Nightmarish figures with razor-sharp dyed hair and painted faces step on our toes with edgy heels and string their pearly beads around our necks in attempt to suck us into their empty shells. She rests an elbow against the flower bed behind her (the flowers withered into dust over the rough granite rocks) until the man in the suit lowers his sunglasses down the bridge of his wide nose and tells her to stop. "Am I that heavy?" she asks underneath droopy, drunken eyelashes, a provocative pout distorting her lips. He laughs flirtatiously but I can't help but think to myself - yes, lady, you are that heavy, despite your bony figure and sickly face. You are heavy with contempt for me and my company, not because we're prettier (we are not) but because we are young. Because the man in the suit does not hesitate to let us in. Because we are holding hands and pretending to talk about our 'others' while our eyes exchange prohibited glances.
In we go under ridiculously hard to say fake names. I follow my friend in, hands still clutched, and enter the elevator that will lead us way down into place where right and wrong merge into a single mass of smiles, bodies, laughter, sweat, tears, alcohol, music, and filthy money. We are the only ones in the elevator, silently standing face to face with deranged ideas in our minds while we clutch its opposing metal walls for support. My knees bend for a flash of a second with pure desire and so do yours. The doors open, sliding a blade of noise and conversation through the moment we just shared. We shake our heads clear and blink it all away. You take my hand and I can walk again.
The place feels wrong. The idea of it colapses in our minds like a firework that didn't go off; instead, the lights and the fire and the loud bang reside in between our silky warm hands, still helt tight. You are in a whole different level of drunk so I have no idea if I'm just imagining things. I can't possibly be - I am the sober one here... aren't I?
And then you look at me and ask me to lead the way. You feel as lost and out of place as I do and, as a consequence, start blabbing away about your 'others' and this place's 'potentials'. But, once again, your hand gives your true thoughts away. Your thumb circles the back of my hand and your fingers tickle my knuckles almost imperceptively. Your hand shifts and rearranges itself in mine repeatedly and I know it's not because you haven't found a comfortable position yet - you are feeling the contours of mine in yours, unfamiliar and dangerous in your head. Your eyes widen and change color and you ask me if I want to leave. I say yes.
Strangers approach us at different times and with different intentions while we stand in line. Our eyes meet and both of us are impressed. You patiently wait for me while I yell at the men in the dark suit, and for a split second, the tension is waved off and all there is is our shared laughter. I'm finally released from the confines of that miniature hell and we are together once again, in our no-longer-necessary hand-holding.
But then the night air slaps us both cold and sober and we let go. I smoke and shift in my feet while you complain about life and we are no longer in sync. I take awkward drags while you watch my lips close around the cigarette. Your mouth twitches and I'm scared of what we're about to fall into, so I toss the cigarette away a bit theatrically and smile at you; "I'm ready to go," I say.
I can't not notice how our legs and feet touch in the cab. Once again, we are talking about the strangers in our lives - the beautiful but pathetically empty shells of people we wished we could fall in love with. We share dirty stories in a language the driver doesn't understand, with code-words and slang no one but us know. And then we're there. You lean in for a quick kiss and our cheeks snap with a tiny electrical aftershock of all the delirious moments we managed to come across on our night out by ourselves.
This, my friend, is what happens when we're not surrounded by the usual crowd of secondary characters. I'm scared. Everyone knows we've got particularily fearsome reputations - you are the earthquake, I'm the tornado. We will rip each other to shreds.
*
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Meaning of Life
I've finally figured it out. The meaning of life, I mean. Okay, maybe not as much the meaning, but the goal - what all of us are desperately aiming for.
All we want is attention. When we're born we cry for it. When we learn how to talk we demand it. When we become teenagers we expect it - and throw tantrums when we don't get it. This whole blog is, in several ways, all about attention too, so I'm not being self-righteous when I say this.
In fact, the whole reason behind today's shitty mood is my selfish desperation for just one second of everyone's attention on me - I just want some peace and quiet! I don't feel like dressing up to meet people's expectations, I don't feel like saying hi to this randomly annoying guy I don't even know just because I feel sorry for him, I don't feel like taking shit from a certain bratty girl who doesn't know the first thing about me, I don't feel like answering Magic 8 Ball's pathetically insistent message, I don't feel like listening to this other random guy brag about his new girlfriend (screw you serial monogamists for making my inability to commit feel inappropriate!), I don't feel like having to be the grown up while my mother runs off to the beach without a word, I don't feel like setting my Messenger status as 'invisible' just because this guy I don't feel like talking to is online, I don't feel like getting told I shouldn't get a new tattoo because I'm - quote - addicted, I don't feel like taking my Law teacher's crap about my 'restlessness and inability to focus', I don't feel like printing more recipes for my maid, I don't feel like job-hunting, I don't feel like calling her back, I don't feel like I DON'T FEEL LIKE DOING A THING!
