fuckeveryone

This will be

The last journal entry.

To those i never got to know

I'm sorry, but now it's time to go.

To those that i will leave

I'm sorry, but now i must be free.



Wanna know why i'm going. Read this. and i'll give you a nickle if you can guess who it's about...

Gutter Boy (draft 3)
by Charlotte M Jusinski
Product of dirt and double joints,
worshipper of porn stashes and pot ashes
and right arms stronger than the left
thanks to weeknights alone with no motivation,
you flourish like fungus
in the basement of your parents' rented house.

You, the last time you looked in a mirror,
if pretentious,
would have reveled in the way your beginnings of a ghoti
makes you look old
or how the silver ring centered on your lower lip
makes you a machine -
but the last time you caught a glimpse of yourself
(passing a window on Main or
squinting in the rearview mirror of your best friend's car),
you thought nothing.
You are the way you are.
Once a week is bathing enough
and 30 inches is waist enough
and half a fake feeling is emotion enough.

Why do something if it requires exerting yourself,
or, worse yet,
tests your ability to be careless?
Youve learned that sincerity is useless when a laugh
or a swipe of the tongue ring
can get you to the same place.
Who cares what feels your erection when
every few days its a new mouth or steady hand?

It's not a matter of what you can do for them,
but of what they can do for your penis.
It's never been a matter of ego;
you don't think that far into it, gutter boy.
You don't even realize there's an ego to inflate.
You know only the smug aftermath:
that satisfied hum in your head
when your hands smell like cunt,
and how each pair of breasts pushed against your white chest
or each pair of moist lips pouting in the dark
stimulates that spot behind your eyes
that makes you feel like a king.
But that's not why you do it -
that's not why you crave it -
that's not why you charm your way past a new bra every couple days.
You do it because it satisfies you -
because you love the way
you love yourself
more and more with each girly moan.
Ignorance is bliss is indistructability is loving yourself to a fault -
but the fault's all hers
for believing that you'd give up your untouchability
for a girl who had no intention
of hating you.

Don't disappoint now, gutter boy.
You have not once
savored the smell of the same privacy
for more than ten ejaculations.
Don't give in to the emotion that you appear to have
(and don't miss a beat without).
You love comparing tastes and tits and tightnesses,
so dont stop now, dont stop, dont stop, dont stop, but
don't let her go home happy for more than seven nights in a row.
When you're tired of her, don't play the sympathetic sorry.

Don't disappoint now, basement king.
Quit the act, quit the game,
quit crying wolf for the regret that you've never felt.
The longer you let her hang around,
the more obvious it is
that you're a dickhead dressed in dramaqueen's clothing.
Get out of whatever car whose gas you're wasting
and saunter away, slither away,
your white hands and dirty nails
shoved into jean pockets.
Get the fuck out of whatever life whose time youre wasting
and filling with empty oaths of loyalty
and white hollow smiles for the camera.
Stop pretending you hate your faults
when you writhe in them, you revel in them,
you forget you even have them
at all.

Don't disappoint -
for you do love yourself so.
You love your dick and your ribs,
her tits and her clit,
your eyes that change color
and piercings and clutter.
You love dirt and double joints,
porn and pot and your parents' rented house,
little white lies and milky white thighs,
masturbation and lack of motivation,
cunt and tongue and cum and feelings far flung.
You can't disappoint
or be disappointed
because
you love life, basement king
you love life, basement king
you love life,
..........................basement
...........................................king.