Tuesday, September 29
none
I’m so sad not to have you in my life sometimes. It’s crazy how much I struggle. Life is really tough.. when you're truly alone... I didn’t know you were my best friend. A frown line is sinking into the skin on my forehead
Sunday, September 20
What I learned last night: You won’t fall asleep on a soggy pillow.
I’m struggling. In a deep pain. I’m so devastated to not have you in my life. I loved you deeply truly and honestly, whole and with my entirety. I wanted to talk with you I wanted to be there for you as you developed into whatever you become. I admit I lost myself some, much, but I was trying to support you. NO I wasn’t there to support you financially, but I tried in the ways I knew how. I wanted to develop these further with you. I wanted to talk with you, but you didn’t ever talk back and I wasn’t the pushy type to make you do it. And now you hold that against me. Real nice jackass. But I struggle. I want you in my life. I don’t want to live without you.
I’m scarred. I trusted you to not let me go. To not to cast me aside. I trusted you with my heart. I thought you would always be there for me. I can no longer trust. I have no love left. None to give. None to give to my friends, none to give to my family, none to give to anyone new. You f7cking stole it all, and used it up, and tore it apart, you useless greedy slug. I can no longer love. You didn’t care for me with a lovely gentile hand. I trusted you use care for me with a gentile hand. To treat my heart with care. I can no longer touch anyone without feeling hallow. I have become untrusting. I use to trust. You f8cking stole it from me. I use to trust. I use to love. You fucking stole it from me you useless piece of shiiit. I was used and unloved when I wanted to be loved and I loved back honestly. I’m scarred.
I’m scared. I’m scared because I’ve come to realize I may not get over this feeling. And that feeling is so deeply painful that I’m not sure I can live in any more. I’m at a lost for what to do about it. I scare myself; I consider things that I never in my wildest nightmares considered. The things I’ve started investigating. You wouldn’t believe it. I barely believe it myself. But sadly I know it to be true. I shock myself even. I‘m afraid to tell anyone. I don’t know how to get help. Where do I go how do I call? Who do I call? Help isn’t there in the way I need it. Me me me me scarred scared solitude.
I was starved. I was starved of attention. I lived in solitude. Because you’re selfish. But that was better then this. I’m a masochistic. That was better than this. Now I’m alone. You act so holy (you miserable slump) but the sad truth is you have no real love to give even though I tried to find it in you. You miserable slump. You are untrustworthy and have no feelings of any significance. Even though I tired to solicit them out of you. And to develop you into some (and I put myself on the shelf) who could actually make the world a more beautiful place. Because you are so lovely. I love you. And I loved you. But truly all you have to share is a stupid hat imported from china that you think looks good on your huge head. Too bad your head is the biggest part of your tiny little body, it is definitely not your penis. Rising sun?! ha ha. I wanted to wrap my long lovely legs around your body, because I loved you wholeheartedly. I overlooked all that you had lacking physically, actually I never overlooked; I never even saw any flaws in you. Never. I thought you were so incredibly handsome, intoxicating. I was intoxicated by it. I was enamored with you. I was in love. That’s what it was. Love. But you would really have none of it, but I didn’t fight you on us not communicated because I’m nice and don’t nag. But mostly because you totally suck in bed and have no idea how to please a women at all. Nor do you even try your self-centered tiny little prick. The fact that you wouldn’t even try for some reason makes me feel like the shitty one. Like I’m not deserving a few minutes of attention paid to me. You self centered slump. You can only please yourself…which took about 40 seconds even if I was asking you to not (yet again) come yet. You’ve left my totally high and dry. I’m straggling. Every day is a struggle. I’ve been dooped. Dooped. I’m stared for love. For someone to hold me. And let me feel alive in their arms. I’m alive
I can’t even say I cried myself to sleep tonight. I cried. But never found sleep. My pillow was too wet to lay my head in comfortably and i grew thirsty. So here I am. Writing alternate endings to blogs I fantasize about publishing. And crying and running out of tissue. Wtf. Yes it is 5 am. I don’t know how to sleep anymore. I don’t know who to love and I don’t know how to sleep. The only thing I know who to do is bitch. And I know a ton about vintage clothing, and can write an entire lecture about it and organize an entire event around it, not bad if I do say so myself, and I’m a fucking amazing dancer.. Crap so are you. And now I have no one to dance with so fuck that trait. I have nice long legs, and am a kind soul, and have high cheek bones, and can create an amazing outfit out of what is essentially someone’s unwanted stuff from goodwill that will look couture when I’m done with it. Oh and I can make amazing omelets, and soufflé even when faced with the crappiest oven ever (thanks again jackass you self centered prick wanted a cute oven?! wtf?! And I didn’t argue with you because I wanted you to be happy and your were paying for it so what the hell could I do, except deal with it), and fondue, and bake bread so here’s my edits to my previously bread post.