So no, I am NOT going to be a martyr and make everyone's lives easier by going down on my knees and offering them a bouquet of pretty pink attention. All I want is a cigarette, my guitar, the outdoors and the moon, and a blank mind. In the words of Lily Allen, 'fuck you very, very much'.
Good night!
*
All we want is attention. When we're born we cry for it. When we learn how to talk we demand it. When we become teenagers we expect it - and throw tantrums when we don't get it. This whole blog is, in several ways, all about attention too, so I'm not being self-righteous when I say this.
In fact, the whole reason behind today's shitty mood is my selfish desperation for just one second of everyone's attention on me - I just want some peace and quiet! I don't feel like dressing up to meet people's expectations, I don't feel like saying hi to this randomly annoying guy I don't even know just because I feel sorry for him, I don't feel like taking shit from a certain bratty girl who doesn't know the first thing about me, I don't feel like answering Magic 8 Ball's pathetically insistent message, I don't feel like listening to this other random guy brag about his new girlfriend (screw you serial monogamists for making my inability to commit feel inappropriate!), I don't feel like having to be the grown up while my mother runs off to the beach without a word, I don't feel like setting my Messenger status as 'invisible' just because this guy I don't feel like talking to is online, I don't feel like getting told I shouldn't get a new tattoo because I'm - quote - addicted, I don't feel like taking my Law teacher's crap about my 'restlessness and inability to focus', I don't feel like printing more recipes for my maid, I don't feel like job-hunting, I don't feel like calling her back, I don't feel like I DON'T FEEL LIKE DOING A THING!
So no, I am NOT going to be a martyr and make everyone's lives easier by going down on my knees and offering them a bouquet of pretty pink attention. All I want is a cigarette, my guitar, the outdoors and the moon, and a blank mind. In the words of Lily Allen, 'fuck you very, very much'.
Good night!
*
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
I'm not scared, are YOU scared? Because I'm not scared.
I might be giving this a little bit too much importance.
And this.
And maybe this as well.
Over-thinking about it or not, it's all very true - not to mention serious. It is serious! I'm not going to preach and I'm not going to write a persuasive thing pro-all of the above, but I am going to bitch about a few things/people/situations that have royally pissed me off just in the past week and a half.
-I'm skipping my second class and just peacefully smoking out in the beautiful, tasty sun with my friends, having an extremely interesting and smart ass discussion about the class on feminism we just had (ha ha really) when a totally random guy comes and sits opposite to us. He lights a cigarette with MY lighter and introduces himself. We are polite just say hi and smile - despite how bad we feel like laughing - and when we think he is done interacting with us, we go back to our little discussion. He totally butts in and insists on spending the next hour and a half trying to a) show off about inheriting his dad's company and b) prove why it is not wrong to only hire 'hot' saleswomen at 'his' store. One, he's not even out of college yet, so it's so not his store yet. Two, taking off his shoes to casually flash its Prada label is not cool - just FYI, I was wearing Diesel jeans and Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, and I managed to keep both on all day long. Three, having a 'hot' woman or a fat bald man sell you a fucking office chair makes no difference whatsoever. It's an office chair, mate. You don't go on a shopping spree for office chairs - you buy them 'cause you need them.
-He picks me up in his badass car wearing designer clothes from head to toe and takes me to a super posh restaurant for an over-rated and over-priced plate of steak and chips (called a slightly fancier name, of course). He orders the bottle of the priciest wine and makes a show out of smelling the cork and the glass and twirling it around expertly before finally 'allowing' me to have a sip. Despite my effort to make conversation during dinner, he is quiet and cold and distant and before I know it I am texting my friend from under the table begging her for help. It is pretty clear we are not going on a second date. He drives me back home and I only kiss him because I feel like having just a tiny bit of fun myself after the horrible night. And then when I politely decline 'taking thins to his place' and never call again, he leaves me a furious voice message asking me why I disappeared, arrogantly claiming he dressed up, opened the doors for me, paid for dinner, and drove me home, and calls me a flirt. So what, I, as a woman, am supposed to fall madly in love and 'hand myself over' (ugh how I hate this expression) just because he followed the basics of the Date Rulebook? What they don't get is that a hot dog and a beer at the park accompanied by ACTUAL CONVERSATION and laughter and flirting would have done the trick. And about calling me a flirt - why are men allowed to fuck like the world's on fire and when a woman just kisses a guy because she wants to have fun too, she is automatically frowned upon?
