|
| I have recently discovered the joys of flaunting my sexuality to its full extent.
I've been single awhile now, and I realized that its okay to fuck around. Literally. It doesn't make me a whore, it makes me sexually liberated, because I choose the people I want to fuck, and I choose well.
And now I'm still wondering why I am sitting on the couch, in my self imposed sensual exile, alone, pretending to work on the too-many pages I have to write in the next day, the next month.
(all I want right now is to kiss her palm and feel her hot breath against my neck)
I did the unthinkable. And it makes me feel sort of bold. I have a secret, but I can't tell anyone, or life will come tumbling down like so many houses of cards and I'll be left in the middle holding the Queen of Spades in my arms
(i call him the King of Hearts, as a joke, we both know I fucked his ex girlfriend and we laugh as the sun dapples our entwined skin)
I am the Queen of Spades, no heart to break, no diamonds to covet, to club to bear.
(i want to explore her i want to turn her inside out and when i'm done we'll both be flushed and i'll walk out for a smoke)
Its a strange feeling to have to disclipline yourself, to check yourself. When the moral code that people mock you for following is your own.
(underneath me his smooth brown body almost prettier than mine)
And I want to be "st". The most desired, the best, the smartest, the wittiest, the cruelest; and I know I'll never be any of those things
(to feel her heat on my thigh as we rock)
and i want the walls to echo with their cries
| | |
| The hazards of not being single:
- Someone watching as gravity takes its toll on your body.
- A voice to argue with the set personal opinion you have of yourself.
- Somebody trying and somewhat succeeding in headbutting every boundary that has been carefully mortared in place.
- Reason to not be apathetic
- Reason for self-preservation
- Inability to sleep alone.
- Inclination towards faith
- Wondering how it will end
| | |
| is inexplicable when you've stayed in your pajamas all day and done nothing but stare at the computer screen waiting for the essay on King Lear to magically appear. The question is what to do with yourself when it won't.
I have a girlfriend. She spoils me, I could get seriously used to this.
The fires have been burning for nearly a week now. The air smelled like campfire stories and toasted marshmallows. I hate the smell. The sky turned an apocolyptic gray, the sun burned red through the particles of burnt matter that drifted on the wind and settled on parked cars like cloud dandruff.
| | |
| writing.
I'll be posting some soon out of my little black book. I've been writing more. I've been less distraught, and finally got my first paycheck, and my refund from the school for being poor. There's a new girl. She's not stereotypically my type. But what can I say? We met at a random sketchy place. Her first impression of me was drunk Chrystal and she STILL asked for my number. We went on a couple of dates, she met my random sketchy friends, and she's still talking to me. She's kind of awesome. Maybe there's hope for me yet. I'll write later... so tired | | |
| hi everybody.
my name is Chrystal and I am freaked the fuck out.
my life is crazy, and I don't know how to handle it.
Brief recap:
Spent summer in DC with birthmother.
Went to Colorado last week of summer to meet rest of family.
Got an apartment with the woman I am only recently no longer in love with. (most of the time)
Our two friends consecutively moved in, but it's "temporary" so they're not paying rent.
Taking five classes and working two campus jobs.
Internally transfering from the College of Arts and Sciences to the Johnston Center
Paying for college, rent, food, and other living expenses out of own little bank account. Parents are irresponsible fools.
Boy decided to bring up the "R" word. with a most definetly capitalized R.
Sick
Girl in English class who is rather distractingly beautiful. Hard to concentrate on King Lear and S.T. Coleridge.
Tired
Told boy this just wasn't going to work. Told him that then, telling him again now. Little fuck is still optomistic. He doesn't get it. Can't really stand to think of him, white, paunchy, long blonde hair, crooked teeth, speech impediment that has been overcorrected to where every syllable is over enunciated, but still doesn't sound right, his obsession with fantasy games and renassaince faires.
Friends are being bitchy and unsupportive.
Wanna go home.
It's my mothers birthday
| | |
|
