The Day I Ceased To Exist.

and i’m no good for you anyway i’m too neurotic too self-absorbed too selfish and you’re too pure your soul is too pure and next to it mine is soiled and filthy and grey. i’m a mess of emotions they spill from me like the geysers at the hot springs that we will never see together. you call me and say are you okay did i upset you did i devastate you i don’t want to hurt you. and i bite the inside of my cheek and i say no i’m not upset i’m not hurt i’m not devastated. i’m not i’m not i’m not. i am nothing. without you i don’t exist. i hang up the phone and cease to exist.

Marital Bliss.

I could never marry somebody who doesn’t share at least some of my passions.

I’m stubborn, opinionated, and strong-willed enough for a thousand armies. While I understand that is a lot to handle with, I also don’t think you should apply for this sort of job if you feel under-qualified because sooner or later one of us is going to know something isn’t working.

I’ll give you the best friend you never had. I’ll give you a heart so big you can hardly hold it. I’ll give you understanding and loyalty like you never knew you needed.

But there are four men in my life you never try to take down and you never try to talk me away from: my dad, Elvis, Sinatra, and James Bond.

Because let’s face it. Sometimes they can’t make anything better than the originals and a girl’s gotta love her vintage. They say diamond’s are a girl’s best friend. These men are mine.

Writer’s Block

Writing is a lot like sex. Your muse comes to you, wrapped in a dark cloak of mystery, and whispers to you seductively of colorful characters from distant lands. He nibbles delicately at your brain until you can no longer bear the hunger and seize him in a frenzy of passion. He plants his seed within you, and it grows slowly into a living, breathing being for you to nurture.

Unfortunately, there are times when your muse deserts you, destroying your desire for him and, eventually, the soul of your beautiful creation. It’s during these times that you find yourself sitting at your computer at 5:30 a.m., consuming unhealthy amounts of caffeine and struggling to coerce your exhausted brain into producing a piece of halfway decent writing.

I’ve often wondered why I put myself through this torture. I lost my passion for writing a long time ago. I write about the spoiled, selfish goddess who learns the meaning of love and friendship when she’s exiled to the mortal realm, but her discovery brings me no joy. I write about the naive, optimistic peasant girl who’s seduced by evil and becomes a cold, ruthless murderer, but I don’t mourn the loss of her former self. I feel nothing for either of them. This is hardly surprising, considering that they’re not the products of passion, but of rape.

Although the act disgusts me, I rape my muse again and again. All writers must become rapists at some point. When our muses run out on us, we have to hunt them down and beat them into submission. The children of such violent unions are tragically deformed, but with the proper amount of affection, they can grow to be just as beautiful as their brothers and sisters.

Profound disappointment.

Either people have an incredible tendency to disappoint or I overestimate them. Love is not a sometimes thing. It is an always thing. And you can only love so many people before you’re lying about who it is you really love.

One will never read.

There is too much to say to put in these measly sentences.

My words would love to dance then to lye line by line.

Words of sorrow,

words of joy,

words of apathy,

words of love,

words of hate,

words of everything you say to me.

Yes, they contradict, but like a being they are all different.

Coming from me they are nothing, but reminders of past reflections.

But as you read you connect or disconnect.

My words could be reassuring to one and pointless to another.

The thing is that I write for one and that one will never read my words.

What a downer it can be to reminded that until they read my words all I will be is a pathetic bag of meat.

For now I post my frustrations and dreams online for others and maybe just maybe for that one to be guided by fate and find my words.

The only problem is that I don’t believe in fate.

Humanity.

humanity is probably the most foul, disgusting, dirty species. we are by far the most selfish, narcissistic, self-serving, loathing, prejudiced, diseased species. we are supposed to be the smartest but we are also the most uncivilized.

family is nothing. friends. love. none of those exist. they are all aspects of society, not the soul. there is not one person in this world i would trust to be there for me in any condition. when you have to choose two paths you always choose the one best for you and not the other person. no way around it.

we gossip and we lie and we hit and tease and trash. we’re destructive and cruel, vicious and bitter. it has never been a matter of kind and unkind, right and wrong. it is a matter of what is good for ourselves as opposed to the masses. people’s position on good and evil always changes based on what position they are in.

rules don’t exist. we bend them. we break them. we go through them. we only follow them when they aid our cause. we are only faithful when it serves our purpose. we are only kind to others when it does no damage to ourselves.

unconditional love, unbending morality, compassion in spite of hatred, these things are all myths. myths created by mankind to help us better deal with the selfish decisions we make on a daily basis. myths to add a little color to a black and white world where light only shines on ourselves and others are only there for the purpose of making our worlds unempty. everything is for the individual. nothing is for the common good.

we are all the victims and villains of our own stupidity, ourselves, and each other.

