Arden

Bounty Posted - 6 January 2006 17:34
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wallow in self pity much? is that you cold turkey?

No, Keira, dearest, it isn't.

Well, the reaction to this suggests that I should either:

1 - completely ignore wrong done to me;

2 - or involve myself with men.

I have a marked disinclination to both, to be honest.

Besides, I don't know if this is about men and women - it is largely about power.

I feel angry about what has happened to me recently because I now have no control over the sitution. Fvcking followed by rejection is fine; daily reminders of it are maddening, but the real rub is the lack of control of previous behaviour.

In sum, b1tches behave like b1tches - this is in their nature. They can no more help this than pron stars fucking, footballers footballing, or politicians politiking - it is what they are.

The anger is anger about my OWN response. I wonder how long it lasts? Naturally, this manifests it a very real desire to verbally attack the creature who prompted the irksome behaviour.

It is really very complicated having a cock.

There is nothing worse than feeling like a mug. It is this feeling, more than any other, which prompts, I think, some catastrophic acts of violence toward women by men.

I have repeated the same pattern many times: I'll start banging some lucky girl, I'll temporarily conquer my default antipathy towards the "fairer" sex, it'll go wrong, and I'll want to end them. I mean really just end them. With steel.

I have been in idle moments, looking at that face party site.

I am trying to decide what makes someone attractive. I shall report back.

I'm looking out over the river. Opposite, I can see M16, to my left M15, and fancy flats on the river. I am lurking on a legal discussion board, because I keep posting about the clunge of some silly creature in whom I unloaded. (I asuume, btw, there is no censorship here, but I shall soon find out.) I am tired, but curiously peaceful. I am going out later. It will be passable. I am wearing trousers from Joseph and a Paul Smith shirt. I look okay. How does one convey intellect, tone, timbre, style, panache, elan with the written word when one is typing nothing into nothingness to no-one?

Not. Like.
This.
I; suppose.

That was a bit GM Hopkins? I thought"

you don't seem to get my messages anymore.

That's okay. I like monologues.

so, anyhow, what to say?

The vibe has left me.

to which I have never been.

Weeks, months, pass by, and more people I have never met, appear on my TV in distress. I felt this about New York, Sri Lanka, New Orleans, Pakistan.

I wish I could care; I just don't.

in the countryside. Sun. Wind. Sleepy.

I have been having a repeated dream.

I am having sex with a woman. Her face keeps morphing, from one girl to another.

And then, her bits change into a venus fly trap, and chop my cock off.

What does this mean, please?

I am 27 years old.

I have never wanted anything enough to try.

Take women. I aspire, along with many others to get conkers deep into young women on a daily basis - fat ones, thin ones, yellow ones, black ones, green ones (she was drunk).

However, a youth spent chasing troubled, podgy self-harming loonies has habituated me to a fast pace:

- Life's so hard.
- Yeah. Drink some more.
- Ok.
- Drink some more. Life is really hard.
- Ok.
- Drink up. You're very special, let's screw.
- Ok.

Bish, bash, bosh.

The allure of fat 19 year slicers has waned. So now, I am locked into endless conversations, long sessions of eye contact, and holding hands; of flirtatious emails and phone calls and texts; of dinners and drinks.

I'm crying inside.

Do get in touch if you would like to turn me into a real boy. Especially if you have a pleasant flat in North London.