8) Bake for half an hour. ……(alternate ENDING 1)
While your irony bread goes about its business of baking and driving you mad with its wonderfully warming and intoxicating aroma, remember that once you shared an intoxicating love that was trusting and childlike and warm, think about all the ways you want to eat your irony bread. Remember ing that you once did trusted, you once loved, and you trusted him someone with your heart, you believed he would not harm it, not hurt, not destroy it leaving it completely unusable. You’ll tear the bread apart, piece by piece. Ravishing it with crumbs flying. OR slow down and eat it slowly acknowledging that both good bread and a renewed sense of trust take time to rise into beauty, and required a gentle gentile hand; a hand that takes the time to kneed it and need it. And that both home made bread and a renewed heart taste better and are more satisfying when the recipe and the ingredients are developed, and fine-tuned through trail and error and a sense of care and winder and understanding. The recipe will evolve. . Understand, and try not to be bitter, especially since you cried salty tears into your bread, that there is trial and error in all bread making and relationships. Develop an understanding of how bread is made with the different ingredients. Oat flour requires a cooler water and less salt (in the wombs) then wheat flour: my recipe is given a chance fine tune. Mistakes, changes in recipes are made. But redo the recipe, try again, change the measured amounts, change the science behind it, try again, communicate, with each attempt the broken heart is mended and the bread tastes even better.
9) Take bread out. Eat your bread. Enjoy. Relish your efforts. That you can make something alone, something primitive, something organic. You can make something life sustaining with your own two hands. That your old boyfriend wouldn’t think is important. Even if your arms are sore from needing, kneading, and trying. Acknowledge your feelings. Savor the bread, the fresh bread you cried into and kneaded until your muscles grew sore; you needed. Savor the love you needed, savor that you did have something your craved. Savor its humbleness. Savor its whimsy. Stretch it out. Make it last. Cover it in butter that melts warmed against fresh new bread. Savor that this doesn’t happen often. Appreciate that it is rare in life to find such beauty. Appreciate it is rare bread is made so fresh and appreciate that it’s rare you find something so simple and easy to be around. Something you can just sit and be still with. Something gentle. Something kind. I mean it’s rare you make your own bread.
8) Bake for half an hour. ……(alternate ENDING 2, a better ending, and a lie)
While your irony bread goes about its business of baking and driving you mad with its wonderfully warming and intoxicating aroma, your new boy toy drives you insane with his wonderfully warming and intoxicating pheromones, think about all the ways you want to eat your bread... and new boy toy. Tearing it apart, piece by piece. Ravishing it, him... with crumbs flying. Or eat the bread slowly, acknowledging that both good bread, a healed heart, and new relationships take time to rise into beauty, require a slow gentle hand, that takes the time to knead it and need it and both taste better and are more satisfying when given time to rise and develop. Your new boytoy will know this, and be able to tell you so.
9) Take bread out. Eat your bread. Enjoy. Relish your new boy toy and new feelings. I mean bread…. Savor. Savor its humbleness. Savor its whimsy. Stretch it out. Make it last. Cover it in butter that melts warmed against fresh new bread. Savor that this doesn’t happen often. Appreciate that it is rare in life to find such beauty. I mean bread. Appreciate it is rare you make bread and appreciate that it’s rare you find something so simple and easy to be around. Something you can just sit and be still with. Something gentle. Something kind. I mean it’s rare you make your own bread.
