Wednesday, June 6, 2012

the stone (of merry, merry traverse city)

maraschinos never did delight me; it's bloody orzo with fresh cherries and feta (parsley, fried rosemary and spinach toast those pine nuts right into the mix) i splashed with a little tipsiness, that red wine vinegar of pucker.

i suspect i got out just in time, and that had i left any earlier i wouldn't have been this, so i color my peurile royale, NYC, the flocked purple of No. 9, formally Love Potion No. 9. sure hope it's still flourishing under clif's care.

it's really rather interesting how like brooklyn it is here, and how easily i can slice into fantasies. i suspect that going my way instead of letting people tell me to pretend that being assaulted and having my character assassinated in order to keep any abuse a Total Pathological Lyin' Slutty Daddy-Molested Psycho Sadness story--was what saved my life.

because, see, that's what everyone else i've ever talked to has done for themselves.

and to say that i can't, don't deserve the same.

hell, i love floyd. the last two times i saw him i knew. i knew--

--he really IS the good man i've always, you know, if the choice was staying strong and death, i'm not so devastated that at 34 i'm nowhere near the career and the gal i meant to be. truth is, she was always elusive; i never have been hardcore cuntiliciousness, so allure and cosmo never would have been my deskination.

i was playing wii with terry the other night and in frustration and shame--i hate that my brothers can see how broken by rape and the struggle to right myself i've become, and i know the moment i stopped believing in myself is the dumbest moment, but i remember it clearly--consciously realizing that someone was so bent on breaking me that i decided that broken was better, since no teacher ever blamed him for anything, always me--for swearing, for not doing my work, for being distracted, for breaking down and crying in the middle of any class.

right, so i started crying, "i'm no good at anything but English, and i know that!" and he's all, "don't ever say that about yourself, ever," and he's just gotten his PhD...and later on, i'm all, "metallica, 'so close no matter how far,'" and he counters quick-ass in stumbling ASL, "'forever trust in who you are, and nothing else matters,'" and we get back to playing.


high heels and miniskirts. (and what i mean by brooklyn, the fantasies...cute, cute guys perk up and smile, and now i'm all porky-assed. each cheek has its own air jordan.)

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