February 7, 2010

The Fiery Crash

This is another ill-advised letter to another ill-advised interest. You have been warned, and if you don’t like it you can suck it. (Or, more appropriately, you can go read another blog because I quite frankly don’t have any interest in pleasing you.)

To The Coworker,

I have had more than enough of your poisonous silence, tactless evasions, and general bull-shit. I don’t know what else I can do to make you comfortable enough to actually talk to me, or not make a complete mockery of the friendship we had only just a month ago. You once said that you were an honest man. But lately, your omissions of truth and assertions of “I’m fine”, even when your voice is dripping with venom, have led me to believe that you are, simply put, a liar. An honest man would have told me why he was acting strangely, even if he didn’t think I needed or deserved to know.

The general opinion of your behavior as of late, by those who belong to your same gender, is that you are acting this way because you don’t want to give me the wrong impression. If that is the case, you have failed miserably. On the one hand, congratulations for successfully conveying the message that you are not in any way interested in me as a girlfriend (or for that matter, as anything at all). But if “the wrong impression” can be adequately described as any impression which is not in keeping with the true feelings of the person who fears a mistranslation of their behavior, than your refusal to speak to me is all the more confusing and poorly thought-out. Because the impression you have been giving me is nothing short of hatred. At the very least, you have made me think that I have injured you in some way that has made it impossible for you to regard me as human. At worst, you have made me feel pathetic, vile, and guilty. You have made me feel rejected as a person, and not just as a love interest. And I honestly have no idea how you could have thought this was an appropriate response to my admission that I still liked you. Furthermore, the mere idea that you could be displaying this kind of malice while in your mind believing that your actions were “for my own good” is completely disgusting and is enough to make me despair at your entire sex. On what planet does shutting someone out equate an act of friendship? And if friendship is something that has recently become nothing more than a rotten taste in your mouth, why not spit it out? Why not simply tell me that the fact that I liked you has made you so uncomfortable that you no longer want to be friends? Why not just man up and tell me what on earth is going through your head, rather than leave me to sort it out for myself, with no help from you whatsoever?

If I’m going to be honest, I would like nothing more than to turn back the clock and decide to keep my feelings to myself. We could have had the same friendship we had at work, which was clearly enjoyable and was a welcome diversion from the boredom that usually accompanies an eight-hour shift. But I can’t do that. I can’t go back in time, I can’t change the way I felt, and I can’t just pretend that it doesn’t bother me now. I can’t fix this. But you can. You can decide to fix it. Because it’s with your apathy and lack of consideration that it has been ruined at all. And if you simply don’t care enough to be bothered, as I suspect you don’t, then your decision has been made. And if that is the case, than I sincerely hope that I never have to work with you again. This has all just been a terrible mistake.

January 29, 2010

Spring cleaning

Sometimes you just have too many things lying around.

Things you don’t need anymore.

Things you should really just get rid of.

So, even though it is clearly not quite spring, I am ridding myself (and this blog) of the excess. This is not meant to be a petty or dramatic move. It is not meant to symbolize anything. In fact, it is incredibly boring and probably doesn’t serve much of a purpose at all. My time would, in all honesty, be much better spent going through my piles of clothes and deciding which of them to get rid of! But, such is life. And also I am very tired. So… goodnight!

January 27, 2010

Hate on me, Hater

Dear “Anonymous”,

Fuck you.

Everyone else,

Thanks for reading!

January 20, 2010

Amazing

Ha! Someone found this blog by typing in “Slutty Confessions”… just had to share that!

January 14, 2010

Update

Took a bath and cleared my head. Feel much better now. Thank God.

January 14, 2010

Here Comes Your Man

I have had this song stuck in my head for about 7 days now. I don’t mind really, because it just happens to be one of my favorites. But it can be a bit depressing.  Released by the Pixies in 1989 (And later covered by Meaghan Smith, which coincidentally is the version that’s stuck in my head), the song sounds like a feel-good love song about the return of a lover. However, as a rather unfortunate viewing of a comment made on songmeanings.net has taught me to believe, the song is actually about devastation. Or, more specifically, about the 1945 atomic bombing of Nagasaki.

Combine this knowledge with the fact that my nervous/digestive system has been off since last week, the weather outside is dismal and gray,  I am not completely satisfied with the state of my life, and I have just been watching Skins – and you get my current internal psyche. Sad, confused, with a propensity for staying in bed much longer than is strictly necessary. Oh, and I’m trying to convince myself that I don’t like someone whom I so clearly do. But you knew that already.

Honestly, I feel like there are about ten dementors at my door. And I keep opening it. Why?

Next week, there will be school. Which means something new to focus on. It also means hanging out with people who are not quite so moody as I am. Which is good. Because at the moment, nothing makes sense. Clearly, I need to stop thinking about things that are beyond my control. Clearly, I need to stop thinking about this song.

But I can’t help it, it’s stuck. And I honestly don’t mind it.

January 13, 2010

Tell me… what would you like me to do?

OK, So… after long and careful consideration (who am I kidding?) I have decided to ask you all for a little favor. Which you absolutely do not have to grant. But if you don’t that means no more sluttiness.

I think I may have gotten ahead of myself.

The favor is simply this, if you are among the somewhat ambiguous group who actually enjoy Slutty Sundays, you must at this time get just a little bit involved. I am not asking for pictures (please god, no pictures!) or guest posts (although…), what I want is for you to contribute options.

In the comment box, you must give me one of three things:

1. A celebrity to put into the scenario

2. An interesting location (Or any location really. On second thought- No! I demand that you be interesting! Or not.)

3. A scenario (Pour example: I have just woken up after a night of drunken debauchery to find that I am in the same bed as Adrien Brody. Only you can’t use that one. Because I have already done it.)

Or, you can simply tell me to, for God’s sake, stop the madness! And I will discontinue Slutty Sundays for good. Possibly.

Go ahead… tell me. I promise not to laugh.

January 12, 2010

Tumblr.

January 12, 2010

Something to Stare At

You know how certain things can mean something to you, even if you don’t know why? Certain images, sounds, smells can take you somewhere you never meant to go. Somewhere familiar… and old. Somewhere that is, for some reason, important. One of these things can, it turns out, be a word.

I was reading over past blogs (who knows why, really) and I came upon a sentence bearing the word “Cairo.” For some reason or another, I couldn’t get past it. I just kept staring. Why was Cairo so important? What was it that I was trying to remember? A specific memory? An impression? What?

What is it about Cairo that I am forgetting? And why can’t I stop staring?

January 10, 2010

Slutty Sundays: The Red Room

She hadn’t meant to end up in her room. But somehow she was here. The dizzying music and cheap beer and laughter had drawn her in, as they tugged suggestively at each other’s clothes, daring the other to take a step forward, being teased into submission with piercing looks and warm whispers. She had never done this before. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t now.

The room was small and barely lit, a single lamp with a red shade cast a strange glow over the room and over their bare skin, as if everything was bathed the shade of lust.

“Hey” she breathed. Morgan smiled in response. She leant forward, and pressed her lips to Amber’s mouth. Their breathing quickened, she felt warm and excited. It wasn’t even a question anymore. It was happening.

As Amber leaned in and away, and found her arms entwine and hands searching, she forgot about her insecurities, her reservations, her questions. She stripped away her reluctance as if it were the clothes now falling from their bodies to the floor.

They wrapped their arms around each other, felt the desire pulsating from within, as blood rushing though their veins, causing their hearts to beat faster and their heads to become foggy. They fell upon the bed, smoothing and caressing and kissing each other’s skin. There were no other sounds in the world. No people. No thoughts. At that moment, at that time, it was only them. And all they could do was feel.