-Maybe it's just the age difference doing this to you, but I think it's quite lame how you root for the guy with money and a last name over the one I actually like just because that's how it's supposed to be. Fuck knows we already have both of the above, thank you very much, so it's not like I'm in need to 'marry up'. If I were a guy you'd be telling me to go for the girl with the looks and the traits of a 'good wife', which is as pathetic as the other way around. It's people we fall in love with, not pictures and reputations.
-We're at my beach house, just the women in my family, trying to be sympathetic to a recently divorced aunt. We're having the time of our lives until you decide to turn diva and refuse to carry the grocery bags, paying a man to do it for you even though all we bought are fruits and chocolates. 'I can carry it myself,' I offer, but you make a face and laugh, 'You're a girl, you don't need to put yourself through that'. Right. I'm silent just because I don't want to be the party pooper. But then it's after dinner and we're opening a bottle of champagne, and you just have to laugh and snottily complain about the 'lack of a man to help us open it and serve us'. I raise an eyebrow and you explain, 'a woman should never be allowed to serve herself'. Instant bitch fit of my part.
I could go on and on but this is getting too long and I'm getting to worked up and pissed off at the entire world, so it really is better I stop. This is a topic I might and probably will come back to - my stories about it are not exactly scarce.
And I'm dying for a shower - my car's AC just decided to die, smack in the middle of the Brazilian summer. I'm not even the tiniest bit screwed, huh?
*
And this.
And maybe this as well.
Over-thinking about it or not, it's all very true - not to mention serious. It is serious! I'm not going to preach and I'm not going to write a persuasive thing pro-all of the above, but I am going to bitch about a few things/people/situations that have royally pissed me off just in the past week and a half.
-I'm skipping my second class and just peacefully smoking out in the beautiful, tasty sun with my friends, having an extremely interesting and smart ass discussion about the class on feminism we just had (ha ha really) when a totally random guy comes and sits opposite to us. He lights a cigarette with MY lighter and introduces himself. We are polite just say hi and smile - despite how bad we feel like laughing - and when we think he is done interacting with us, we go back to our little discussion. He totally butts in and insists on spending the next hour and a half trying to a) show off about inheriting his dad's company and b) prove why it is not wrong to only hire 'hot' saleswomen at 'his' store. One, he's not even out of college yet, so it's so not his store yet. Two, taking off his shoes to casually flash its Prada label is not cool - just FYI, I was wearing Diesel jeans and Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, and I managed to keep both on all day long. Three, having a 'hot' woman or a fat bald man sell you a fucking office chair makes no difference whatsoever. It's an office chair, mate. You don't go on a shopping spree for office chairs - you buy them 'cause you need them.
-He picks me up in his badass car wearing designer clothes from head to toe and takes me to a super posh restaurant for an over-rated and over-priced plate of steak and chips (called a slightly fancier name, of course). He orders the bottle of the priciest wine and makes a show out of smelling the cork and the glass and twirling it around expertly before finally 'allowing' me to have a sip. Despite my effort to make conversation during dinner, he is quiet and cold and distant and before I know it I am texting my friend from under the table begging her for help. It is pretty clear we are not going on a second date. He drives me back home and I only kiss him because I feel like having just a tiny bit of fun myself after the horrible night. And then when I politely decline 'taking thins to his place' and never call again, he leaves me a furious voice message asking me why I disappeared, arrogantly claiming he dressed up, opened the doors for me, paid for dinner, and drove me home, and calls me a flirt. So what, I, as a woman, am supposed to fall madly in love and 'hand myself over' (ugh how I hate this expression) just because he followed the basics of the Date Rulebook? What they don't get is that a hot dog and a beer at the park accompanied by ACTUAL CONVERSATION and laughter and flirting would have done the trick. And about calling me a flirt - why are men allowed to fuck like the world's on fire and when a woman just kisses a guy because she wants to have fun too, she is automatically frowned upon?
