Well, I shelled out 133 bucks and I can see now.
Also, today bowiee took time out of his busy day selling Porshe's and other elite vehicles to overpaid Richmonders to replace my busted taillight. Why? Who knows. He's just cool. Plus, the boy's got style. It's not often I come across a guy who knows how to dress without looking ridiculous. Thanks Corey.
My situation with the ex is still troubling me. After what happened, I really shouldn't feel obligated to ever speak to him again, but he's here, and he's depressed, and another part of me wants to try and help him through it. Nevermind the fact that my nights are riddled with bad dreams -- nevermind the fact that I carry my bowie knife in my backpocket constantly -- nevermind the fact that he was supposed to be my friend, to protect me from bad things instead of subject me to them -- nevermind the fact that I can't seem to secure even the slightest hint of an orgasm from my trusty vibrator. I'm fucked. And on top of all of this, I've got my stupid roommate telling me that he probably never loved me, that he probably says that shit to every girl he dates. He's probably right.
I just don't know what to do. They're not going to kick him out of the house unless he taxes their patience, and I'm too soft to be this hard forever. Somedays I want to run to him, wrap my arms around him and tell him everything is going to be okay, but I can't. Everything is not going to be ok. I see his bloodshot eyes, his twisted mouth calling me garbage, the blood everywhere, the shattered window, the spit flying out of his mouth and onto me, cowering in a roller chair. With the abundance of hate I experienced that night, maybe my roommate's right, maybe he never gave a shit about me. Maybe I was one of many. This is why Fiona Apple rules. I love her like a sister right now. She says everything I need said.
I know I wasn't the best girlfriend -- I'm often exasperating, unaffectionate, cold, calculating, self-contained, distant. I'm very cautious when it comes to intimacy. I didn't trust him. I wasn't ready to fall in love with him, so I didn't. I had to trust myself. Apparently, I was right not to trust him. I don't know what kind of state I'd be in now if I had let down the walls. Don't want to know. Still, the fact remains, I cared about the motherfucker a great deal -- maybe more than I've cared about any guy in years, and now I can't be there when he needs me most because the crimes he committed were against me. It's a terrible Catch 22, and it's fucking me up.
Enough about that. I need a cigarette.
I have an idea! leave me testimonials!
Sidenote: Ok, there's a WHOLE lot of stuff in my profile that I don't remember writing...um...at all. I must've been pretty disturbed the other day.
Also, today bowiee took time out of his busy day selling Porshe's and other elite vehicles to overpaid Richmonders to replace my busted taillight. Why? Who knows. He's just cool. Plus, the boy's got style. It's not often I come across a guy who knows how to dress without looking ridiculous. Thanks Corey.
My situation with the ex is still troubling me. After what happened, I really shouldn't feel obligated to ever speak to him again, but he's here, and he's depressed, and another part of me wants to try and help him through it. Nevermind the fact that my nights are riddled with bad dreams -- nevermind the fact that I carry my bowie knife in my backpocket constantly -- nevermind the fact that he was supposed to be my friend, to protect me from bad things instead of subject me to them -- nevermind the fact that I can't seem to secure even the slightest hint of an orgasm from my trusty vibrator. I'm fucked. And on top of all of this, I've got my stupid roommate telling me that he probably never loved me, that he probably says that shit to every girl he dates. He's probably right.
I just don't know what to do. They're not going to kick him out of the house unless he taxes their patience, and I'm too soft to be this hard forever. Somedays I want to run to him, wrap my arms around him and tell him everything is going to be okay, but I can't. Everything is not going to be ok. I see his bloodshot eyes, his twisted mouth calling me garbage, the blood everywhere, the shattered window, the spit flying out of his mouth and onto me, cowering in a roller chair. With the abundance of hate I experienced that night, maybe my roommate's right, maybe he never gave a shit about me. Maybe I was one of many. This is why Fiona Apple rules. I love her like a sister right now. She says everything I need said.
I know I wasn't the best girlfriend -- I'm often exasperating, unaffectionate, cold, calculating, self-contained, distant. I'm very cautious when it comes to intimacy. I didn't trust him. I wasn't ready to fall in love with him, so I didn't. I had to trust myself. Apparently, I was right not to trust him. I don't know what kind of state I'd be in now if I had let down the walls. Don't want to know. Still, the fact remains, I cared about the motherfucker a great deal -- maybe more than I've cared about any guy in years, and now I can't be there when he needs me most because the crimes he committed were against me. It's a terrible Catch 22, and it's fucking me up.
Enough about that. I need a cigarette.
I have an idea! leave me testimonials!
Sidenote: Ok, there's a WHOLE lot of stuff in my profile that I don't remember writing...um...at all. I must've been pretty disturbed the other day.
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falias:
falias:
hey you!