A brief little poem

I am not the melody or the lyrics.
I am not the voice singing,
Nor am I the poet writing
Or the musician strumming away.
I'm the page the song is written on
And I'm crumbling.

I've got gunk in my hair and a face pack on my skin...

And realized that I miss being able to look into the eyes of the man I love and actually tell him that I love him. There is something so magnificently comforting about having someone who will put his arms around you and tell you that no matter how much your life sucks, he still loves you. That's really all I want at the moment. For Castle to show up and throw his arms around me and say "It'll all work out. I love you."

I get emo when I do beauty treatments.

A letter to the same man wearing a different meat suit

Dear Fucktard,

You make me want to walk into every single one of your "events" dressed up as Brandon Lee circa the Crow, except far less understated. You are nothing and no one to me except a pierced tattooed little freak who thinks that everyone loves him. Let me tell you something: you are not unique. You are not interesting. You are nothing to no one who matters.

In MY world you're a fucking shallow, pathetic THING that isn't worth the ink on your arm or the steal in your ears. And you make me fucking stupider by direct association.

Do us all a favor and go straight to hell. Do not pass go. Do not collect 300 dollars.

Updates and such

In an attempt to sort my life out, I've decided that my two nastiest habits: smoking and drinking excess amounts of caffeine, need to no longer be a part of my daily repertoire. I celebrated this decision with a cigarette and a blue Rockstar. I can't help but wonder if my unhealthy lifestyle is a direct reflection of how uninspired my life has been of late.

Where once I looked to people to inspire me, I find them all insipid and boring. Worse yet, I get the feeling that Harvey and I speak entirely different languages. Sometimes he looks at me like I'm speaking Latin, and no one speaks Latin. You can read Latin, you can write Latin, but no one speaks it because we have no idea how it's really supposed to sound. (Interestingly enough, this is probably why the TARDIS didn't translate the Latin Donna spoke in the Fires of Pompeii [series4episode2] of Doctor Who.... yup, I did just drop some serious nerd knowledge on the unsuspecting public.)

Oh, that's right, it just now occurs to me that no one is aware of my latest romantic endeavor. I am currently dating a young man code named Harvey. There is a very specific reason why I named him this, but its so obscure I doubt that anyone will get it. I only say that because I hate when people use obscure pseudonyms for people without at least making the audience aware of their intentions. Long story short, it all makes sense when explained contextually.

Anyway, he's lovely and probably treats me better than any guy I've attempted to maintain a romantic endeavor with in the past. My complaints with him are the same complaints I have with everyone else: No one communicates the truth of anything. They're too used to having to edit themselves in order to create some false sense of intimacy. The reason why relationships fall apart after about a year or so isn't that people change or even because of the oxytocin . (Follow the link to find out what that is if you don't already know.)

Relationships fall apart because most people just over edit themselves and, in many cases, lie about who they are in an attempt to be more attractive to the significant other in question. I don't do that, which is probably why I fail at casual relationships. My current relationship is probably more serious than it ought to be considering we've only been seeing each other for 3 months, however that isn't my problem either. I have no real difficulty with intimacy, especially in a romantic setting. I suppose that's one thing I do very well: I'm an excellent girlfriend. My problem is that through him I've become surrounded by a group of people who are incredibly cellular (that is to say, they're all part of one specific social group and rarely break apart from that social group) and I don't feel like I'm communicating with any of them. I'm more frank and more open with complete strangers than I am with my proposed new social circle, and that bothers me more than I think it ought.

To make matters worse I'm concerned about my vocabulary. It's become incredibly... ordinary, and I've been relying too heavily upon people "knowing what I mean" and God-damn-it I've become one of those girls who punctuates her sentences with "Ah...um..." and the worst of all of them "like." Like should only be used to describe something that you enjoy, or to make use of an effective synonym. Using it as anything else is tiresome and makes you sound ridiculous. What's worse is that I feel as though these crutches in my vocabulary exist entirely because if I spoke the way I thought I'd spend hours explaining everything constantly. I already do that as it is. I've been told I live in mortal fear of being misunderstood.

