On Making Women Insane.

"It sucks when girls get in relationships and then decide that they don't need to do the kinky stuff becuase they're 'comfortable.'"
"Uh. I guess. But relationships are more than sex."
"Yeah. But you'd think that as a woman becomes more comfortable in a realtionship, she'd be more inclined to persue the kinky stuff."
"Oh. No. That's not how it works."
"That's how I thought it would work."
"I think this offends me."
"We don't need to talk about this anymore."

Ouch.

Sexual Frustration.

Sometimes I just want to throw him against a wall and violently attack his mouth with mine. I want to make him weak, vulnerable, anything but stronger than me. I want him to melt, to be intoxicated by the moment. I want him to think of nothing else but the rapture and be pleased that even admist the turmoil, he gets to own an experience.

Fuck.

I don't know why I like you. You're rude and insensitive, cruel and most times absolutely gross. You're hostile and sometimes too rough. You're indifferent and unkind and expressionless and overly clever and for some reason, it works for you.

Last night I decided that the main reason I want to consume you so badly is because of those reasons completely. I've seen your gentle side, I want to taste it. I figure maybe, if you like me enough, if I throw myself at you more, the other side will show. I think I'm doing this because I don't know how to do it any other way.
There are many things that come to my mind while trying to pseudo-seduce you. I could be a whore, I could be an angel, but what I really just want is for you to touch me.

Just fucking touch me.

Pull my hair, touch my hip, brush my hand, twist my arm. I don't care. I just want you to touch me. Having your hands on me is all I want and I want to look into your eyes while you're there and maybe then, some of this fucking frustration will piss off.

Alone.

I rarely get a moment to myself in this house. Anything that requires more breathing room than listening to a discman while doing beadwork is literally voided from my extra curricular activities. Even watching T.V. becomes an annoyance admist the busy kitchen and the table saw sliding it's way through fresh planks of wood, almost daily.

In this house, you feel guilty for doing nothing. And when you do the somethings that you crave, you feel worse. So writing a blog, is generally a guilt ridden activity and it bothers me that I do not visit the activity more because in many ways, it's insanely theraputic.

So many things have happened that should own single and outstanding posts, devoted completely to the magic or misery of their impacts, but when I find time, or find the words to write them, it tends to be the middle of the night, or just impossible.

My grandmother died last Saturday. I'm angry at myself for not being able to grieve. There's this overwhelmingly large void in the pit of me that's making me feel even less of a person as each day passes and I don't know how to rid myself of it. Crying and "talking" about my "problems" doesn't work. It never has, especially in my family.
I'm angry at my father for being a stupid, little, cowardly brat. I KNOW IT SUCKS DAD, THAT YOU HAVE TO SEE ALL THE PEOPLE THAT YOU THINK HATE YOU FOR LEAVING MY MOTHER, BUT DON'T HIDE IN A CORNER AT YOUR MOTHER'S FUNERAL.

IT ISN'T ABOUT YOU.

AND DON'T TELL ME THAT MY GRANDMOTHER PASSED AWAY IN THE MIDDLE OF YOUR WEEKEND GATHERING OF JACKASSES. YOU FUCKING PRICK.

Actually now, I can't tell if the void in the bottom of my being is from the death of my grandmother, or from the birthing of the realisation that my father will always, eternally be a fuckwit.

Tau visited yesterday. In the midst of the chit-chat and the mind-numbing art-fag slang that she's adobted from "if you got a cock and you're a jock, you can go to BROCK," the suspicions of her molestation of a child appeared in the back of my Tercel.

"So yeah, since I can't remember my childhood, I think I was molested. That's why I think I have a problem with sex."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, I think my brother did it, and I think my father molested him, so that's why he did it to me."

Maybe you have a problem with sex Tau because the men you've had sex with are assholes and inconsiderate of your feelings and dislikes. Obviously, I'm the pot and you're black, but at least I'm smart enough to see my forest for the trees and not go on a bender of pointed fingers and false accusations based on a bad memory.
But honestly, you probably did get molested as a chlid. Because we all did. In some mental, or physical or other life-altering way because that's all the world exists of these days: MOLESTORS.

Today I realised that I'm so tired of being in the middle of all this misery. And the older I grow, the more I realise that it bores me to tears because being an angry, silly and awful person is annoyingly stupid and just plain easy.

So I listened to Ben Folds and from him I got this:

"The cruelest lies are often spoke without a word. The kindest truths are often spoke, but never heard."

And that's when I realised that there's no exscuses.

Asshole.

I didn't fuck you over Jason.

How silly of me to think that the stark and impossibly, umistakable comments you had left would be anything else but the truth? How silly of me to be offended by them. What was I thinking? What were you thinking? Leaving a comment like that, knowing perfectly well that SOMEONE YOU LOVED would be reading them? Or rather, someone you said you loved, once.

I should have been smart enough to realise that you probably never loved me. I was just a girl that you whispered meaningless nothings to in the middle of the night while you were bored at college. I get it now. Well, fuck you. I did love you and even if you didn't love me, the thought of it meant something. I had never gained the attention, or the affection of a genius before and I was dumbfounded and overwhelmed when you wanted to crack Velma. Of course then, the only thing that was cracked was my reason and sensibility. I adored you, more than I ever wanted to admit. When you broke me the first time, I vowed that I would never give you that power again, but stayed your friend because I was flattered that you took me into your confidence. I was so excited to hear your new ideas and stories and I was overwhelmed when you asked me to be part of LIAC.
I never wanted you to know how much I valued you and that's why I never told you the problem - because I never wanted you to have the power again to hurt me.

You said that I would look back on this and think that I was a fool. You were right; I am a fool, but only for believing that I may have been cleverer than you, for once.
It started on LIAC. It was plainly obvious for quite some time that I was an embarrassment to you instead of a friend. Don't tell me that I dug my own grave there; you knew fully well what I would be like. You were oblivious. You sat on your fence silently, remaining indifferent to the comments to keep your adoring audience satisfied with their muse. Now, through LIAC, I ironically realise that I was never your friend, but rather, just another member of your audience.

I'm not selfish and egotistical enough to think that the brunt of this mess falls squarely on your shoulders. I realise that I should have told you my concerns quite some time ago, but it was always, the wrong time. I could never make it right because you were always: "too busy." And when I did scramble to make it semi-clear it was always hushed with a, "It's fine" in a very cold, quick and uncomforting sort of way.
I think the breaking point came when we were discussing my vacation and you casually said, "it's up to you if you come or not," so indifferently. It botherd me that you seemed more excited about Tree's and God-awful Jenzilla's visit than mine. How was I to make head or tales betwixt the contrast of the semi-warm and cheerful manor during our five-minute MSN conversations and the careless and thoughtless comments left on LIAC?

How strange that the blog-world you created caused a relationship to end. Did you ever think it would come to this? I have been cunted by the original cunt. Consider my cherry popped.

I'm sorry that I will never hear the ending of your book and more sorry that I will never hear about the girl that you finally fall in love with, but I think that alone will do wonders for my simple sanity.