19 September 2013


Chances are good that I could take out an eye with a slingshot and a single penny. Because some fucking people just aren't worth my two cents. I mean, it might not come clean out, but I'd be fixin' to wing ya pretty darn good. Nothin personal, of course, just an outlashing of aggression. I usta could work these things out in other ways but I just haven't found an adult kickball league in the city that I feel comfortable with yet.

Self-esteem is a funny thing. 
Not, like, "haha" funny. 
More, "I have none" funny.

I'm confident that I have zero sense of self-worth. That amounts to A LOT if the unit of measurement is Irony. Unless there's a sarcasm to sadness conversion rate.

I fell in love four times today.
♥ The first one has broken my heart before, and will again. There's not much a girl can do to avoid the charm of a Cap'n. But his crunchberries ultimately left me feeling empty. ♥ The second time was a little trickier. Because of the dickier. It left me stickier. That thought just made you all sickier. ♥ The third was not nearly as dramatic. My truck already knows we're soulmates destined to spend eternity together. ♥ The fourth was when the daughter walked in the door after school. ALWAYS.

I've walked away from tons of stuff in life. Giving up is kind of my specialt

Where were we? I threw in the towel on that conversation a while back.
Oh yes, giving up on love.
Now I remember.

It's a familiar path, this lonely road of insecurity. Once I walked the whole thing; from here to the other side of over yonder and back again. Took a good bit of all the questions I had to get me there. Never did find no answers, just ran out of money and good looks so I had to turn around. Lost a hundred pounds on the way. Did gain 'bout four thousand followers tho. 

My abandonment issues run so deep I gave up on them too.

Every once in awhile a mindfuck comes along to top all other periods of inadequacy that I have ever encountered. The kind of brain blowjob that completely strips logic from the frontal lobe and replaces it with a stupidity the likes of which are unheard of in nature. It's almost as if the words "you're pretty" trip a portal in the line of defense that I've erected against assholes. But, alas, I get swept away by their lack of compassion and caught up in a whirl-wind of bullshit. In my defense, they usually have Fat Nuts. This one needs locked in a basement.

It doesn't take a psychologist to see that a truckdriving father has a daughter who fears people leaving her. Hell, I'm six beers into this post and I could have figured that out. I would have turned it into a drinking game.

My demons are angry. 

They've turned my blue eyes sapphire while all I see is red. 
So, everything's a murky purple, really.
Feels like it too, bruised from I don't know where. Turn'd inside out by it all, I am.

It pisses me off faster than a polecat that I'd let something as squirmy as the heart tell ME what to do.

I'm inflap.. I'm unfali.. well, hell, I'm damn near uninvincible. I've got a blackbelt in avoiding emotion. I still haven't dealt with the decade-dead brother. (You can't make me) 

I've swallowed a lot of things in life, and to be honest, some of them didn't taste all that great. But of all the things I have shoved back in, the disappointment that I feel with myself at being jealous is among the foulest I have ever chewed on. Joleen Doreens are not the jealous type. I'm a country girl, for Jiminy's sake. The last time I was envious it involved an entire roasted pig and a quarter keg on a work night. 
To put it kindly: I don't give a flying fuck where you throw the stick until I'm the one playing catch.

Did I say "kindly?"
I meant "country."

The thing of it is, I've got stuff that needs done and things to get did. Chasin' after a dead chicken sounds 'bout as useful a limp cock. (Oh, what? You're too good to laugh? Fuck you guys. The hilarity of the words alone were worth my typing.) 

I miss the mountains.
Because doesn't it figure that I'd find the only good 'ol boy in the city and I'd fall head-first into his jar of acid and ferment while he gherks me around. 
And I can be a cool cucumber for only so long.

This is a very old picture of myself, my younger brother (the dead one), and my dad shooting guns. Just so you understand what I'm capable of. Well, not ME, really. But LIFE. Because they both died decades later. At separate times. No guns were involved. In either incidents.
This picture is really just here because I don't have any pictures of pickles.