That's definitely true... only because I'm really used to being misunderstood.

Fairy Tales

Today I worked on the fairy tale I've been writing. It keeps changing to suit the Aesop I'm trying to evoke in that particular instant, but at the end of the day it always comes back to the overall erosion of society's morality. It saddens me to think that people are more familiar with Millie Cyrus and Harry Potter (two entities in modern media that really ought to be erased from memory) than they are with anything the Grimm Brothers collected is a testimony to our own idiocracy. Yes, I did just make that reference.

What it comes down to is that everyone between the ages 13-33 wants to be the shining glamorous hero, but doesn't want to embrace any of the morality necessary to be that hero. They want to be strong and vibrant and beautiful, but they neglect kindness and understanding and empathy. Cynicism and cruelty have become more fashionable than ever before, and now when someone smiles at you, you've got to check twice for the forked tongue and fangs. Sweetness and innocence are only fashionable aesthetically.

I'm distracted... perhaps more thoughts on this later.

Of the Shakespearean/Byronian School, except less good.

Oh, my pale and inconstant heart!
Whose depths are subsets of its shallowness
That we should ever meet to part,
And exist beyond our petty callowness


I'm in a rather interesting mood today. Yes, noble readers who no longer read this, I definitely still hate poetry, but at least I'm making an effort to grow artistically... kinda. Don't judge me, I only said I was a poet, I never said I was a good poet. :P

More ramblings from the insomniac....

I had an epiphany today... I actually am cleverer than most people. By that I mean, I can see the cycles people live in, the things they allow to trap themselves etc, and I know exactly what's going to happen in most social interactions, and yet, for some inane reason, I can't seem to use these powers for my own benefit. Why is that you ask?

Equal parts because I'm not a rabid douche and because I'm not interested in manipulating people into forming connections with me. Also, I can't be bothered to put in the effort to get to know people anymore, because I'm avidly and completely tired of trying to interact with people on an intellectual, sexual or emotional level and realizing that they're just not interested or incapable of reciprocating the connection. I feel so old all of a sudden, as though I've discovered some great secret about humanity and I've no one to share it with because I've only ever met my equal in one person, and he and I haven't spoken in three months.

I do miss my dear Ptolemy and the ridiculous conversations we used to get into. One of my favorite memories of him had to do with the time we stayed up all night talking ourselves into circles about time travel in a Bickfords, and he almost did a little murder because the people sitting nearby us were blatantly listening in and eavesdropping. He was amusingly overprotective, if not perhaps a trifling bit aggressive.

Considering his name, it's to be expected. Considering his nature, his aggression has always startled me. I was, I think, probably the only person who did not frustrate him, though I rather imagine that I had the capacity. I think he was just very patient with me and my inexperience. Now that I've finally come to terms with the lessons he taught me I miss him profoundly. He'd be awake right next to me, telling me to get my head out of my ass and to narrow the focus of my concern so that I'm not so exhausted by basic interactions.... or something like that. He was one of those people who was equally exhausted by the people around him, searching always for a kindred spirit or even someone he could mold into a kindred spirit, but he never actually understood the true fundamentals of intimacy.

That isn't to say that I was the person he was looking for, but more that in his search to mimic the kind of relationship he already had with me, he forgot to remember the limitations of everyone else.

... I'm all rambly... perhaps I ought to spend some time face down in a pillow. I'm tired in ways no one should be, and I'm worn out in ways that only the very old and the very cynical seem to understand.

Fail

So who's phone starts going off very loudly right next to her ear at 5ish this morning, exactly 2 hours after she's gone to sleep?

Mine.

...My response was to ninja-punch the thing and hide under my pillows....

And then I saw what time it was and began texting obscenities at the anal-probing son of a douche who would dare attempt to reach me at this ungodly hour....

And then I realized that it was Facebook Mobile...

Idiot.