-Maybe it's just the age difference doing this to you, but I think it's quite lame how you root for the guy with money and a last name over the one I actually like just because that's how it's supposed to be. Fuck knows we already have both of the above, thank you very much, so it's not like I'm in need to 'marry up'. If I were a guy you'd be telling me to go for the girl with the looks and the traits of a 'good wife', which is as pathetic as the other way around. It's people we fall in love with, not pictures and reputations.
-We're at my beach house, just the women in my family, trying to be sympathetic to a recently divorced aunt. We're having the time of our lives until you decide to turn diva and refuse to carry the grocery bags, paying a man to do it for you even though all we bought are fruits and chocolates. 'I can carry it myself,' I offer, but you make a face and laugh, 'You're a girl, you don't need to put yourself through that'. Right. I'm silent just because I don't want to be the party pooper. But then it's after dinner and we're opening a bottle of champagne, and you just have to laugh and snottily complain about the 'lack of a man to help us open it and serve us'. I raise an eyebrow and you explain, 'a woman should never be allowed to serve herself'. Instant bitch fit of my part.
I could go on and on but this is getting too long and I'm getting to worked up and pissed off at the entire world, so it really is better I stop. This is a topic I might and probably will come back to - my stories about it are not exactly scarce.
And I'm dying for a shower - my car's AC just decided to die, smack in the middle of the Brazilian summer. I'm not even the tiniest bit screwed, huh?
*
Thursday, February 18, 2010
RE: What am I doing??
That was quick. And easy. And exactly what I needed.
You know, it's supposed to be so easy being you; you already have the looks and the car - all you gotta do is be creative, funny, and keep the conversation flowing. Okay, so maybe one guy can't have it all. I mean, you definitely do NOT - hence my not calling/texting you ever again.
Regardless, I'm still going to bed with a big smile on my face. Grazie ;)
*
You know, it's supposed to be so easy being you; you already have the looks and the car - all you gotta do is be creative, funny, and keep the conversation flowing. Okay, so maybe one guy can't have it all. I mean, you definitely do NOT - hence my not calling/texting you ever again.
Regardless, I'm still going to bed with a big smile on my face. Grazie ;)
*
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
What am I doing???
Okay, so maybe things are a little more complicated now that I'm back from the beach. Yes, the thing with Mr.Magic 8 Ball (this sounds so wrong haha) is still happening tonight and I have no idea what I'm doing. What am I doing? Fjfkhads.
I still burst out laughing whenever I think about the past four days at the beach. Me as a role model for a sixteen year old during Carnaval is not a very good idea, I know. Yes, there was plenty of drinking, laughing, dirty talking, lying, boys, dodging snow-sprays, and puking our guts out (not my favorite part of the whole thing, exactly), and yes, I did make sure the girl didn't have to pay a thing on her first crazy night out. I'm such a good samaritan.
Anyways, in between all that came the Fohawk guy. Not going to mention any of what happened (because a) I was drunk and b) he was too much of a a good guy, for a change (so there's still hope haha) but now I'm at least a little bit confused. Not because I'm suddenly in love with the Fohawk guy, hell no, but because I honestly have no idea where Mr. Magic 8 Ball's second chance came from. And now he's taking me to a super fancy restaurant (again) and I'm already on auto-pilot as I pick up his call and give him specific instructions about NOT ringing my apartment's buzzer, as I had to lie about my meeting him tonight. Shame, guilt, embarassment, all of the fucking above? Ahhhhhh!!
One thing I learned during my 'dark days' two years ago, as a seventeen year old? Do NOT juggle. Do NOT lie (as often). Do NOT go out with this guy in particular. There's a reason why my dad calls him Trouble, but I guess we just can't help falling for the bad guys.
I'm so royally screwed.
*
I still burst out laughing whenever I think about the past four days at the beach. Me as a role model for a sixteen year old during Carnaval is not a very good idea, I know. Yes, there was plenty of drinking, laughing, dirty talking, lying, boys, dodging snow-sprays, and puking our guts out (not my favorite part of the whole thing, exactly), and yes, I did make sure the girl didn't have to pay a thing on her first crazy night out. I'm such a good samaritan.
