I tried that whiskey. Didn’t like it, way too watery with a smack of angst.
Did I miss the memo wherein it explained that my part of the world was supposed to go crazy for a bit?
Just one by one flying or sliding off the rails depending.
Full moon is well over and Gemini season has yet to begin. Mercury has stationed direct too, Venus is where she should be. What cosmic fuckery is this? I know it rained for a week straight and we all went a little stir crazy but the sun has been out for days now.
Fuck, I did it too. Drank way too much and ended up doing a few bumps.
I fucking hate cocaine…who am I right now?
Right now right now? A girl with regrets and a stuffy nose.
And determination to not do that again. Truth is, I might. I would rather not but I am fallible.
Who am I usually? The girl who asks why.
I am sitting here, listening to Panda snore over my ultra-quiet John Mayer playlist, typing away for you nice folks and I think I know why I derailed.
I was temporarily and fundamentally unhappy for a bit there. Kept trying to plug away and make it okay, but it wasn’t. The stress wore at me like some low grade acid and ya…whoops. I didn’t hit rock bottom, but wherever I landed was adjacent to rock bottom. Like a gravelly mezzanine.
I am currently in some weird limbo with a relationship I thought I wanted out of but I really want to be in.
I have some penance to do and that is okay.
“If it’s time for recompense for what’s done, come sit down on a bench in the sun” Nick Drake
I love that song, that line and that idea.
If you would be forgiven, be forgiving and forgivable.
Don’t play the blame game.
I am perfectly find standing here and saying, yes…this is my fault. I could go on and on and on about how ‘well he did this and that and the other fucking thing’, but I don’t. I rarely do in here. I have no control over anyone’s actions but my own. My life, good or bad, is my responsibility.
Have I bad mouthed my exes? Yep. Nowhere did I ever claim to have a halo or wings. I am not perfect and after getting pimped out, cheated on and finding out the Poet was collecting pretty female writers like trophies, I think it’s fair to get those things out so they don’t fester.
There are a few schools of thought when it comes to writing.
“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”― Anne Lamott
Yep. I agree. People do shitty shit to each other. I have been hurt and in working through it I have realized that baggage doesn’t belong to me, something was hurting or missing in them and that is why they did what they did. I don’t need to own it or carry it. I also don’t need to wax poetic about it either. Much better to let it go rather than have it fester and require amputation. I like my limbs as is thank you very much.
Some writers have built their brand on heartache. See above where I dated a poet who collected pretty girl writers to feed his ego and his work. I fell for it. My bad. I get it, its angst driven and relatable, it draws forth rousing choruses of ‘me too’.
But ‘she who fights the monsters should see to it that she herself does not become one’ Nietzsche
Again, what if you are the one holding the knife, cutting yourself (and others in the process) and writing in your own blood?
Just fucking staaaaaahp.
The most popular gladiators were not the ones who killed quickly and mercifully. People want a show blood, guts, pain…a gory spectacle. Not ‘we tried but I’m not over my ex so…sorry’. Or ‘shit, I really fucked this up.’ Although, that is how and what I write now and I too hear the words ‘me too’. Apparently those are my people. The ones outside of the arena.
I used to eat drama for breakfast, poured over a big bowl of crazy cornflakes.
Now I find it basic and boorish.
Throwing around the word narcissist like they actually know what it means. I pray for their delicate little souls they never meet a real one. Or perhaps, you need to look in the mirror.
“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”
Face it, all the rocks can forever stay on the ground, we have all fucked up at one time or another. But please, do make sure your hands are clean before you go pointing fingers. Don’t call the kettle black if you are the one who did the leaving.
You can’t nail yourself to a cross and still call yourself a martyr. Come down now, we can build a fire with the wood and warm your chilled little broken bird heart.
You’re talking shit again
It’s heartbreak warfare
Good to know it’s all a game
Disappointment has a name…
It’s heartbreak warfare