Communication

Contrary to what most people believe, there are actually three types of communication. There are the two you already know, the verbal and the physical, and then there is the emotional. This kind of interaction is constantly being referred to as the non-verbal part of communication, like touching or making eye contact etc, but it actually has everything to do with tone of voice, actual topics of conversation being broached, and the inevitable syncing of the minds that comes from it. By no means is it not heavily dependent upon the verbal parts of communication (IE: Saying what you mean or not what you mean, blah blah) or the physical (IE: touching, holding hands, etc) but it is markedly different from either of those two things. Verbal communication has everything to do with what's being said, the actual words you're speaking. Emotional connection comes from the tones of voice used, and whether or not you're believable in what you're saying. Then, intimacy is established through body language. True intimacy (and Oxtocin, the bane of my existence) is established by creating warmth in your voice, openness in your body language, and love in your eyes. All of these are very easily faked if you know how.

My favorite show in the world is The Pickup Artist. Why, you ask? Why would an interesting-looking 20-something like a show that shows men how to pick up women that are sooooo out of their leagues, just to elevate their social status and make themselves feel better about their mediocre looks? Because it shows us how easily people can be manipulated into feeling something out of ONE social interaction. It also makes it easier to sort out who's after sex and who's after a relationship. If he touches your arm, holds your hand, and looks deeply into your eyes on the first or second date, with no previous relationship to back up these feelings (you didn't know each other and weren't friends first) then he's only after your sexy self. IF he does any of these things by the third or fourth date, then he's probably a keeper. This philosophy has never done me wrong, when I've listened to it.

When I haven't listened to it I've found myself in situations like the one mentioned in my previous post. Big be damned, love be damned, I'm tired of trying to connect with people that just aren't my intellectual, social or emotional equals. Maybe if I had more confidence and was less insecure I wouldn't let myself be taken for a ride by people who pretend to matter.

And he did matter.
More than even he knew.

Too bad for him.

Social Interaction fail...

So I officially fail at social interaction. Every time I try to establish a connection with another human being I either don't say enough and people get annoyed with my inability to articulate myself, or I say way too fucking much and just end up pushing people away.

Getting closer to another person is like trying to get closer to the stars: futile and inevitably foolish. Human beings have no clear understanding or conception about what love is, except that its a feeling and its intangible. I have known love in every possible facet, from the abusive to the reckless to the fruitless, and to this day I cannot explain coherently exactly why I felt that way about any one of the men that I have loved so deeply. What I can tell you for certain is that we're all so goddamn desperate to connect with each other that we convince ourselves that there is meaning where there is none, and that there is intimacy where there is only understanding.

I'm tired and impatient and I don't see the point in any of it anymore. It isn't love that I'm after, its truth, because I've recently come to the conclusion that without truth, blunt and absolute and tactless, there is absolutely no hope of love.

The ramblings of an idiot fool

4 AM again... and I'm still awake. I'm all adrenalin-y from the haunted houses and the lively conversation, and somehow, as always, I'm finding myself staring off into Infinity, seeing every possible outcome and every possible future and I can't bear it. There was more to this post, a discourse on the human condition and about how we're all greedy, insufferable bastards, but I deleted.... You know, in the interest of keeping things positive.

I found an old story I wrote waaay back when.... Back when I was "good" as my mind seems so inclined to think. It wasn't that it was a terribly bad story, just hideously underdeveloped and juvenile. Well... I was so young then, wasn't I? That's the point of art to a certain extent; it reflects the soul of the artist. I'm a huge believer in the idea that the artist and the art are so inescapibly bound that there is very little room for the spectator, the person who's enjoying the art, in the whole artistic experience. That is to say, when you look at a Jackson Pollock painting, what you're seeing is a reflection of himself. It's such a huge thing, to stand in the room with something so great and profound as a person's soul on canvas, and the experience itself is so profound that there's very little room for yourself in the experience. Suddenly, there's this moment of clarity and you realize that what you are experiencing is something so completely unlike anything you, yourself, are capable of conjuring, that you become what Jackson Pollock was when he painted it, and you catch glimpses of his madness and his genius and his beauty.