I’m struggling. In a deep pain. I’m so devastated to not have you in my life. I loved you deeply truly and honestly, whole and with my entirety. I wanted to talk with you I wanted to be there for you as you developed into whatever you become. I admit I lost myself some, much, but I was trying to support you. NO I wasn’t there to support you financially, but I tried in the ways I knew how. I wanted to develop these further with you. I wanted to talk with you, but you didn’t ever talk back and I wasn’t the pushy type to make you do it. And now you hold that against me. Real nice jackass. But I struggle. I want you in my life. I don’t want to live without you.
I’m scarred. I trusted you to not let me go. To not to cast me aside. I trusted you with my heart. I thought you would always be there for me. I can no longer trust. I have no love left. None to give. None to give to my friends, none to give to my family, none to give to anyone new. You f7cking stole it all, and used it up, and tore it apart, you useless greedy slug. I can no longer love. You didn’t care for me with a lovely gentile hand. I trusted you use care for me with a gentile hand. To treat my heart with care. I can no longer touch anyone without feeling hallow. I have become untrusting. I use to trust. You f8cking stole it from me. I use to trust. I use to love. You fucking stole it from me you useless piece of shiiit. I was used and unloved when I wanted to be loved and I loved back honestly. I’m scarred.
I’m scared. I’m scared because I’ve come to realize I may not get over this feeling. And that feeling is so deeply painful that I’m not sure I can live in any more. I’m at a lost for what to do about it. I scare myself; I consider things that I never in my wildest nightmares considered. The things I’ve started investigating. You wouldn’t believe it. I barely believe it myself. But sadly I know it to be true. I shock myself even. I‘m afraid to tell anyone. I don’t know how to get help. Where do I go how do I call? Who do I call? Help isn’t there in the way I need it. Me me me me scarred scared solitude.
I was starved. I was starved of attention. I lived in solitude. Because you’re selfish. But that was better then this. I’m a masochistic. That was better than this. Now I’m alone. You act so holy (you miserable slump) but the sad truth is you have no real love to give even though I tried to find it in you. You miserable slump. You are untrustworthy and have no feelings of any significance. Even though I tired to solicit them out of you. And to develop you into some (and I put myself on the shelf) who could actually make the world a more beautiful place. Because you are so lovely. I love you. And I loved you. But truly all you have to share is a stupid hat imported from china that you think looks good on your huge head. Too bad your head is the biggest part of your tiny little body, it is definitely not your penis. Rising sun?! ha ha. I wanted to wrap my long lovely legs around your body, because I loved you wholeheartedly. I overlooked all that you had lacking physically, actually I never overlooked; I never even saw any flaws in you. Never. I thought you were so incredibly handsome, intoxicating. I was intoxicated by it. I was enamored with you. I was in love. That’s what it was. Love. But you would really have none of it, but I didn’t fight you on us not communicated because I’m nice and don’t nag. But mostly because you totally suck in bed and have no idea how to please a women at all. Nor do you even try your self-centered tiny little prick. The fact that you wouldn’t even try for some reason makes me feel like the shitty one. Like I’m not deserving a few minutes of attention paid to me. You self centered slump. You can only please yourself…which took about 40 seconds even if I was asking you to not (yet again) come yet. You’ve left my totally high and dry. I’m straggling. Every day is a struggle. I’ve been dooped. Dooped. I’m stared for love. For someone to hold me. And let me feel alive in their arms. I’m alive
I can’t even say I cried myself to sleep tonight. I cried. But never found sleep. My pillow was too wet to lay my head in comfortably and i grew thirsty. So here I am. Writing alternate endings to blogs I fantasize about publishing. And crying and running out of tissue. Wtf. Yes it is 5 am. I don’t know how to sleep anymore. I don’t know who to love and I don’t know how to sleep. The only thing I know who to do is bitch. And I know a ton about vintage clothing, and can write an entire lecture about it and organize an entire event around it, not bad if I do say so myself, and I’m a fucking amazing dancer.. Crap so are you. And now I have no one to dance with so fuck that trait. I have nice long legs, and am a kind soul, and have high cheek bones, and can create an amazing outfit out of what is essentially someone’s unwanted stuff from goodwill that will look couture when I’m done with it. Oh and I can make amazing omelets, and soufflé even when faced with the crappiest oven ever (thanks again jackass you self centered prick wanted a cute oven?! wtf?! And I didn’t argue with you because I wanted you to be happy and your were paying for it so what the hell could I do, except deal with it), and fondue, and bake bread so here’s my edits to my previously bread post.
