Some nights like this... after months like this, I find myself cranking out pictures of a satisfactory caliber, talking to friends and family members that actually enjoy my company and don't just tolerate me- and I'm still a god damn mess.
I think I might be one of those incurable cases of problematic. I was watching a documentary about interventions, and one lovely young lady on that episode was a cutter, I believe her name was Tamela. And she had the scarred, beautiful, and ripened to sweet perfection body that I need in my life for worship and re-useable entertainment. As I watched her trace whispy lines that erupted with blood down her wrists, across her thighs, between her tits, and over her ... unmentionables, I found myself in a combined state of arousal, and earnest longing. One part of me wanted to encourage her, beg her to cut deeper, to bleed for me, to come for me. The other side of me wanted to hold her down protect her from herself, explain that if she would just let me, I could be her addiction, I could be what she needed. I watched as her face contorted into a confused meld of sorrow and ecstasy with each long drag of the razor, with each sob slash chuckle.
... And that's when I knew I needed someone just like her.
A terrible, incurable mess just like me.
Unfortunately- with all people with REAL problems they manage to find people that love them, and they find the strength within themselves to fix their head. And I was left smoking in bed unfulfilled and chronically unfuckable. Alone again.
Pisser.
So here I've been, drawing, perfecting, retooling, and... hating myself every minute. I'm not in a place where I'm ready for a relationship, ready for sex, mind candy, and feelings- I'm in a place where I need it. I need hips to nibble down, thighs to bite, navels to trace, eyes to drown in, collars to kiss.
Or I'll surely whither away and die.
... perhaps I won't have to suffer a fate so pregnant with anticipation. There's always old faithful. My steel-wool polished "acquired" old service revolver. Maybe that could put a new finish on my head.
Nah, that talk is rubbish. I still have to live to the nth degree till I pull out of this tailspin. Till I master my arts, till I master my body, and till I possess all the people and things I need. Then the idea is, once I get to that point, I have the divine pleasure of spreading my good fortune...
Right?
... I dunno, Old Faithful's looking mighty sexy with that thin trim figure and pencil lead finish.
Just one round... then I gotta hit the road.
Bang.
Like the exclamation point that my life deserves to be.