It's the same moment that comes over you when you're truly experiencing music in its most perfect, undiluted form, when you're standing among a sea of other people, entranced with the musicians on stage, wrapped up in something so beautiful and so intangible that you can't separate yourself from the person next to you, and you're all one breathing, sweating, weeping thing, overcome and overwhelmed and drenched completely in the auditory.

It's the same moment that comes over you when you read a verse that brings tears to your eyes and you don't even know why. You never went walking in the woods in winter as he did, you never saw the rain or the stars or the human spirit the way the author did, and yet you're there, with the author, weeping over a choice that was not your own and you could not make, and yet you were so heavily invested in that choice that you couldn't help but cry out when our hero made the wrong turn.

There is no such thing as bad art. There are bad artists; artists incapable of evoking the artistic experience. I blame Twilight on Stephanie Meyer, and I blame Piss Christ on Andres Serrano and I blame you for having not experienced the perfection of true genius.

Insomnia + MSN + One Cranky Independent

So I got into an interesting debate one time with an Australian. Basically, his whole shtick was that Americans are stupid because we don't have Universal Health Care and we're stupid if we don't put it into effect. You know, be more like Australia, New Zealand, Spain, England, Canada and Mexico....

His logic was flawed; it's based on the idea that America can afford Universal Health Care and doesn't want to pay for it. America is, first and foremost, in tremendous debt and can't afford to pay for Universal Health Care. Blame who you like, we can't afford it. I can't afford a new car, or to buy a house, or even a new winter coat, so I don't buy those things. Mr. President is not thinking this through even a little. Right now in the US if you go to the ER and and you're sick, you will be helped. End of discussion, we're not the animals the rest of the world seems to think we are. When the bill comes and you can't pay? Believe it or not, Hospitals can't refuse to care for you even if you're foodstamped and homeless. They just can't.

I told him that. I mentioned that I thought it would be nice to have the government regulate the healthcare industry a little more, instead of finding new and creative ways to tax us. He LOL'ed at me, and patted me on the head, saying "It's so cute when Americans try to think."

I then pointed out that... um... not for nothing, but Australia isn't the first country that the UN NATO and everyone else shouts for as soon as there's a tragedy or an attack. I also pointed out that Australia isn't supporting inordinate amounts of unemployed masses.... You know, like America is? Australia isn't in the debt we're in, nor are they expected to offer all manner of humanitarian and tragedy relief every time someone somewhere gets a booboo or can't handle their local dictator. Not to minimize the world's suffering, we're all a little broken.

Then I got really annoyed with myself because I only ever defend America when it's a non-American criticizing it. Most days I'm so frustrated with the idiotic way this country is being run and the ridiculous ideas being thrown around by people who obviously slept through Logic 101 Freshman year that social interaction becomes a chore rather than a pleasure.

Thing is, just because I can't wrap my head around the ideas doesn't mean I haven't tried. It doesn't mean I don't WANT to believe that the Big Man in the White House has our best interests at heart.

One of the worst things ever was when my Republican BFF called me a Freedom Moocher because I dared to criticize our predominately Republican government back in the day. I pointed out that if I hadn't traveled abroad then I'd just be an educated, frustrated citizen voicing my concern. Then I'd turn around and tell my British friends to please STFU because, yeah, Bush wasn't a superhero, but when 911 hit, he pulled it together and said "We're gonna get through this, it'll be okay." He insisted that we not let terror rule us. He was a reassuring presence during a black black period in our modern history.

And yeah, he kind of screwed the pooch in a lot of areas, but look at it this way: Mr. Obama's plan will send America into 9 Trillion dollars further into debt over the next... I think it was 10 years. I THINK. It's almost 4AM and I can't be bothered to look up the exact timeline. Do NOT blame that debt on the Republican's you Liberal B-tards. They're only responsible for 3 Trillion of it.

And you Republican Ijots, can we please just admit that this was a war over oil? Please?! It's OKAY that it was a war for oil. Wealth is just as good a reason to go to war as morality, at least the American people will have something tangible to think about while they're enduring price gouging at the gas pumps and laughably unnecessary inflation.

Right, my powerful brain is tired of this text window. Here endeth the rant.

