BLULITER LackofMorality
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Oct 15, 2002
- Messages
- 133
There I was, sitting in this velvet seat in this little downtown, mom and pop, euro-café/Starbucks hybrid that appeals mostly to artsy urbanites and the splendidly chic.
Another day with my head hung low. A solitary strand of her hair still resting on my coat sleeve. Her glitter, that at one time spilt out, holds its permafrost fixation to these boots. Even this damned crème mixing into this espresso is a fucking nostalgic perpetual deja-voo-doo reminder of what our relationship was. A brightness that spilt out and was swallowed, consumed, and engulfed by the surrounding darkness. A spoon stirring this mug, our world, into a melting pot spiral, until all that is bright and pure becomes a part of all that is dark, harsh, and wrong.
I should have showered today but my sunrise emotion latitude wasn’t up for the challenge of maintenance. Between my just-woke-up/two-day-non-washed-gelled hair and the sparkles on these boots, I must appear like some neon Vegas cowboy. Maybe not.
Relationships. Relationships are just another form of politics. Politics and relationships are nothing more and nothing less than Eurhythmics “Sweet Dreams”- some get used, some do the using type of sadomachoism. Some beautiful appearance for the outside world, but its all pleasure derived from pain. On great big beautiful, glamorous confine, a super absorbent diaper full of shit. A pretty little shell we call ‘love’, but the yolk of it is always rotten. I’m sick of it, girls, bitches, and women, whatever. I’ll just grow to be a cold misogynic old folgy, maybe that’s the skeleton key to my survival. Who knows..
What the hell happened to me a year ago? Did Cupid put a tulip in the barrel of shrapnel filled shotgun? Just waiting for me to sniff the pollen from such an exquisite example of vegetation so he could pull the trigger right in my face? I mean, who in the world does she think she is? Prancing around public with guy after guy, strutting and flaunting her attributes for the sole purpose of demanding a following like she’s some all in one Numbremburg propaganda rally with a cockamany phalanx of heel kissing foolish men in cahoots with her aura. Each one of them coming with batteries and leashes included, and a training manual to rouse up my jealousy. Fine! She can have her little bohemian world of promiscuousness and the little winch can stay deformed in her excess of porn. Come on, keep throwing the gossip tabloids in the air to land on me about who the lucky man is of the day. About who she’s performing the functions of a life support system for a cum dumpster for.
“VAMP EXTRORDINAIRE! GRAB YOUR HABANA’S AND COGNAC AND ENJOY THE SHOW”
That’s what her fucking tabloid heading should read, fucken whore. She’s just an empty sensationalist. I don’t see why anyone cares or gives her a second glance. She might be gorgeous, but beauty doesn’t offset her claustrophobia of emotion.
I should just quit my bitching and focus on my now cold espresso. I keep thinking like that and I’m gonna end up a grudge holding hate monger, just another sinner casting self-righteous stones. Just one more humdrum self-appointed judge, judging from a horse no higher than anyone else’s. I’m nothing special. A middle class unmotivated, undereducated walking cliché trained in the retail and custodial arts. I shouldn’t be surprised she up and left me, look at me. A mongoloid eyed unrefined being whose only consistency in my whoroscope of an existence is my crack of dawn penis petting. This entire life I’ve led, or followed, is a pit stop, weekend jail sentence on a big Monopoly board of something, some universe too important to consider me. At least grant me the ability to have some psyche induced physical trauma that turns into some horrid disease that’s never before been seen. Then it can be named after me and I can finally leave some sort of legacy that might signify I have some kind of menial importance. Maybe I’m already on my way. I’m already somewhere in between anorexia, narcolepsy, insomnia, and anemia. If I’d quit crying and moping, its possible I could actually swallow some suitable food and get some real rest. Whatever.
I’m just pathetic in my orgy of self-pity. What the Hell is all this bullshit I’m pondering and screaming in my frontal lobes? I think some sort of lobotomy is in order. Why am I even bothering yanking my own chain? Putting my real feelings undercover, incognito with some self defense mechanism libido. Who the fuck am I kidding? I’m not some demi-god that deserves more devotion by her than anyone else.