Pleading the fifth.

I won’t be standing up for long, I better learn how to crawl. Ten minutes and I’ll be laying out flat on the floor.

Eight minutes from losing it a little bit. Five minutes your description might be starting to fit. Three to go and I’m forgetting all that I’ve ever known. I won’t be standing up for long I better learn how to crawl.

Here’s to problems, fixations, and human weakness. I suppose we all have some sort of sleeping giant in us waiting to be prodded. Never one for moderation, I set mine on fire.

Fool worth reading.

I’m a fool. Sometimes it’s because I’m a bumbling idiot. Other times it is because I am protesting things that are meant to give some impression of me which is false because if it were true I wouldn’t have to shout it. So either I willfully admit that I know nothing and show I am a fool or I play as if I know everything and feel I am a fool. Either way you put it, I’m a fool.

The rest of the time, when I am real and do nothing, then I am a little less stupid and a little more my true self. It is the self that is confident in the fact that I know something but aware of the fact that I don’t know everything. I find that I see more when I shut my mouth and watch, even if that means turning off my ears. That part is generally good because the majority of people are doing what I am doing, saying things they don’t mean. And I don’t have to listen to know they are hypocrites. They are human. That automatically makes them hypocrites. That I know from both observation and personal experience. No. Instead I have learned that if you watch what people do rather than what they say you can tell their real wants, needs, desires, intentions, motives, all that good stuff.

It’s sort of like in soccer. Like a a defender, the eyes can mislead. Any good forward can look in the opposite direction he plans on playing a ball. The feet can be dragged and stepped in different directions for moves so you think the ball is going one way and with a swift gesture, it is in another and you find yourself burnt. No. You watch the hips. No player can go anywhere without his hips. And you watch the ball. Because it does not matter where the player goes. He can go into the goal. But if he doesn’t take the ball with him then he’s irrelevant anyways.

Basically, words are just words and without action they mean nothing. If you watch, and truly know what to watch, then people, whether they know it or not, reveal themselves. It’s the whole Adam and Eve syndrome though. Once you realize they, without their words and social status and so on and so forth, are undressed before you, it embarrasses you. Partially because you see some very ugly, real, human things. Other times it is because you see something that either awes or amazes you. Sometimes both.

This is not to say I do not love words. I do. They’re my passion. But words are nothing without something to say within them. I could easily say Beautifully picked daisies shine on the table in spite of their coming death, and it is flowery (quite literally) and sounds fine but it means nothing if you have never seen a daisy or if you have never seen a flower beautiful one day and three days later dead because some silly girl decided to murder it by attempting to capture its beauty. It means nothing if it does not speak to personal experience, to action and observation. So I love words but they are simply a vehicle for recording a way of thinking.

And thought is always expressed in action. I’m a fool. You’re a fool. We’re all fools. The majority of the time our words portray that. Sometimes our actions reflect that. And sometimes they reflect something beautiful and genuine. It’s very rare and sometimes hard to spot but well worth the wait. For me personally, those few moments of sense are all the worth of being a fool. The moments of being a fool and watching fools are all worth something if in between a few of them every once in a while that fool writes something about it worth reading.

A death of betrayal.

Caesar didn’t die because he was stabbed. He died because of who stabbed him. We’re hurt most not just by what is done/said but by who does/says them. Take a lesson and keep your distance from everybody so that nobody can leave you bleeding to death on a marble Roman floor. But of course if you let nobody close enough to you, you die a death of loneliness. Look at it this way. Either way it’s a gamble. Do you get the human friends, you know those flawed creatures likely to make a mistake and allow greed or power or ambition or insecurity to get in the way, or do you get the angelic, saintly friends who are a statistical rarity? All people fail us in one way or another. It’s just about choosing who fails you out of malic and who fails you out of imperfection. But if you’re sensibly afraid to get close to anyone or get lucky and decide to have your slumber parties and swap secrets with Brutus, you’re dead ahead of schedule. The whole Ides of March thing. Some times the people we pick to protect us are the ones who have drawn the piercing blade, aimed at wounds they know we already have. What ironic lives we lead.

Realizations.

I love movies but I’m coming to see that my life isn’t one.

There is no twenty minute safety net for the best friend who left to walk in at the end. There is no visible redemption just beyond the grasp of the screen.

There are a great many differences between a film and a life. The first is a story, hopefully enjoyable, about something that maybe half-happened or should have happened. Then second is a journey brutal in terms of the reality it holds and beautiful only when you’re willing to look hard enough.