8) Bake for half an hour. ……(alternate ENDING 1)
While your irony bread goes about its business of baking and driving you mad with its wonderfully warming and intoxicating aroma, remember that once you shared an intoxicating love that was trusting and childlike and warm, think about all the ways you want to eat your irony bread. Remember ing that you once did trusted, you once loved, and you trusted him someone with your heart, you believed he would not harm it, not hurt, not destroy it leaving it completely unusable. You’ll tear the bread apart, piece by piece. Ravishing it with crumbs flying. OR slow down and eat it slowly acknowledging that both good bread and a renewed sense of trust take time to rise into beauty, and required a gentle gentile hand; a hand that takes the time to kneed it and need it. And that both home made bread and a renewed heart taste better and are more satisfying when the recipe and the ingredients are developed, and fine-tuned through trail and error and a sense of care and winder and understanding. The recipe will evolve. . Understand, and try not to be bitter, especially since you cried salty tears into your bread, that there is trial and error in all bread making and relationships. Develop an understanding of how bread is made with the different ingredients. Oat flour requires a cooler water and less salt (in the wombs) then wheat flour: my recipe is given a chance fine tune. Mistakes, changes in recipes are made. But redo the recipe, try again, change the measured amounts, change the science behind it, try again, communicate, with each attempt the broken heart is mended and the bread tastes even better.
9) Take bread out. Eat your bread. Enjoy. Relish your efforts. That you can make something alone, something primitive, something organic. You can make something life sustaining with your own two hands. That your old boyfriend wouldn’t think is important. Even if your arms are sore from needing, kneading, and trying. Acknowledge your feelings. Savor the bread, the fresh bread you cried into and kneaded until your muscles grew sore; you needed. Savor the love you needed, savor that you did have something your craved. Savor its humbleness. Savor its whimsy. Stretch it out. Make it last. Cover it in butter that melts warmed against fresh new bread. Savor that this doesn’t happen often. Appreciate that it is rare in life to find such beauty. Appreciate it is rare bread is made so fresh and appreciate that it’s rare you find something so simple and easy to be around. Something you can just sit and be still with. Something gentle. Something kind. I mean it’s rare you make your own bread.
8) Bake for half an hour. ……(alternate ENDING 2, a better ending, and a lie)
While your irony bread goes about its business of baking and driving you mad with its wonderfully warming and intoxicating aroma, your new boy toy drives you insane with his wonderfully warming and intoxicating pheromones, think about all the ways you want to eat your bread... and new boy toy. Tearing it apart, piece by piece. Ravishing it, him... with crumbs flying. Or eat the bread slowly, acknowledging that both good bread, a healed heart, and new relationships take time to rise into beauty, require a slow gentle hand, that takes the time to knead it and need it and both taste better and are more satisfying when given time to rise and develop. Your new boytoy will know this, and be able to tell you so.
9) Take bread out. Eat your bread. Enjoy. Relish your new boy toy and new feelings. I mean bread…. Savor. Savor its humbleness. Savor its whimsy. Stretch it out. Make it last. Cover it in butter that melts warmed against fresh new bread. Savor that this doesn’t happen often. Appreciate that it is rare in life to find such beauty. I mean bread. Appreciate it is rare you make bread and appreciate that it’s rare you find something so simple and easy to be around. Something you can just sit and be still with. Something gentle. Something kind. I mean it’s rare you make your own bread.
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