Let's play a game, baby. Let's play die.
So, hello, my name is Lauren and I'm addicted to malcontent and conceited ignorant promiscuous men. But I gotta tell you, folks, it's getting quite old. This whole let's-just-be-friends-oops-my-penis-penetrated-your-vagina gig? Getting old. Getting fucking lame too. Because chances are, you are a) no good in bed, b)you don't quite size up or c)I'm not even attracted to you in the first place. Am I being blunt? Am I finally telling the truth? I'M SO TIRED OF BEING A PIECE OF ASS ( but please, let me know if you want me--a girl always needs confidence). I don't want to hear about how hot I am. I want to hear about how intelligent I am. How enthralling I am. I just wish someone would really respect me. And really stimulate my sex drive. But we can't have it all.
It's not that I'm horny. Maybe I am just a silly teenage girl searching in all the wrong places for love. For friendship. For respect. For something. For something to fill the void that makes me want to constantly help people. Yes, I, Destroyer of Lives for Fun, really do just want to help people. Maybe call it a Robin Hood Complex? Steal from the rich and give to the poor? Steal from the bitch and give to the....whore? Well, you know.
I want someone who understands me. Someone who doesn't look at me like I'm crazy when I say, "Let's go buy a bunch of candy, take off our shoes and sit in a field on a blanket and look at cloud-shapes!"
I don't think anyone I know right now would do that. At least not without a "but can't we go get drunk--what the hell, Lauren?" first.
I want someone whose eyes don't wander, even when they're drunk or high. I want someone who's okay with my bad habits. I'll be okay with most of yours, as long as they're not a lot of white powder and they don't have a better body than me. Or a prettier face.
I'm a spoiled brat. I'm a conceited bitch in disguise. I'm hypocritical and anal about bathroom sinks being dirty. And about tables that I sit at being clean. And about sticky things on my hands. And about properly setting one's table for meals.
I hate holding hands for long periods of time. I don't like walking and holding hands very much (I think couples who do that look corny and I'd love to see one trip and the other go down with him/her).
In conclusion, days like yesterday (sorry, Kylie) are blips in my emotional radar where I try to pretend I'm over the crying and sobbing and dazes and such phase. I try to pretend because I don't know who to go to anymore. So I try new people out, and some of them buckle under the pressure and the off-guard emotional disaster calling them. I try really hard to make you guys put up with my sobbing sniffling whining shit, but every now and then....someone's gotta do it. I don't care; make up a schedule for who gets the phone call for each month...who's the emotional babysitter, the listener to the crying bitch, all the time hoping some stranger will hear me and come over and we'll be soul mates and he'll drink hot apple cider with me all night under a blanket. Highly unlikely.
Maybe Damien Rice will whisk me away somewhere? That'd be great. K'thanks. I'll see you in a bit, Damien. And keep that voice well trained and sexy. Slightly raspy but smooth as can be.
I picture Damien Rice as a mix between Jude Law and the singer from Coldplay. Yeah, the fucker married to Gwenyth Paltrow.
I want a man just like that. Accent mandatory. Well, maybe. Curly hair...preferred.
It's not that I'm horny. Maybe I am just a silly teenage girl searching in all the wrong places for love. For friendship. For respect. For something. For something to fill the void that makes me want to constantly help people. Yes, I, Destroyer of Lives for Fun, really do just want to help people. Maybe call it a Robin Hood Complex? Steal from the rich and give to the poor? Steal from the bitch and give to the....whore? Well, you know.
I want someone who understands me. Someone who doesn't look at me like I'm crazy when I say, "Let's go buy a bunch of candy, take off our shoes and sit in a field on a blanket and look at cloud-shapes!"
I don't think anyone I know right now would do that. At least not without a "but can't we go get drunk--what the hell, Lauren?" first.
I want someone whose eyes don't wander, even when they're drunk or high. I want someone who's okay with my bad habits. I'll be okay with most of yours, as long as they're not a lot of white powder and they don't have a better body than me. Or a prettier face.
I'm a spoiled brat. I'm a conceited bitch in disguise. I'm hypocritical and anal about bathroom sinks being dirty. And about tables that I sit at being clean. And about sticky things on my hands. And about properly setting one's table for meals.
I hate holding hands for long periods of time. I don't like walking and holding hands very much (I think couples who do that look corny and I'd love to see one trip and the other go down with him/her).
In conclusion, days like yesterday (sorry, Kylie) are blips in my emotional radar where I try to pretend I'm over the crying and sobbing and dazes and such phase. I try to pretend because I don't know who to go to anymore. So I try new people out, and some of them buckle under the pressure and the off-guard emotional disaster calling them. I try really hard to make you guys put up with my sobbing sniffling whining shit, but every now and then....someone's gotta do it. I don't care; make up a schedule for who gets the phone call for each month...who's the emotional babysitter, the listener to the crying bitch, all the time hoping some stranger will hear me and come over and we'll be soul mates and he'll drink hot apple cider with me all night under a blanket. Highly unlikely.
Maybe Damien Rice will whisk me away somewhere? That'd be great. K'thanks. I'll see you in a bit, Damien. And keep that voice well trained and sexy. Slightly raspy but smooth as can be.
I picture Damien Rice as a mix between Jude Law and the singer from Coldplay. Yeah, the fucker married to Gwenyth Paltrow.
I want a man just like that. Accent mandatory. Well, maybe. Curly hair...preferred.