It's 3:40 a.m. The girl I'm talking to is reminding me how life can be infinitely more horrible than mine. She has gone through so much, so many rapes, so much betrayal, and is raising three kids on her own and she's not even eighteen yet. Every time I hear that sort of thing, I feel terrible whining about the way my thoughts are wandering back to my not-even-quite-well-maybe-but-god-only-knows rapist, how I miss her in some weird way, wish we could meet in some fantasy world in which she never raped anyone, I never made a promise not to give my consenting virginity to just "some whore," in which neither of us are prudes or whores, she doesn't have nast stomach hair, herpes, a fetus growing in her womb...and we can finally give each other the love we're both sorely missing. Somehow our realities as nightmare rapist and victim, whore and virgin, will be laughable...endearing almost in this fucked up fantasy I'm having. A girl can dream, even if her dreams are more fucked up than Larissa's.
This energy drink tastes like dirt and puke and no. I figured the other Full Throttle only tasted like that because it was the "nature is one bad mother" flavor...but the citrus one is pretty barfy too. But, hell, if I'm going to stay up until 7 p.m. I need all the help I can get.
Take care all.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment