone talking about my toothbrush, the green one when I was bumming it out? She was with the director. How the fuck did they know about the morning final? Maybe I just wanted to—should I pause for the italics? My finger's tired. Look, don't be so hard on yourself, you've used plenty more impressive energy to recreate her. The important thing is I didn't create her, boy would the screen's so fuckin' small she said TV rots your brain where do —who is the italicizing button. I'm gonna delete this fuckin post, I swear. This is sobriety and self-will I told myself I wouldn't use the cliches, cause you're such an original right, by the way you should italicize shut up shut up shut up! the screen's so. If she couldn't trust me with her privacy, and I couldn't trust her knowing how I viewed her...then no one can trust me cause i have no fuckin security. What do I know but worm in the dirt and the depths inherited by it? ...and the moral debts. Just cause I'm not sexually healthy, I have to call women names? Wild tobacco leaves? Get that word out of your dictionary.
- Darwinists always win. Shut up. Why do you care? if she's not in your life, what are you a pyschopath getting jealous because others have what you don't have? Then you shouldn't have done so much drugs and cheated and tried to be controlling. I made her an object. I fried my brain. I don't want to be a pervert I want to be unperverted! Oh quit with the red underline that's a word I just made it a word do you know who I am? Scary thing is how I can identify with the pyscho documentary I saw. And it sucks to be this way...even though I was right to go through her stuff. She called me a pyscho; I didn't know how to be causal like you need to be in this world for people and Carrie Bradshaw not to think you're a Neanderthal, before you go off and become one. Fuck this shit, I'm so lost in this post. I should have left her in that room! That's what I should have done, not have sex with her afterwards while I hated her. I should have left her in that room. What's it matter, I was always trying to control her thinking. Well, she called me a psycho later on after I hacked into her shit and read her calling me a psycho. I couldn't believe she was calling me a psycho. Everything I did after not doing what I should have done in the first place, I deserve what I'm getting. Boorish! Boorish is what they called me, some relationship article I just read. It's like we've come full circle, four months later, what with the Carrie Bradshaw cosmopolitan hooker references, those are the things I would call her when I would try to terrorize her, wrote cute spiteful poems about it and everything, posted it on her own wall. Can't believe I'm still the same little man. Maybe I'll have to stop the blogs. I haven't been able to write much the last couple months anyway. Maybe come back when I've put in the work—Boorish?! Fuckin bitches. You apply the definition to a person you see fit that definition, but that's all it is, a definition, decided by some shlum who set the rules for his own reality. There is still a person there. I've been ready to let go, I just don't know how. There was still a person there. I want to be happy, not tell myself my life's narrative. It's just a running documentary in my head, when I'm walking, when I turn the corner—full blown color commentary. I have the ability to have a successful day based solely on all the good shit I imagine people are thinking about me. And then, get this, then people don't treat me the way I heard them talking in my documentary, the same people—the girls—who speak of how special I am, that he's way better than other guys who are technically more successful; the ones that then point to my height, and intellect—definitely an intellectual, but not an animal, he's smart, they say—the ones that catch a look when I'm not looking; then when I sit down in the flesh like here I am...well, it's like they never met the King of Spain before! I think I get the pageviews more now. When I was young, anytime Nirvana was mentioned on TV, I thought people at school would think of me. I've started questioning what's my real reason for writing other than to have someone think of me when reading. And I know what you're thinking, of course I do, what writer? Right? But let me ask you this: if I'm such a sucky writer, why then are people saying all those good things about me in documentaries? Check, bitch! Loneliness is a perfected art. And I just look down, sad, and remember the sirens in Hollywood getting louder passing me, the fire department hosing back to life those swooning in my peripheral. Anyway, tourist commercials, those are pretty tough to watch... When I think about her, I automatically see a scene in her life, which isn't necessarily sexual, but looks which more fulfilling than the one this bozo built, and from that arises sadness but really it's a resentment and at root I want her to blame herself for what I've turned into and that's a no go—it's booboo. What'd I tell you about your lingo? Why not, don't indulge that energy (sinkhole). It leads to sensations that'll find playtime savoring like when it rains and weather girls. It's not your scene, you gave up that chance long ago, good looking pal! To make dinner together... Make dinner together? She doesn't even want to Not make dinner together. I always felt like she knew and loved me from a distance, that's what gave the blog life. We used to joke that she should have been born a man; I'm the one that got pregnant. Goodbye, b***.
oh no he's back...
- You know, we used to say to each other—
- Get outta here!
- We...we use to say that we were crazy about each other. Well, one of us was bluffing!
- Fine. Leave.
- She has no idea what crazy is—what's that in your hand?
- It's chocolate.
- Oh, ok...Well, then does it—
- Leave!
- Okay. Let me just ask you this then—
- What?
- Does it taste any good?
- I don't know man, it's just chocolate.
- Oh.
- All right—
- She had me put as my ringtone—
- Oh my arrggh!
- Every little thing she does, by the Police, for when she called, you know?
- N***a, I don't care!
- We both know which Police song it should have been!
- Here take this one and leave. I got two more.
