(no subject)
Dear Journal,
With all your worldly wisdom, I must question what your expectations of my patterns were. Though my last letter to you made an abrupt attempt at independance from your silly mood, my mind [a hungry stomach, a binge eater] could not turn down the knick knack paddywack bucket of appetizers you set out for the taking-- but I still know you better than to think you're good news, journal. I know what you do to my thoughts; they become your disposable whores, set up and labeled on a shelf, exploited and visually undressed like babydoll modeltypes, stripped down and publicly smacked up [no one pays attention to the sighs anymore]. Even at my most vulnerable prime, I know better than to spread the curtains so willingly and allow you to see the secret inner workings of my bloody entrails and flitftuttering imagination. However, my dear, I can say you are good for one worthwhile thing, the thing that keeps me turning my head back everytime I leave you: the cheap fixes you feed me are delicious. I can't trust you with the collective private stories or anything with an ounce of profound meaning, but when it comes to reporting pretentious quips, tickled fancies on the boy next door [across the street], borrowed lines from the loveliest dead poets, one-liners about jackhammering vibrations in my hips, or even open letters to dirty two-toed sluts, you're my man. For this, my heart goes out infinitely to you. Thanks for being there.
You love it,
Charlot.
With all your worldly wisdom, I must question what your expectations of my patterns were. Though my last letter to you made an abrupt attempt at independance from your silly mood, my mind [a hungry stomach, a binge eater] could not turn down the knick knack paddywack bucket of appetizers you set out for the taking-- but I still know you better than to think you're good news, journal. I know what you do to my thoughts; they become your disposable whores, set up and labeled on a shelf, exploited and visually undressed like babydoll modeltypes, stripped down and publicly smacked up [no one pays attention to the sighs anymore]. Even at my most vulnerable prime, I know better than to spread the curtains so willingly and allow you to see the secret inner workings of my bloody entrails and flitftuttering imagination. However, my dear, I can say you are good for one worthwhile thing, the thing that keeps me turning my head back everytime I leave you: the cheap fixes you feed me are delicious. I can't trust you with the collective private stories or anything with an ounce of profound meaning, but when it comes to reporting pretentious quips, tickled fancies on the boy next door [across the street], borrowed lines from the loveliest dead poets, one-liners about jackhammering vibrations in my hips, or even open letters to dirty two-toed sluts, you're my man. For this, my heart goes out infinitely to you. Thanks for being there.
You love it,
Charlot.