Herpes & Half Truths.
So yes, I've been less than active on my updating, due to that I've been considering the ethics of the material. Andreas might have been right when he described this as a collection of half-truths, embellishements and lies except for the lies part. And most of it, come to think of it. But when you present a certain image of yourself that might be more cynical and sarcastic than truthful, then misunderstanding is bound to arise? Which is the root of the matter when it comes to where Dan is involved. Could I have been someone I maybe wasn't for a year and a half? And if so, what of the blog? Should I moan about the suckiness of life and menstrual pains that are badness incarnate instead? Deserves pondering.
But then again, who has the time. A much more interesting situation has stumbled into the path that is my life.
Him.
We spent time that should have been used sleeping inventing expletives, their uses and their reprocussions. "Shit-curtain" was up there right along with "ass-chest". Take them into your mouth. Play with them, play with them like they were geisha balls. Orifice optional. This is what we did, except the playing was limited to verbal such, not any geisha grossness. (What were you thinking?)
And He fills my heart with a love that is hard to explain. Though if I tried, I'm sure the words asschest and shitcurtain are likely to pop up once or twice, like the geisha balls they are not. But then there's the whole comittment thing, which is like Death is what I hear, or at best, like The Herpes - which you can put cream on, but it never really goes away. Much like Comittment. Comittment is like waking up with a horse's head next to you in bed - except it's comittment. With morning breath to match, morning breath to probably send you off the deep end, but not far enough to get you, you know, comitted. Haha.
Then there's the matter of calling all your freinds in quotation marks and telling them that hey. I am now a comitted woman, yes, someone has made an honorable woman out of me. No, we cannot keep seeing each other. No, a blow job counts as cheating. No, it does not help if you put a paper bag over your head. Oh, it's a WWF bag you say? *Click*
But he fills my heart with a love that is hard to explain. Though if I tried, I'm sure I'd mention things like that I miss him when he's not around and that life without him is like life without a leg. Viable, but not without problems in transportation. No, he does not have a car. Yes, this was a terrible analogy. But cars and me don't mix anyway - not after my Rumanian freind in quaotation marks who used to drive stoned and drunk, who dragged me on national television and who tried to marry me off with one of his freinds. All true. Furthermore, as far as comittment goes, cars tend to lend people a mobility that usually means you can't track them down and give them a piece of your mind unless you can keep up with them in a car of your own. And I have no car of my own. I have a public transport pass and a Herpes-infected Horse's head on my hands. Anologize that.
He makes me painfully aware of my body. And this is the problem with developing relationships with freinds. Whereas before I could have sat in my living room my belly hanging out over the edge of my pants and hoisted unto the coffee table, now I want to look nice. Abandon the comfy pants. Away with them. When it might have taken half an hour to get home to his place before, now two hours are spent searching for Surfaces That Reflect Things to check if the hair's allright and all that. The sides of polished cars, shop-windows, acne ridden teenagers, God bless their hearts. Stomach in, chest out! (But he's your best freind!) Stomach out, chest sag. (But you love him.) Stomach in, Chest out. (But it hurts!) Stomach out. Chest where-ever.
Chest everywhere, because suddenly you're transformed, from a mind into a mind with a body to go with it. No longer a decapitated brain you are, nosir. A brain with breasts. Possessing the power to not only stimulate with a sense of humour to die for and to die laughing from, but breasts as well. Considering my track record with numerous two-legged asschests and shitcurtains males who have usually neglected the first, I'm just not sure how to combine these. Attraction has always been limited to either or, never both at the same time. Some people consider personality the important factor and think of breasts and the body as icing on the cake, but honey, these breasts aren't sugar-based grossness. Someone apparantly likes them. Someone likes me. Someone might even love me.
A Freudian slip first placed the word 'not' in front of the 'might' in the previous sentence. And I suppose that says it all. You can try to teach me otherwise, Boy whose face I want to shower with kisses, but I'm 25 going on cynical who has has a hard time finding common ground between love and the other thing. The word shitcurtain comes to mind to fill out the obscure distance between, but I couldn't be quite sure.
But then again, who has the time. A much more interesting situation has stumbled into the path that is my life.
Him.
We spent time that should have been used sleeping inventing expletives, their uses and their reprocussions. "Shit-curtain" was up there right along with "ass-chest". Take them into your mouth. Play with them, play with them like they were geisha balls. Orifice optional. This is what we did, except the playing was limited to verbal such, not any geisha grossness. (What were you thinking?)
And He fills my heart with a love that is hard to explain. Though if I tried, I'm sure the words asschest and shitcurtain are likely to pop up once or twice, like the geisha balls they are not. But then there's the whole comittment thing, which is like Death is what I hear, or at best, like The Herpes - which you can put cream on, but it never really goes away. Much like Comittment. Comittment is like waking up with a horse's head next to you in bed - except it's comittment. With morning breath to match, morning breath to probably send you off the deep end, but not far enough to get you, you know, comitted. Haha.
Then there's the matter of calling all your freinds in quotation marks and telling them that hey. I am now a comitted woman, yes, someone has made an honorable woman out of me. No, we cannot keep seeing each other. No, a blow job counts as cheating. No, it does not help if you put a paper bag over your head. Oh, it's a WWF bag you say? *Click*
But he fills my heart with a love that is hard to explain. Though if I tried, I'm sure I'd mention things like that I miss him when he's not around and that life without him is like life without a leg. Viable, but not without problems in transportation. No, he does not have a car. Yes, this was a terrible analogy. But cars and me don't mix anyway - not after my Rumanian freind in quaotation marks who used to drive stoned and drunk, who dragged me on national television and who tried to marry me off with one of his freinds. All true. Furthermore, as far as comittment goes, cars tend to lend people a mobility that usually means you can't track them down and give them a piece of your mind unless you can keep up with them in a car of your own. And I have no car of my own. I have a public transport pass and a Herpes-infected Horse's head on my hands. Anologize that.
He makes me painfully aware of my body. And this is the problem with developing relationships with freinds. Whereas before I could have sat in my living room my belly hanging out over the edge of my pants and hoisted unto the coffee table, now I want to look nice. Abandon the comfy pants. Away with them. When it might have taken half an hour to get home to his place before, now two hours are spent searching for Surfaces That Reflect Things to check if the hair's allright and all that. The sides of polished cars, shop-windows, acne ridden teenagers, God bless their hearts. Stomach in, chest out! (But he's your best freind!) Stomach out, chest sag. (But you love him.) Stomach in, Chest out. (But it hurts!) Stomach out. Chest where-ever.
Chest everywhere, because suddenly you're transformed, from a mind into a mind with a body to go with it. No longer a decapitated brain you are, nosir. A brain with breasts. Possessing the power to not only stimulate with a sense of humour to die for and to die laughing from, but breasts as well. Considering my track record with numerous two-legged asschests and shitcurtains males who have usually neglected the first, I'm just not sure how to combine these. Attraction has always been limited to either or, never both at the same time. Some people consider personality the important factor and think of breasts and the body as icing on the cake, but honey, these breasts aren't sugar-based grossness. Someone apparantly likes them. Someone likes me. Someone might even love me.
A Freudian slip first placed the word 'not' in front of the 'might' in the previous sentence. And I suppose that says it all. You can try to teach me otherwise, Boy whose face I want to shower with kisses, but I'm 25 going on cynical who has has a hard time finding common ground between love and the other thing. The word shitcurtain comes to mind to fill out the obscure distance between, but I couldn't be quite sure.
