bedtime stories

May 26, 2003 19:59

And I curse my pores, and I restrain myself from setting fire to my face.

And then I think "Fire?"

And then I'm halfway content, or forcibly so, because at least I'm not like Polly. I'm no where near as far gone as Polly, and I never will be, so long as I can keep the blowtorch and myself on seperate sides of the room.

And, supposedly, no one will ever love Polly. Unless she shuttles to Orlando and takes up a career as a role-playing-rodent.

It's sad, but true. Polly is doomed.

But someone does love me, despite the battlefield that is my face. He already loves me, for who I am, which is overwhelming to say the least. This is ridiculous though, because I'm way past the figurative posterior of life (p-u-b-e-s-c-e-n-c-e). I've tried and tried and tried, but it won't leave me alone. It refuses to abandon me. It insists on staging 24-hour social gatherings all over my face.

And if anyone has any ideas, sock 'em to me.

Because in its own right, to someone that has never known what real pain and suffering is, this is really fucking disconcerting.

Enough is enough is enough.
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