Anyways, in between all that came the Fohawk guy. Not going to mention any of what happened (because a) I was drunk and b) he was too much of a a good guy, for a change (so there's still hope haha) but now I'm at least a little bit confused. Not because I'm suddenly in love with the Fohawk guy, hell no, but because I honestly have no idea where Mr. Magic 8 Ball's second chance came from. And now he's taking me to a super fancy restaurant (again) and I'm already on auto-pilot as I pick up his call and give him specific instructions about NOT ringing my apartment's buzzer, as I had to lie about my meeting him tonight. Shame, guilt, embarassment, all of the fucking above? Ahhhhhh!!
One thing I learned during my 'dark days' two years ago, as a seventeen year old? Do NOT juggle. Do NOT lie (as often). Do NOT go out with this guy in particular. There's a reason why my dad calls him Trouble, but I guess we just can't help falling for the bad guys.
I'm so royally screwed.
*
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Magic 8 Ball
(No, this isn't a continuation of the last post. I don't feel like writing about the bad part of my Monday Night Disaster just yet - still makes my heart pound. Oh, the drama.)
Big, stupid, cliché dilemma. Should I or should I not call him? Text him? Facebook?? Ugh.
No, I'm not actually debating calling a guy who hasn't called back. I don't do that. I'm mulling over mending things with someone who may or may not be sorry for a crappy situation that happened last year; regardless of how true his apologies are, he sure is insistent. I mean, you meet someone at a club (under very funny circumstances, must I say), exchange numbers, and go out for about three times afterwards. That in itself is a miracle. But then things turn bad and you go all "Another One Bites the Dust" on him ("Killer Queen" style ha ha) and promise yourself you are never, ever going out with him or anyone remotely like him again.
And then almost a year goes by and he's still calling. You never answer. He texts. You don't even read them. He adds you on Facebook and posts cute Merry Xmas/ New Year/ Birthday messages on your wall. Maybe you just post an icy 'thanks' comment and leave it at that. And then he sends you billions of private messages and you start to wonder what the fuck is wrong with the guy. He can't possibly like me that much. Such things don't happen in the real world. Plus, he's supposed to be scared by your little bitch fit. And you're supposed to be royally pissed, still.
Somehow, things are all backwards.
He gives you a lame excuse about losing his phone (and with it your number) and when you stupidly ask for his number again (lying about having 'accidentaly' erased it), you see it's still the old number. So either he a)managed to keep the same number but lost all his contacts, b)is just making asshole-y small talk, or c)is sort of asking you permission to start the calls again. And the texts. But now you don't have the option of not answering either - you're the one who fell for his words (again) and asked for his number (again). You gotta answer.
So here I am, blogging. My very own form of a Magic 8 Ball. When in doubt, I type away. Words gradually form in front of my eyes and before I know it, I have a silly prophetic answer right in front of my eyes. Funny thing is, no matter how silly it looks and sounds, it's always true. It does come from some crap place of my subconscious, doesn't it? Very Dr.Phil indeed, but hey, if I'm the one typing, then these words must be mine. This 'answer' must be mine.
Where does this leave me, exactly? Call him, don't call him? Text him? Facebook? Ugh.
Yeah, it's probably stupid to hold a grudge against him like this for eternity when... well, I don't wanna make his mistakes public. I should probably give him just one tiny little chance. Just one. A slow smile is spreading through my lips as I realize I'm now one of those stupid girls from sugary chick-flicks - all the while, while they decide to give some asshole a second chance, you're mentally thinking about what idiots they are. Of course the guy is a man-whore who doesn't actually regret whatever it is they've done. Of course they're going to hurt the girl over and over again (until the surreal Good Guy comes along and they live happily ever after - it is a movie after all). But... I did say, in the beginning of this stupidly stupid post, that my whole thing with the Guy In Question was nothing like real life. In fact, our going out for more than the Deadly Three Times after meeting at a fucking club and his still wanting to call me after a whole year went by, despite how much I (righteously) yelled at him, is nothing like real life. I'd say it's the movie kind of thing, except I know it couldn't be. Because, like it or not, this is real life. Yes, I'm talking in circles. But my point is, he probably just wants me to go back to being a regular at his house again. Oh, to hell with men who are too young to live alone and do just because they're filthy rich enough to afford it. To hell with men who buy you presents and take you out to the best restaurants/clubs/bars and who pick you up in nice cars and take you home to spoil you with good wine and cheese on toast. Ughhh. I'm being a little shallow, hell yes. I like the idea of him, I think, not him per say. Okay, liar. I do like him. I miss him and that's why I got his FUCKING NUMBER again. Jklfajfa!
Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I'm calling him . Right now. Thanks a lot, Magic 8 Ball. No matter how many shakes I give you, all you insist on telling me is 'you're totally screwed, but got no way out of it'. Now I see I should probably switch the Magic 8 Ball for a lucky charm of some sort. This will have to be a tiny last chance. I will not be lured into his too-much-like-the-movies-to-be-real world. I will be "Killer Queen" all over again if I have to. Fuck.
*
Big, stupid, cliché dilemma. Should I or should I not call him? Text him? Facebook?? Ugh.
No, I'm not actually debating calling a guy who hasn't called back. I don't do that. I'm mulling over mending things with someone who may or may not be sorry for a crappy situation that happened last year; regardless of how true his apologies are, he sure is insistent. I mean, you meet someone at a club (under very funny circumstances, must I say), exchange numbers, and go out for about three times afterwards. That in itself is a miracle. But then things turn bad and you go all "Another One Bites the Dust" on him ("Killer Queen" style ha ha) and promise yourself you are never, ever going out with him or anyone remotely like him again.
And then almost a year goes by and he's still calling. You never answer. He texts. You don't even read them. He adds you on Facebook and posts cute Merry Xmas/ New Year/ Birthday messages on your wall. Maybe you just post an icy 'thanks' comment and leave it at that. And then he sends you billions of private messages and you start to wonder what the fuck is wrong with the guy. He can't possibly like me that much. Such things don't happen in the real world. Plus, he's supposed to be scared by your little bitch fit. And you're supposed to be royally pissed, still.
Somehow, things are all backwards.
He gives you a lame excuse about losing his phone (and with it your number) and when you stupidly ask for his number again (lying about having 'accidentaly' erased it), you see it's still the old number. So either he a)managed to keep the same number but lost all his contacts, b)is just making asshole-y small talk, or c)is sort of asking you permission to start the calls again. And the texts. But now you don't have the option of not answering either - you're the one who fell for his words (again) and asked for his number (again). You gotta answer.
So here I am, blogging. My very own form of a Magic 8 Ball. When in doubt, I type away. Words gradually form in front of my eyes and before I know it, I have a silly prophetic answer right in front of my eyes. Funny thing is, no matter how silly it looks and sounds, it's always true. It does come from some crap place of my subconscious, doesn't it? Very Dr.Phil indeed, but hey, if I'm the one typing, then these words must be mine. This 'answer' must be mine.
Where does this leave me, exactly? Call him, don't call him? Text him? Facebook? Ugh.
Yeah, it's probably stupid to hold a grudge against him like this for eternity when... well, I don't wanna make his mistakes public. I should probably give him just one tiny little chance. Just one. A slow smile is spreading through my lips as I realize I'm now one of those stupid girls from sugary chick-flicks - all the while, while they decide to give some asshole a second chance, you're mentally thinking about what idiots they are. Of course the guy is a man-whore who doesn't actually regret whatever it is they've done. Of course they're going to hurt the girl over and over again (until the surreal Good Guy comes along and they live happily ever after - it is a movie after all). But... I did say, in the beginning of this stupidly stupid post, that my whole thing with the Guy In Question was nothing like real life. In fact, our going out for more than the Deadly Three Times after meeting at a fucking club and his still wanting to call me after a whole year went by, despite how much I (righteously) yelled at him, is nothing like real life. I'd say it's the movie kind of thing, except I know it couldn't be. Because, like it or not, this is real life. Yes, I'm talking in circles. But my point is, he probably just wants me to go back to being a regular at his house again. Oh, to hell with men who are too young to live alone and do just because they're filthy rich enough to afford it. To hell with men who buy you presents and take you out to the best restaurants/clubs/bars and who pick you up in nice cars and take you home to spoil you with good wine and cheese on toast. Ughhh. I'm being a little shallow, hell yes. I like the idea of him, I think, not him per say. Okay, liar. I do like him. I miss him and that's why I got his FUCKING NUMBER again. Jklfajfa!
Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I'm calling him . Right now. Thanks a lot, Magic 8 Ball. No matter how many shakes I give you, all you insist on telling me is 'you're totally screwed, but got no way out of it'. Now I see I should probably switch the Magic 8 Ball for a lucky charm of some sort. This will have to be a tiny last chance. I will not be lured into his too-much-like-the-movies-to-be-real world. I will be "Killer Queen" all over again if I have to. Fuck.
*
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