| spam me, bitches. |
[05 Mar 2032|04:00am] |
LOVELUST | TEXTS | VOICEMAIL | SPAM | HATE MAIL
(if you leave out the word whore out of the hate mail, you'll get creative points)
YOURS: VK | DC | LD
MINE: VK | DC
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[22 Mar 2030|05:35pm] |
l-o-v-e's just another word i never learned to
pronounce
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[19 Apr 2010|11:06pm] |
who Jacqueline + Britta
what shopping spree
where a thrift store
when Tuesday afternoon.
( something witty here )
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| tres . bitches and hos (not really but whatever) |
[09 Apr 2010|08:31pm] |
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"The time has come," the walrus said. "To talk of many things…"My mom used to recite that to me. I remember after she was gone, my nannies all tried to do it but they couldn’t get it right. Not like she did. I think that after nearly nineteen years in and out of therapy and periods of legally and illegally medicating myself I’ve finally figured out why none of them could ever get it right. It’s not some cheesy Hallmark excuse like “because nothing could replace the love of a mother”. It’s more like – she was never actually a mother. She was always a performer; it was always what she knew she wanted to be. After all, she was a leggy blonde named Marilyn and my father once upon a time likened himself to Cary Grant and he produced records – she thought she was signing on for a ride to the top and instead she got a ring, a house, and a kid.
Anyway, her life didn’t end up the way she wanted it to. Last I heard she was making adult films and filling their MILF quota, in fact we’re ninety-nine percent sure that that’s her in Naughty Nurses: House Call Edition but for all I really know that was Patron-fueled delusions in a college dorm room that we thought were hysterical at the time. Where was I? Oh, right – her life went down the tubes and this is my theory as to why: she let herself get caged and that scared the fuck out of her, so she ran and took whatever she could and it landed her at rock bottom.
As much as I’ve tried to deny it, I’m a lot like the woman I’ve affectionately dubbed “the egg donor”. When things scare the fuck out of me, I usually don’t deal with them. I hated that I used to look like her, so I dyed my hair. I hated that our house made me think of her, so I only go back once a year. I hate that I can relate to her, so I dated Liam for three years. But sometimes you spend so much time making turns to get away from something that you run yourself in circles and end up running into the thing you were running from head-on.
I like Boston, but I’m starting to feel like I’ve been here for longer than I originally anticipated. In order to keep myself from doing – what it is I usually do, I’ve decided to just make some minor changes and suck it up for as long as I can, yeah? Because I like you Boston, I really really like you.
So the first minor change is simple enough, but before I do it I want your opinion:
( back to blonde or stay a brunette? )
I already made sure my best lady will still love me if I go back to blonde, but I’m terrible with decisions – so help me out.
Now that the cat is out of the bag, maybe I'll stop thinking about it so much.
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| uno. mornings are always a bitch, it's why i don't like to sleep. |
[31 Mar 2010|01:36am] |
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well i could have been a famous singer if i had someone else's voice. but failure's always sounded better - let's fuck it up, boys, make some noise. the sun came up with no conclusions, flowers sleeping in their beds. the city's cemetery's humming. i'm wide awake, it's morning. You wake up today and you stare at the ceiling, squinting and tiling your head and examining the ceiling tiles. You count them all one by one going left to right. Then again right to left. Up and down. Down and up. Diagonally in every which way. Don’t forget to count the ones that aren’t whole by guestimating their fractions. You wake up alone today and you wonder: “What happened to the days where I woke up next to random strangers?” And you convince yourself that maybe that wasn’t so bad-- because it’s better than waking up alone. At least it’s still another warm body. You used to wake up next to people you didn’t know. You knew that they must have looked more attractive the night before when you had five shots of vodka in your system but in the morning you couldn’t tell them apart from any average Joe on the street. Or maybe their name was John. Whatever, who cares? ( -- )
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