(no subject)
2.
I thought I would convince Jeff Turner to actually marry me. You spend six years of your life destroying a man’s very essence and you come to expect that your final pathetic breakdown coupled with pleas for a legal commitment will result in unprecedented success.
No such luck.
I had to fuck look-me-in-my-eyes.
I had to go to the Joyland country western dance club and drink Budweiser until I blacked out. I don’t even remember how it happened. He came to Sarasota and bought me McDonalds. We smoked his pot in a dirty motel room and when I got off work, we got wasted. Or I did.
This is a stupid story.
I know we fucked because I remember the whole look-me-in-my-eyes thing and I, like the drunk slut I am, went along with it and for a split second Justin Whoever thought we shared something special. I looked him in the eyes.
I remember making a solemn oath of secrecy. So we fucked. I’ve fucked a lot of random guys and quite frankly, secrecy was detrimental to my preferred method of making my way up in the rankings of social hierarchy. Drugs, sex, and bragging about that shit like I won the Special Olympics.
Justin is an aspiring artist, like everyone. Everywhere.
I feel like this is going to get me in trouble.
So I’ll switch this shit up.
The ignorance of the common man astounds me. My boss at the Airport Inn, Jerry, seemed to have absolutely no idea that my friendship with Duane was a direct result of our mutual crack addiction. I believe he was thoroughly convinced we were buds, that I had entered Duane’s life as a potential savior. Even when Duane broke into Jerry’s office and used his private phone line to call his dude, and Jerry saw the number on his call log the next day, Jerry completely ignored my role as supervisor of the front desk and blatant involvement in the break-in and subsequent drug deal.
One night I stayed at Duane’s until six in the morning, calling Jeff at random intervals throughout the night to check in and confirm my abstinence from fucking my crack fiend buddy, Duane. My last call of the night I told Jeff I had ridden my bicycle home and was safely in bed, going to sleep, regardless of the given withdrawal from twenty-four hours of crack use implicit in my recapping of the evening. In actuality, I was curled up in one of Duane’s three recliners, still smoking on someone else’s dollar.
Jeff told me to do him a favor, get online and send him an IM.
To confirm I was in fact in my dorm room.
So being a drug addicted whore and liar, I started raging at him about his lack of trust and feigned deep insult and injury at his request.
But Jeff’s not a crackhead, so he called me out on my shit. Called out my lie.
And I suppose that was the beginning of the end. I can’t articulate the impact of this seemingly miniscule lie. Miniscule compared to the grandiose manipulation tactics I formulated to meld Jeff and I into one mutated and barely sentient consciousness.
The move to Seattle became a dire necessity. I don’t know if he wanted to save me or simply show me the truth about the extent of my pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization. I don’t know what it means to be loved by Jeff Turner, because his expressions of love were interpreted, on my behalf, as demands for an astounding and unreasonable change in the personality I’m thoroughly convinced was instilled in me, by Jeff, at the impressionable age of fifteen.
Fucking shit.
I wanted this to be a funny entry.
-
Base me.
Turn me inside out.
Shower me with kisses.
Dry me off with doubt.
Sober Conclusion: What I strive for on a daily basis is to learn a proper methodology for ensuring I will express love without simultaneous ruination. I want to love and be loved. I want to feel secure that I will never, ever have to hurt someone to confirm their love for me.
I thought I would convince Jeff Turner to actually marry me. You spend six years of your life destroying a man’s very essence and you come to expect that your final pathetic breakdown coupled with pleas for a legal commitment will result in unprecedented success.
No such luck.
I had to fuck look-me-in-my-eyes.
I had to go to the Joyland country western dance club and drink Budweiser until I blacked out. I don’t even remember how it happened. He came to Sarasota and bought me McDonalds. We smoked his pot in a dirty motel room and when I got off work, we got wasted. Or I did.
This is a stupid story.
I know we fucked because I remember the whole look-me-in-my-eyes thing and I, like the drunk slut I am, went along with it and for a split second Justin Whoever thought we shared something special. I looked him in the eyes.
I remember making a solemn oath of secrecy. So we fucked. I’ve fucked a lot of random guys and quite frankly, secrecy was detrimental to my preferred method of making my way up in the rankings of social hierarchy. Drugs, sex, and bragging about that shit like I won the Special Olympics.
Justin is an aspiring artist, like everyone. Everywhere.
I feel like this is going to get me in trouble.
So I’ll switch this shit up.
The ignorance of the common man astounds me. My boss at the Airport Inn, Jerry, seemed to have absolutely no idea that my friendship with Duane was a direct result of our mutual crack addiction. I believe he was thoroughly convinced we were buds, that I had entered Duane’s life as a potential savior. Even when Duane broke into Jerry’s office and used his private phone line to call his dude, and Jerry saw the number on his call log the next day, Jerry completely ignored my role as supervisor of the front desk and blatant involvement in the break-in and subsequent drug deal.
One night I stayed at Duane’s until six in the morning, calling Jeff at random intervals throughout the night to check in and confirm my abstinence from fucking my crack fiend buddy, Duane. My last call of the night I told Jeff I had ridden my bicycle home and was safely in bed, going to sleep, regardless of the given withdrawal from twenty-four hours of crack use implicit in my recapping of the evening. In actuality, I was curled up in one of Duane’s three recliners, still smoking on someone else’s dollar.
Jeff told me to do him a favor, get online and send him an IM.
To confirm I was in fact in my dorm room.
So being a drug addicted whore and liar, I started raging at him about his lack of trust and feigned deep insult and injury at his request.
But Jeff’s not a crackhead, so he called me out on my shit. Called out my lie.
And I suppose that was the beginning of the end. I can’t articulate the impact of this seemingly miniscule lie. Miniscule compared to the grandiose manipulation tactics I formulated to meld Jeff and I into one mutated and barely sentient consciousness.
The move to Seattle became a dire necessity. I don’t know if he wanted to save me or simply show me the truth about the extent of my pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization. I don’t know what it means to be loved by Jeff Turner, because his expressions of love were interpreted, on my behalf, as demands for an astounding and unreasonable change in the personality I’m thoroughly convinced was instilled in me, by Jeff, at the impressionable age of fifteen.
Fucking shit.
I wanted this to be a funny entry.
-
Base me.
Turn me inside out.
Shower me with kisses.
Dry me off with doubt.
Sober Conclusion: What I strive for on a daily basis is to learn a proper methodology for ensuring I will express love without simultaneous ruination. I want to love and be loved. I want to feel secure that I will never, ever have to hurt someone to confirm their love for me.