Amusing when no one's looking

It always seems to happen that some of my best hair days and some of my most amusing stories come from days that had absolutely nothing going on. Today was a rehearsal before the recital thingy, which I'm only 76.34% embarrassed about, and that went pretty well. The highlight of the day was the super awesome service we got at the D'n'D in Tewksbury. It annoys me more than I can describe that it was refreshing to find a place where minimum wage people were actually nice and pleasant. I totally tipped way more than necessary just because.

Also picked up the neatest eyeshadow I've seen in ages -- looks just like crystal on the skin. So pretty, can't wait to rock it soon. (With photos!)

Have been nursing an unhealthy addiction to pop music of late, mostly because my own thoughts have been so dark (my brain is an unpleasant place to be sometimes) and I enjoy something that moves me in an up, happy way. It's hard to do that with metal or rock because I experience it viscerally and can't separate myself from the music. It's a pleasant little vacation from my brain, which is almost always working overtime, and I do so hate to work hard.

I turned my eyes inside out so I could see what it was that made me so different from everyone else

Because I've never seen what everyone else saw
Or felt what everyone else felt
And I thought that maybe I was the problem.

As it turns out, my brain is made of glitter
And my soul is made of sunshine

And then I couldn't get my eyes back to normal
So now my eyes are inside out and I don't know how to look at the world....

Because all I see is my own radiance and how easy it is for others to be out shined by it

And then I decided that it was all too self-indulgent

So I plucked my eyes out and gave them to you so that you could see how radiant I was and maybe you'd love me too.

But my eyes are still inside out, and you're blinder than I ever was.

And I'd rather be some waning false thing than anything that ever looked upon you with kindness.

The End

Final thoughts on the Gibraltar Matter...

The general rule of thumb is that for every 6 months you're in a relationship you get 3 months of wallowing/depression. That means that I should get a good a year in which I cannot be judged for my tears over the loss of "Doug". That's not good enough for me. My sadness only feels profound because its my own. It isn't any more or less important than that of anyone else and, frankly, I'm tired of luxuriating in it.

I'd rather be petty, shallow and pathetic than be bound to a man who'd rather lie to me and feel good about himself than accept that he's just as depthless and cruel as the people he despises.

The simple truth of the matter is, I would have moved the stars for him. I would have given up everything: My country, my ties here, my art, my whole life if only it meant that we had a future. It's the most tragic thing I've ever heard, because what does that say about me? It says that I'm so eager to find something spectacular that I see it in people who simply are not. He was like poetry... really bad poetry. The kind that makes you wince while you're reading it because it sounds so much like something you've read so many times before, and you can't connect to the words because it's all one big cliche.

I don't regret any of the time I spent with him; he was the instrument through which I learned a new melody. That does not, however, make our parting any less than what it is: something that was bound to happen one way or another.

I can't give so much of myself to people who do not and cannot appreciate it. Love, like death, is only best understood through hindsight, and nothing of beauty ever came from reactionary movements. Perhaps that's why my infamous "You Don't Know It" series has failed so many times over. I only ever write it when I'm reacting to the loss of one great love or another. It is only through quiet reflection and understanding that we can learn about ourselves and our loved ones... Even if our loved ones reside across an ocean and deep inside a Rock, without thought or feeling for what it was that they left behind.

I used to liken myself to an opal, something beautiful but fragile and easily cracked and crazed and made useless when exposed to too much wear and tear. That's still true, I think, but I'd also like to think that I'm not some pale, milky thing that must be kept hidden in darkness. I'd like to think that my beauty comes from some dazzling kaleidoscope, like the one I wear around my neck. My madness and my light and my quietness are all too easily misunderstood and too quickly misinterpreted for something else, so when it is time for us to part ways it is rarely with more than a nod and a smile.

I cannot be angry with him. I can't even think about him because thinking about him reminds me of that terrible weekend in which my grief overwhelmed my good sense and I prayed (for the first time since my father's hospitalization) that maybe he'd see something in me worth holding on to. My grief is what embarrasses me, not any lingering feelings of tenderness or even bitterness. It is my grief that makes me want to turn myself to stone and forget that there was ever any connection to us. It is my grief that makes me hate myself for believing him when he told me that he wanted to spend his whole life with me.

