I’m not a gold digger

Literally if there was any hope of us getting back together it’d be like an active choice to stay together and to learn to love each other. Like yes I would kill 50 men in cold Blood with my bare hands just to see you walk away from me but all I’ve learned from being passionate and mad about you is that women don’t want you to be passionate and mad they just want you to do what the say.

Why do they only care about you?!

Over and over again they keep saying your name but each time they bring you up somehow there’s a new story where you become more selfish and more terrible than you already have proven yourself to be.

As they talk the rift between us widens and not once do they consider reading anything I’ve written or even making themselves known to me and ask long what I want out of all of this madness!

They just keep talking about YOU! Like that sandwich at Home.Stead the “Hot Norwegian” it’s just a surf bagel with stale fucking bread, that sucks! Take it off the menu!

That you! You’re off the menu!!! I’ve done my damndest to move on and put one foot in front of the other and I’m finally getting somewhere again and I get a night of no sleep and new stories about the stupid bitch that doesn’t fucking love me.

News Flash: I DONT NEED TO HEAR ANY OF THIS!!!

Sex at the ICA

Voices say you went to the museum and attempted to have sex with someone on the museum floor but you were kicked out immediately.

I need to hear the facts of these stories from the horses mouth, I.e. yours, but if I can’t get that, for the rest of my life why do I have to live with this for the rest of my life?

they say you did it just to try and feel something, given that in my last blog post we know that you were on SSRI’s so achieving orgasm was either difficult if not impossible.

Regardless, the expectation I feel from the voices, from this new “context” is that you having sex in the museum is what you meant when you said “I’ve seen this before” at the Sheapard Faery exhibit.

I don’t even know if that’s how you spell his fucking name, and I know I shouldn’t believe what the voices are saying, I don’t want to hear anything about you at all but it keeps coming back into my fucking head and you can’t even be fucking brave enough to respond to a fucking email FUCK YOU.

Modern Medicine

The voices are fixated on the hostel. I imagine it’s the one in Boston, they keep bringing up that “you gave them all blowjobs.”

I remember you taking medication. I know SSRI’s interfere with the ability to orgasm, and they say you were taking them a the time. That’s why you thought or wanted to be a lesbian.

These the voices say are just things you can’t explain.

I can’t do it

I can’t force myself to hold it in any longer.

I hate that I feel anything but to pretend that I feel nothing is a grating sensation. As if my skull is being sliced open one small layer at a time and the flood of thoughts about you and anyone else freely enter and exit my mind.

But the point is I hate that I feel anything.

I have all the logical reasons in the world to tell myself I shouldn’t care, that I should go and try to do something to take my mind off of things, but still it all come rushing back, in the dead of night, when I’m alone, trying to sleep and all of a sudden it’s 6AM, I need a few hours of shut eye for work but the voices only want me to stay awake and be tortured by thoughts of you.

Do I love you? Or am I being haunted?

Why can’t we just talk?

We couldn’t we work as friends?

Questions I’ll maybe never get an answer too but what else is there to ask?

I was even asking for much. I just wanted to make it to 19 days, 24 hours past the last time I blogged something of substance, barring my activity on Twitter.

19 days.

But again, I can’t just hold it in.

Which is good in a way, it’s growth, the wiki guess to be vulnerable, to look for solutions, but does it matter who I do this around if it isn’t you?

Do I love you? Or am I insane?

Do I love you? Or am I broken?

Do I love you?