The roller coaster

Please excuse the lame title. But, that's what I am lately. Lame. Not in the hipster sense but in the "put that worthless horse down" sense. My coat doesn't shine anymore. I'm not the prizefighter or the stud horse or whatever the more clever term would be if I hadn't popped so many pills tonight, I mean, all week. I'm not even that blue and I see larger tragedies all the time but the whiny brat in me starts to pill out of boredom and constant pleasure seeking, then she adds more and more because it has become so diluted. Classic case of boredom leading to "look at me" acting out.

Felt so great with my new found maternal side. Hugging women at work and really feeling connected. Feeling powerful and free despite my "job".

More to come. No longer sober enough to type.

Last week's hurt... (8/5/09)

Hurt/betrayal/any title is so cliche.

There is no hope. There is no such thing as romantic love. If you're stupid enough to believe that "the one" is out there waiting for you, you are one of the lucky ones. Much like not-so-witty but oh-so-true adage "everyone dies" is the cold hard truth that "everyone lies". Perhaps it isn't such a harsh reality. Once you know and adjust- you can become superior. Completely immune to the frustration and sorrow. At 29, my goal is to no longer sob and weep when he hurts me. At 16, yes it was a surprise but at 29??? OF COURSE he fucked two other girls not even 24 hours after I left his bed. Never mind the fact that I am sexually obligated to an average of four men a week. When I do it, it's for entirely different reasons.

Coping- drugs and detachment. Perhaps the reason I like rough sex is because I can strip away all of the fluff and lose myself in the choking and name calling. No matter how smart, successful or attractive I am I will always be nothing more than just a gash.

Father's Day

I could write a book about the love hate relationship I've had with my dad. The same man who broke my toys, flushed my fish down the toilet, burned my posters off my wall, called me a stupid ass, etc, etc, also still cuts my steak, stood in line for my books in college, rescued me when I was stranded in Highland Park and so on. So, I love him to pieces. But- why do I hate most men? Hmmm. Tell me doc? I love their cocks, kisses, attention. Wait- I need their attention. But, I also like hurting them. Oddly enough, some of my closest friends are male. I feel a strange competition with males though. I'm always trying to outsmart, out tough them.

Gotta run- mom doesn't want me late for Father's Day but this is just scratching the surface.

Turbulence

What a week. But- I feel good. I feel happy. I feel relieved. I'm back on my Lamictal. I'm accepting money for "listening". I'm dreaming of a better life. David still has me wrapped around his pinky. I saw him Monday and Wed and we did our usual dinner, followed by a trip into his hot tub, followed by sex which makes me feel good but never makes me cum. His life makes me sick. He makes more in a month than I make in a year and yet I tried sales and couldn't hack it. So- this week finds me almost 29 years old, realizing that time is running out. I am ready to sell my soul, do whatever I have to do to have the good life. I cannot go on much longer in a life of poverty. My existence is exactly what I swore I would never become. I look down upon my parents for never making anything of themselves despite their advanced degrees and here I am, almost 30 with NOTHING.
So- I know that I'm good at fucking, good at a mild amount of extortion and game playing so that is what I will focus on. I may not be able to sell a fucking printer or hold a normal job but if my life is going to be worth living it is going to involve nice material things.

This entry has irritated me. Back to chores.

Syrup

Today I fought a ticket and caught myself reverting to my signature slow nod when asked if I knew that it was not okay to cut through parking lots. Just a wide eyed, slow nod yes as Mr. Officer said "I understand you spoke with Lt. Shada", I'll dismiss the cell phone ticket but I can only reduce the other to a blockade. Why am I rambling about this? Because in a time when I'm working not one, but two, shitty, remedial jobs and doing horribly at both I have to find a way to tell myself that somewhere inside I have some sort of skill or talent. Otherwise- why even bother getting out of bed? So, I may be poor and unable to hold a "respectable" job but I have perfected my own art. It is the rescue me/fix these broken wings broken little girl game. Coupled with the right amount of cumdumpstery, this makes me and the gentleman caller feel a (completely faux) deep, sensitive connection. "What happened there?" he asks as he looks at my branding scars on my left upper arm, done with a coat hanger and piece of jewelry (at two different times) at age 12. This is when I respond by looking down or away and saying "nothing" or "just a brand from when I was a kid" and then I'm probably thinking about what I'm gonna eat when he leaves or how many cheques I've bounced this week but I keep a deep gaze off into nowhere just for a few moments, then back to him, usually with a gentle kiss. This gives the illusion that I am a complicated, yet troubled, soul (which I am, but, come on). And, eventually, I'll need to go to him for something OR I'll be crying about something and the male rescue reflex will kick in and do something for this damsel in distress, albeit usually something tiny and worthless like a few bucks or drugs.

Poor little me...

I had some great insight this weekend but I was too icky to get out of bed and write. Perhaps it is good- I find that I am definitely ruminating just like my dad does! I always bust his balls for it and now I'm doing it. So- maybe all that ick lost was good. I'm feeling positive tonight- got a bit of coke coursing through my bloodstream, and some happy thoughts, too. I truly think I am afraid to get out of my comfy damsel in distress mode and live! Ra ra ra! Tony Robbins ain't got shit on me. :)

This weekend I pseudo attempted to get myself offed. Well, not really but I did have an off the wall, back of the mind hope that my last minute guest might have more in store for me than massage and butt play (for him, mostly).

Old habits die hard

Nope- not as fun as it sounds. The old habit being, my lack of writing and then my fear of writing because I want it to be good enough, even though the purpose of this was to write just to write.

Been having such a mundane aldult life, peppered with deep thoughts and emotions. Spending more time with mom, sis, and reaching out to dad. Spending less time with men. Declared celibacy which worked until I was seduced by a huge cock about a week ago. Anytime someone can show up with drugs and dick, I'm probably gonna be a fan.

Okay- I'm too shifty to do this right now-

Was complaining about being tired but now I'm jittery from the addy. It is a constant chase for the perfect buzz or distraction lately. I can't even focus on writing this and I promised my mom I would write a warm memory for her for mother's day. I'm good with material gifts but that is gonna take some work.

Last night I almost cried while I was getting fucked from behind from our newest member. I wanted the addy he had because I nodded off while driving Monday and was pooped yesterday and as much as I hate to admit it- I kind of wanted the company. I haven't cum in a while, although there is a bond being formed with E again and I think I might have this weekend sometime. I get so wet and because we are on so many drugs, sex always seems like a dream sequence. There is just something off and femme about him though.

So- I was freshly showered, worried about work, and bent over my tiny little futon getting railed from behind when I actually felt like I might cry. Not just because the sex was doing nothing for me, but because it wasn't distracting me the way I needed it to. Once, when David broke my heart the first of many times I was having sex with Eric and burst into tears. Nothing like getting dumped by the guy who refused to make you his gf and going to the guy who you