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February 22, 2007

Drunk. Shrug. F**k It.

It started out with coffee and quotes and ended with wine and confessions.
(or has it quite, as I write...?)
And I really want to take my mind off it all and have sex. Not make love, I don't want that, but have sex. It's funny accepting that, writing that... and perhaps makes me a little queazy too, because now I am aware of the fact that a lot of people reading the words ALSO know the face behind the words. (Deep breath) The fact that people 'know' what's on my mind does not bother me -- I write about it! --but what does bother me is the assumption that just because I write (that I want to have sex), many think I'd be up for Anything or Anyone. Don't people realise, that for someone THIS open, if she were interested, she would make it rather clear? If the lady is not taking hints, she ain't interested.
You go out looking for conversation and the dude nearly kills you. He propositions you so bad and so blatantly that you nearly choke on your puke, trying not to throw up on his face. Why can't some men take a graceful and polite no? Anyway, this is getting to be harping on the same ol' issue. And mindless word games are irritating me too. OH GOD. I am SO wound up right now, it is just not funny.
Maybe it's all the talk about bed-breaking sex I've been having all afternoon, or too much coffee, or maybe the two bottles of cheap Indian wine that are lying empty, or perhaps its one Jane too many... whatever, I am wound up. Taut, tight, high strung, whatever; been so for two days and it's irritating the hell out of me. In need of some SERIOUS...oh, I don't know.

There was a time when I, well, had this recurring dream...this very, crispy-clear picture of this very pretty green valley, with the aroma of camelias all around, tall trees with orchids growing in their stunted boughs, the mountains opposite covered with snow, the grass under my toes, green and moist with the rapidly descending fog... And I am standing there, looking at the mountains far, far away, with the breeze tickling the skin on my legs and thighs, with my hair falling light and cool on my neck and shoulders and just as I feel the first chill... a pair of arms that come and encircle me, and gently pull me into Him, and am held, and warmed, and held. Just that. I never see Him; but lord knows I feel him so intensely. So completely. It is almost a physical pain. The ridiculousness of my own dream.
I never saw anything else; never see anything else.
And yet I so, so crave for it. And it eludes me. I tell you, all bravado goes. If i could feel that, I would give all... I would fall on my knees, and lay naked and say and mean the words... and never want or try to be the ball-breaking, Strong Woman again. Because then - with Him - I would know it's okay to be weak because He would never use it against me. And it's so relaxing to let all bravado go, to let yourself feel. Even feel scared. Because then, with Him, you know you can feel scared but you will not be hurt, it's so much peace. Because you can feel at ease.
And it's so stupid to dream like that. So juvenile. Illogical even. You think that 14-year-olds think of... well, I am embarrassed as hell saying the word... Soulmate. Of just being.
Oh god. So much has passed and I am still fucking, sheepishly thinking soulmates and jackshit. I am STILL stupid.

Post scrap: And the Princess looked at the World around and saw everywhere, the evidence of the Big Lie and thought, "It's not true; mirages are never true and yet you wait...you eternal fool."

3 comments:

InExile said...

see baby there's a reason why i adore you so much ;)

jerry said...

Whenever I would've met ya, this is one question I was preparing to ask. The blog-to-your-face situation. Its quite hot to read all here, but then people do get carried away. Sorry to hear about the whole Orkut thing. I guess its a rough patch-sorts.

clit.chatting said...

Hmmm... drunk writing is definitely out... will get myself into a straight jacket and sit far away from any device that even remotely looks like a keyboard. embarrassed, but will continue to write - when lucid - to the face or whatever other body part. There has to me Somewhere that the 'byline' really carries what one has to say. With the flaws, flawed logic or whatever else you may.
(Fuck, taking myself too seriously, now lemme cut the crap)