For a change I laugh, most of the time I feel deathly ill with the scar down my chest bursting open, and revealing guts.
There’s nothing attractive about their behavior. How do I know they lie (you ask) it’s incredibly obvious, my knowledge of their atrocious internal system is contemptible. Of course, it would be easier if these male (and female) gossip queens would shut their bloody mouths until they suffocate on their tongues.
It seems as though everyone has their own idea about what is, or isn’t happening.
This is true, of course, everything is dependent on the angle one looks. However, the ideal universe they are attempting to create ends up in rubble day, after day, after day. If they’d just stop to think a minute instead of getting caught up in the filthy ideals they carry, perhaps they would succeed in something. Instead they alienate the best of their people to make room for insipid scum. The newer, the better, the fresher, the meatier, the less intelligent, and easy to victimize.
I never watch anymore, how could one write a giant fictional book about all of them, and then run around like a foul smelling whore fucking the lights out of her chosen prey. Prey, I think, if she had any idea who she was fucking with she’d understand that it was all fiction. At 15 I had graffiti I’d done on my wall (with a brush, of course.)
At this point I have my filth wrapped in a chain which I am on the other end of. I receive protection. It seems illogical in this town for truly unmentionable reasons. I’m stunned.
It’s gone beyond that irresponsible “hater” level where people are talking shit to do so. There is a seething gloom, and disgrace in the air. I can smell it, the air outside is thick as though going through thick walls of cobwebs. A cobweb is a tool I will never create, but constantly refer to again, and again. No one ever does their fucking homework. Fools.
It’s possible that I have the ability to put pieces together which don’t even fit yet, some of my initial concepts have reappeared in the New Yorker in 2012. I don’t care, I stutter a low laugh, and shake my head.
If they are on this level of anger, and stupidity – where is my filth at?
I know him so well I feel him taste me under the desk.
Even if he’s imaginary I want him there, so I indulge.
I am honest, in fact, to a fucking fault. Honesty is a policy no one can run from, and at this point it’s even a weapon I hold. These idots do not realize that if they were just upfront about situations, go to the perpetrator, and talk it through like proper individuals perhaps none of this would have happened. Unfortunately, it has now, no one owns it, and it’s a playground for predators, and “fiddlers.”
I shove his face into my cunt.
I’m happy with him at this point, but we don’t talk.
It’s possible we will never talk again, but I’ve sent the right things his way for the majority of our “session.”
I, truly exhausted, wait for them to unfold.
Even wavering, I refuse to believe my magic no longer works, single solitary tears I wipe from his face. As I always say, getting shot is.. just that. It’s not ruthless, scary, or insane. If it happens it’s exactly that “I either heal or pass,” it’s a very simple story to behold.
I have a low tolerance for those of little understanding. I put my ideas out to get shot in the face with a dart gun. I am told, in no uncertain words, that I should just “do me.” However, it feels as though every level of support I’ve ever had has turned their back to play with other, more important, more ignorant, toys.
It’s a wonder any of them get attention these days.
They do, however, at this point cruelty speaks more seductively than kindness.
This work by LeeLee is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.