‘No one interrigent, rike me.’
Why is there still miscommunication in this year 2005 in a country where everybody’s speaking the same language. I hate idiots and clueless people and absentminded mortals and big idiots who walk around, getting paid for a job that they’re supposed to be specializing in. Like, their job title has already called a specific name yet still, STILL, they can’t do the job. This is the reason why shotguns are designed and manufactured in the first place. To wipe out idiots. Rid of them good before they even finish spelling masturbation.
Everybody is so overrated.
Kim Jong Il from ‘Team America’ said,”Why is everybody so stoopid? Noone interrigent, rike me. I feer so ronery.”
Uncategorized | Comments (2)SOGGY STRAWBERRY WAFFLE
my head is mushed. my skull becomes soggy thick crispy waffle and my brain becomes melting strawberry ice cream. thinking of you. it hurts. it still hurts. it still hurts you know. i would be lying if i say i hadn’t hoped. though not consecutively. you’re still that hole in my heart. in my head. in my idea of the perfect ‘him’. it still hurts to think that you are not mine. and i’m not yours. a woman wants to be had sometimes, wants to be owned. it is not her priority to prey on tender loving care from the street.
i’m a sad woman. dressed in cheesy wet t-shirt with corny writings on it. wet, exposed, vulnerable. ‘my heart belongs to you’, ‘can’t love no other’, ‘wish you were here’, ‘why?’, the shirt says. tears streaming down my eyes, smearing my black mascara and leaving trails of black goop down my cheeks. fuckin cliche. love hurts love breaks. it cracks it crashes. you can smile but your mind lashes accusing what ifs and if onlys. your what ifs echo and your if onlys turn right back at you like a boomerang. woosh. woosh. woosh. duck down. slide down. is that your head on the ground?
Oh, dear God of What Ifs, what if he was really my soulmate? What if there’s only one kind of him? What if I can’t love another man completely as much as I love him? What if I met him sooner? What if he weren’t to be married first? What if his marriage is a happy one? What if he decided to divorce his wife and look for me?
No answers.
I turn to the God of If Onlys, if only he were in this city too… if only he met me first…if only he hadn’t told me he loved me… if only i could stop feeling what i’m feeling…
No responds.
My head is mushed. I’m sticky strawberry liquid stained with black mascara blobs that can’t be washed off. too thick. too black. too weak to lift a finger to scrap it off when it’s dried. too in love with you.
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