Friday, October 20, 2006

she was so close

all i ever do is write junk to people who don't care and then i beat myself up about it and then i do it again. what's most frustrating is that i SEE this, yet i still DO it. i just wanna turn up this bob, or some techno, and break things. wear tighter pants, more fucked-up shoes. eat more ice cream.
and why the FUCK am i writing this here, now, huh? do i need an audience, need to feel the disinterest, need to pile fuel on the awkwardness fire? making people squirm via this endless RANTING seems to be how i roll. piling it on, asking for more, anything but TOUCH. i'll make you hate me if you let me. i hide myself so i won't have to talk. i tear up the fabric of communication and disclosure until there's nothing left but the bare ugliness of WANT. the bad taste of pitiful dependence disguised as untouchable superficiality. what makes me uncomfortable and queasy is the FACT that this is as real as i can get; these pieces of plastic under my fingers are my surrogate lovers. and guess what? i've done it again, even as i'm trying to get beyond it all. what the fuck do you think this paragraph is? and obviously i value my own punishing examination more than your comfort. read this and never look at me the same again. i fucking dare you not to.


Blogger Jonny said...

Ok, that post belonged on

Tried to find a good example, maybe

12:45 PM  

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