“Quit crying you fag, admit it,” says that other little voice inside my head…
I guess I just miss her.
[ 17 December 2002: Message edited by: BLULITER LackofMorality ]
Another day with my head hung low. A solitary strand of her hair still resting on my coat sleeve. Her glitter, that at one time spilt out, holds its permafrost fixation to these boots. Even this damned crème mixing into this espresso is a fucking nostalgic perpetual deja-voo-doo reminder of what our relationship was. A brightness that spilt out and was swallowed, consumed, and engulfed by the surrounding darkness. A spoon stirring this mug, our world, into a melting pot spiral, until all that is bright and pure becomes a part of all that is dark, harsh, and wrong.
I should have showered today but my sunrise emotion latitude wasn’t up for the challenge of maintenance. Between my just-woke-up/two-day-non-washed-gelled hair and the sparkles on these boots, I must appear like some neon Vegas cowboy. Maybe not.
Relationships. Relationships are just another form of politics. Politics and relationships are nothing more and nothing less than Eurhythmics “Sweet Dreams”- some get used, some do the using type of sadomachoism. Some beautiful appearance for the outside world, but its all pleasure derived from pain. On great big beautiful, glamorous confine, a super absorbent diaper full of shit. A pretty little shell we call ‘love’, but the yolk of it is always rotten. I’m sick of it, girls, bitches, and women, whatever. I’ll just grow to be a cold misogynic old folgy, maybe that’s the skeleton key to my survival. Who knows..
What the hell happened to me a year ago? Did Cupid put a tulip in the barrel of shrapnel filled shotgun? Just waiting for me to sniff the pollen from such an exquisite example of vegetation so he could pull the trigger right in my face? I mean, who in the world does she think she is? Prancing around public with guy after guy, strutting and flaunting her attributes for the sole purpose of demanding a following like she’s some all in one Numbremburg propaganda rally with a cockamany phalanx of heel kissing foolish men in cahoots with her aura. Each one of them coming with batteries and leashes included, and a training manual to rouse up my jealousy. Fine! She can have her little bohemian world of promiscuousness and the little winch can stay deformed in her excess of porn. Come on, keep throwing the gossip tabloids in the air to land on me about who the lucky man is of the day. About who she’s performing the functions of a life support system for a cum dumpster for.
“VAMP EXTRORDINAIRE! GRAB YOUR HABANA’S AND COGNAC AND ENJOY THE SHOW”
That’s what her fucking tabloid heading should read, fucken whore. She’s just an empty sensationalist. I don’t see why anyone cares or gives her a second glance. She might be gorgeous, but beauty doesn’t offset her claustrophobia of emotion.
I should just quit my bitching and focus on my now cold espresso. I keep thinking like that and I’m gonna end up a grudge holding hate monger, just another sinner casting self-righteous stones. Just one more humdrum self-appointed judge, judging from a horse no higher than anyone else’s. I’m nothing special. A middle class unmotivated, undereducated walking cliché trained in the retail and custodial arts. I shouldn’t be surprised she up and left me, look at me. A mongoloid eyed unrefined being whose only consistency in my whoroscope of an existence is my crack of dawn penis petting. This entire life I’ve led, or followed, is a pit stop, weekend jail sentence on a big Monopoly board of something, some universe too important to consider me. At least grant me the ability to have some psyche induced physical trauma that turns into some horrid disease that’s never before been seen. Then it can be named after me and I can finally leave some sort of legacy that might signify I have some kind of menial importance. Maybe I’m already on my way. I’m already somewhere in between anorexia, narcolepsy, insomnia, and anemia. If I’d quit crying and moping, its possible I could actually swallow some suitable food and get some real rest. Whatever.
I’m just pathetic in my orgy of self-pity. What the Hell is all this bullshit I’m pondering and screaming in my frontal lobes? I think some sort of lobotomy is in order. Why am I even bothering yanking my own chain? Putting my real feelings undercover, incognito with some self defense mechanism libido. Who the fuck am I kidding? I’m not some demi-god that deserves more devotion by her than anyone else.
“Quit crying you fag, admit it,” says that other little voice inside my head…
I guess I just miss her.
[ 17 December 2002: Message edited by: BLULITER LackofMorality ]
