2002-10-03 - 11:29 p.m.
Something has flipped my switch to "Bitch" mode.
I know this because the rather dusty but still intact little red "Bitch" light is on.
Take that as fair warning and leave now before I have to shoot you down.
Seriously go, you know I would do the same if I dang well could. But have sadly not yet perfected the art of walking away from myself.
I'm mad from being overprotected, for holding back and for being shot down.
Bus ride home was traumaful. Too many violent thoughts. Too many urges to just jump off in another bad part of town and let whatever happen.
Fate? I know you want a piece of me, so stop messing around and bring it.
I'm overly sick of these moods that cut me down a little. Recover-cut-recover-cut-recover-cut-...cut-cut-cut-recover.
If I'm going to be playing this game much longer I'd rather risk it all and lose.
Did I write this? It doesn't seem like it does it. In a month, a day, an hour I may look back and tsk myself for falling into the trap of angst. Stupid, pointless, meaningless angst.
But for now I will just mutter to myself quietly in annoyance over the damages caused by overactive hormones, and over the feeling of things I wanted to tell you slipping away.
Final note from that little part of me that remains ambivalent, above me - remember Maths Guy? Just when you thought things couldn't possibly get any weirder...
I know this because the rather dusty but still intact little red "Bitch" light is on.
Take that as fair warning and leave now before I have to shoot you down.
Seriously go, you know I would do the same if I dang well could. But have sadly not yet perfected the art of walking away from myself.
I'm mad from being overprotected, for holding back and for being shot down.
Bus ride home was traumaful. Too many violent thoughts. Too many urges to just jump off in another bad part of town and let whatever happen.
Fate? I know you want a piece of me, so stop messing around and bring it.
I'm overly sick of these moods that cut me down a little. Recover-cut-recover-cut-recover-cut-...cut-cut-cut-recover.
If I'm going to be playing this game much longer I'd rather risk it all and lose.
Did I write this? It doesn't seem like it does it. In a month, a day, an hour I may look back and tsk myself for falling into the trap of angst. Stupid, pointless, meaningless angst.
But for now I will just mutter to myself quietly in annoyance over the damages caused by overactive hormones, and over the feeling of things I wanted to tell you slipping away.
Final note from that little part of me that remains ambivalent, above me - remember Maths Guy? Just when you thought things couldn't possibly get any weirder...
