He was gangster and I was sugar
Can't say I'm too sad about the exchange of affairs between men and women. These sad and sorrowful secrets are little known to us who have no eyes to see the beauty within the mortals. No ears to hear the sweet murmurs of a soft voice, and no lips to kiss the fragrant lips of a soul that understands you so much it makes your heart hurt.
I sometimes wish I were a Romantic era man-poet. Who had no scruples and wooed women and collected venereal diseases. Like Lord Byron. Wasn't he the biggest man-whore of that century? Well I wish I were him or like him in another time period. I could write flowery poetry all day and snap my fingers and women's panties would just automatically fall off.
In some ways I'm glad I wasn't born a man, I have the feeling I would be a moody prick and not the gentle, slow-moving, bad-postured girl I am today. I am by no means perfect or anywhere near the line marked perfect on the scale of life. That spot is reserved for peroxide cheerleaders, who wear pale lip gloss and call their letter jacket boyfriends on their pink cell phones. If I were a man, I'd have the family nose, have dark brown hair, and a pretentious attitude, I'd have more confidence than do now, but I'd go home at night and cry occaissionally when no one was around because I would know that I was a joke, and wish I were a girl. Now there's the paradox.
And sometimes I don't know where I come from, this wierd inner voice that just stomps around demanding to be a man who only befriends gorgeous transsexuals. I also have the inner demons demanding sugar and play time. I get shy when asking people to go out and have adventures, for what I consider to be fun, some consider to be strange, driving around and camping, playing in shopping carts, rolling down steep hills. I barely do these things but my body needs it and craves the general rush of excitement. My wander lust comes and goes and I love moving about. I want to e-mail a small travelling film festival, like Lost Film Fest, and have them take me with them but I'm afraid they will reject me or think I'm wierd for asking them to come along in the first place, seeing a picture of me as a young woman and then envisioning a large sweaty man who smells like old meat showing up at their doorstep instead.
It's not an unreasonable thing to fear, we're all a little deficient in some way or other. And we also all have out own little wierd kinks. I like to play rough but I also like to submit sometimes too. Watch Secretary and you'll understand. Krystle told me today that women reach their sexual peaks at 35. That's quite specific, what did researches decide this unanimously? Studies like that make me question what in life can be a surprise anymore without the results being dictated to you before you go to sleep at night so you can wake up in the morning a successful version of your former self.
Sometimes I think about travelling, I don't think I know one person, who I could call and say come with me next week, and let's get in a car and drive, only for a week or so. Then proceed to the car and drive around, discovering mountains and climbing strange, phallic land formations. People usually look at their clocks and calenders and say, "That is too short of notice, are you kidding me? I have to work!" Money is evil and it will kill all of us one day. We spend a better part of our days working minimum wage and upon recieving a pittance the government takes half away to do some odd experiments about frog hormones. Although I do get anal about planning most trips, so I am not without sin either...
I truely love my friends and if they asked me to shave my whole body down, lay naked in the snow on top of some monument and sing row row row your boat backwards to help any of them out I would. Just throwing that out there...
What, also, is the concept of this mysterious cool chick? I always get mildly jealous when I see a guy I like with some pretty thing on his arm, and say to myself, he rejected you because she's cute, funny, witty, and doesn't make him feel like tearing his eyes out when you're slow to respond. I sit and imagine how cute she is and what kind of secret relationship jokes they share with each other. They'll be obnoxious and mention something about flaming burritos and laugh and smile lovingly at each other. She'll have a cute haircut and put together an odd thrift store outfit in an appealing way and carry herself with a poise that makes me break down and weep like a baby. In the end I end up crushing on the idea of her more than the initial guy...
And thus comes an end to my odd androgynous side which pokes around every once in awhile and tells people strange stories that I don't quite myself understand. Maybe one day I'll figure it out and be an eloquent whore-bag like I've always wanted to be, making people laugh, and stare at me with sparkles glittering heavily in their eyes. And sometimes I just wish I were a little more like them.
I sometimes wish I were a Romantic era man-poet. Who had no scruples and wooed women and collected venereal diseases. Like Lord Byron. Wasn't he the biggest man-whore of that century? Well I wish I were him or like him in another time period. I could write flowery poetry all day and snap my fingers and women's panties would just automatically fall off.
In some ways I'm glad I wasn't born a man, I have the feeling I would be a moody prick and not the gentle, slow-moving, bad-postured girl I am today. I am by no means perfect or anywhere near the line marked perfect on the scale of life. That spot is reserved for peroxide cheerleaders, who wear pale lip gloss and call their letter jacket boyfriends on their pink cell phones. If I were a man, I'd have the family nose, have dark brown hair, and a pretentious attitude, I'd have more confidence than do now, but I'd go home at night and cry occaissionally when no one was around because I would know that I was a joke, and wish I were a girl. Now there's the paradox.
And sometimes I don't know where I come from, this wierd inner voice that just stomps around demanding to be a man who only befriends gorgeous transsexuals. I also have the inner demons demanding sugar and play time. I get shy when asking people to go out and have adventures, for what I consider to be fun, some consider to be strange, driving around and camping, playing in shopping carts, rolling down steep hills. I barely do these things but my body needs it and craves the general rush of excitement. My wander lust comes and goes and I love moving about. I want to e-mail a small travelling film festival, like Lost Film Fest, and have them take me with them but I'm afraid they will reject me or think I'm wierd for asking them to come along in the first place, seeing a picture of me as a young woman and then envisioning a large sweaty man who smells like old meat showing up at their doorstep instead.
It's not an unreasonable thing to fear, we're all a little deficient in some way or other. And we also all have out own little wierd kinks. I like to play rough but I also like to submit sometimes too. Watch Secretary and you'll understand. Krystle told me today that women reach their sexual peaks at 35. That's quite specific, what did researches decide this unanimously? Studies like that make me question what in life can be a surprise anymore without the results being dictated to you before you go to sleep at night so you can wake up in the morning a successful version of your former self.
Sometimes I think about travelling, I don't think I know one person, who I could call and say come with me next week, and let's get in a car and drive, only for a week or so. Then proceed to the car and drive around, discovering mountains and climbing strange, phallic land formations. People usually look at their clocks and calenders and say, "That is too short of notice, are you kidding me? I have to work!" Money is evil and it will kill all of us one day. We spend a better part of our days working minimum wage and upon recieving a pittance the government takes half away to do some odd experiments about frog hormones. Although I do get anal about planning most trips, so I am not without sin either...
I truely love my friends and if they asked me to shave my whole body down, lay naked in the snow on top of some monument and sing row row row your boat backwards to help any of them out I would. Just throwing that out there...
What, also, is the concept of this mysterious cool chick? I always get mildly jealous when I see a guy I like with some pretty thing on his arm, and say to myself, he rejected you because she's cute, funny, witty, and doesn't make him feel like tearing his eyes out when you're slow to respond. I sit and imagine how cute she is and what kind of secret relationship jokes they share with each other. They'll be obnoxious and mention something about flaming burritos and laugh and smile lovingly at each other. She'll have a cute haircut and put together an odd thrift store outfit in an appealing way and carry herself with a poise that makes me break down and weep like a baby. In the end I end up crushing on the idea of her more than the initial guy...
And thus comes an end to my odd androgynous side which pokes around every once in awhile and tells people strange stories that I don't quite myself understand. Maybe one day I'll figure it out and be an eloquent whore-bag like I've always wanted to be, making people laugh, and stare at me with sparkles glittering heavily in their eyes. And sometimes I just wish I were a little more like them.