I can tell you with perfect clarity the moment at which I knew that I loved him above all others and with my whole heart. I wonder if he could tell you the same -- about anyone. I wonder if there's a single person living who can tell you what that moment was like for them. Some people go their whole lives without ever knowing it, I think. If you want to know, it's like a storm has settled, and whatever lightning or thunder you carried around before that point is suddenly dissipated, and you're seeing the sun for the first time. Its a swelling of the heart and spirit that makes your cheeks hurt from smiling too much.

That's what it was like for me the moment I knew that I wanted to spend my life with him. It was like tasting really good chocolate for the first time and knowing that I'd never forget that sudden sharp, almost bitter sweetness. And even though a huge part of me wants to forget that perfect moment that (I realize now) I was alone in, I don't think I ever will and I have to content myself with that.

These will be my last words on the subject. I will not trouble any of my faithful readers any longer with my horrific musings of a love that should have been forgotten the moment it was ended. Perhaps I am just sad because I found those old photos. Maybe I'm sad because I know he's got someone new. I'd like to think it's none of those, and that I'm sad because I can feel the grief ebbing away and if I don't even grieve what we used to have then there's really nothing left to say on the matter.

If two people break up and neither one even thinks about the other, and neither is even affected by the others absence, then does that mean the whole relationship never happened? And if that's true, then does that mean that the perfect moment I only just spoke of never happened? That it didn't mean anything? Not even to me?

Does it matter either way?

Thoughts from an insomniac

In many ways he was like poetry.
He was full of contradictions,
Beauty and shallowness
Elegance and crass indifference
Something else too...
His depth was unmeasurable
It depended almost entirely upon the mood he was in

And yet there was something fundamentally false about him.

It isn't that he lied to me...
I rather expect that from the men I love.
I feel like he lies to many women,
He tells them that he loves them completely
And wants to be with them forever,
All the while waiting for something more spectacular than what's before him

And even though there is still some basic part of me that craves him
I'd rather be alone than lied to.
I don't particularly feel like someone who is pining away
Weeping over something lost and best forgotten
But I don't feel overly "over it" either.
Maybe that's what happens when the person for whom you would have moved the stars
Throws you away like so much trash.

I don't want to be with him.
Not now, after so much time passed in silence
Not after seeing how easy it was for him replace me
But sometimes I think about him with a certain tenderness
The reasons for which I can't completely name.

It isn't that I want him back
It's that I want to know that somewhere,
In the furthest recesses of his inconstant heart
That my presence in his life
And my absence now
Has affected him.

I need a freaking road map

So "John" liked "Brandy" who likes both "Darrel" and "Phil" but Phil decided to ask Brandy out. Except Phil is John's BFF 4EVAR, and now apparently Phil is dead to John for ever asking Brandy out in the first place, and Brandy is -- apparently -- a HORRIBLE TERRIBLE EVIL PERSON for ever accepting the date in the first place.... And now they're not friends and I'm trapped in the middle...for some inane reason.

So, yeah, I need a freaking road map. Excuse me while I go purchase one.

Dear Verizon

I hate you.

I hate you so much.

I hate you so fucking much that I almost ripped the fucking receiver box thingy out of the wall, drove up to Crane Beach and threw the fucking thing in the ocean. I hate you so much, in fact, that if I ever have the opportunity to come into contact with ANY of your higher ups, I will rip his throat out and feed it to him, with a side of shit.

The shit is a metaphor for your fucking horrible service.

Fuck you, Verizon. FUCK YOU.

I can see the whole of infinity... but I can't see you.

She's ballsy, I like that. Though, I can't say I wouldn't do the same in her position. She wants to make sure that I know that it's completely over and she gets to fuck him now.

I'm upset.

I'm upset because I know he doesn't care about me. Not as a friend, not with any kind of respect for what we had, and he certainly doesn't hold any of that basic human respect he claims to be so full of.

My feelings are completely selfish. I want him to be more upset about losing me. I want him to languish in his own pain, not trotting off to Cadiz with that pig-faced slag.

And what's worse is that I know that if he loves her, no woman will ever be as beautiful as she is in his eyes.

I'm not upset or hurt because I don't want him to have happily ever after....

I'm upset and hurt because he was MY happily ever after. Everyone goes on and on about perfect love and that love you'd move the stars for, and love that spans oceans and time, and I FUCKING HAD THAT.

I had that and he decided he'd rather be with that pigfaced creature, whose only crime is being with the man that I loved.

And I really have nothing to say because within two weeks of coming back from Spain I was fucking someone else. To be fair, this someone else is my ex, my "Mister Big" if such a thing exists, and with "Clark" and I it's never just fucking, and I know that completely destroys my entire argument and I don't care.

I don't care because even though I'm sleeping with someone else, he's going on holiday with someone else, and he's spending all his extra time with someone else, and while I'm terrified of letting myself have feelings for anyone because of what he did to me, he gets to move on and not care and for that I kind of hate him.

Thinking about this makes me want to do things to myself I gave up a long time ago.
Thinking about this makes me want to break a promise I made to someone who means more to me than he ever did.
Thinking about how much pain he's still causing me without even doing anything but moving on makes me want...

Train of thought inspired by the Three of Swords...

Today I had a panic attack because I knew that I was never going to talk with you ever again.
And then I had another panic attack because I had to pretend to be okay.

I knew that everything I wanted and everything I ever hoped for
Was as futile and foolish as the curls I attempted to put in my hair
And knowing this made me want to die but instead of dying I cried
Just as I cried when you left me.
And its not your fault but it is my own
Because I should have known better than to put my hopes and dreams into someone so mediocre...

And yet... I'm not sure what hurts more:
Knowing that I was better than you and you didn't want me
Or knowing that I was better than you and I let you break my heart.
I know every inch of you
I know when you're lying, when you're lost, and when you just don't care.
I know you well enough to know that there's nothing in you left for me,
And that you've given whatever it was that used to belong to me to someone else.
I looked into your soul and saw the man I wanted to live forever with
And you looked into mine and saw someone you couldn't wait to leave.
You saw someone who could not and would never be that cliched all consuming One.

I want you to know that I'd turn her to ash and stone if I could;
...That girl you left me for...
You don't really think I didn't know about your blue-clad indiscretion?
I hate that you left me for some pig-faced idiota who has no idea who you are or what you want.
Even when we didn't want the same thing, I still understood you without you needing to say so.

But that matters less than the freckles on your nose,
Than every shade of blue in your eyes,
And every tear I've ever cried over you
Because the Three of Swords said so
And I'm tired of fighting it.

I've waited way too long to grieve, too busy hiding behind false pretenses and the illusion of being okay...
And now that I am grieving I've come to the conclusion that there's something fundamentally broken inside me
And neither you or He can fix it, despite both of your best intentions.
And while you get to live the rest of your life across the Atlantic, happily ignoring the impact you've made on me
And He gets to try to remind me that I'm a woman and that I deserve to be loved
Neither of you have the capacity to understand that I'm broken inside,
And I'd rather hollow myself out and turn myself to stone than think of either of you with tenderness.
Because He hurt me first,
And you hurt me last,
And neither of you have the right to look me in the eye.

I am better than you, if you want to know.
I am better than some fool who only ever pretends to know what he wants
And would rather throw away his life on a Rock and an idea and a memory
Than write and think about anything worth having.
You'll never write the way you want to
You'll never live beyond gambling, cigarettes and beer,
And you'll die fat and balding and useless, just like a million other Englishmen who all had the same delusions you have.
You'll marry someone like that blue-clad pig-faced Eurotrash who will tell you everything you want to hear and who will spit out 2.5 pig-faced Eurotrash uberliberal children, just like you.

Personally, I'd rather be sterile.

I never told you that....

It seems really fucking irrelevant now. I'm kind of glad I never told you.
I'm especially glad that you don't care enough about me to read this.