Holy Shit

I DO play games with people. Not purposefully... but because I am afraid of my affection or interest as coming off as too intense. That I am aware of.

Which really helps no one, because I am an intense person.

FUCK.

Life, man.

Evoking My Social Avatar

There's nothing to be afraid of- but everything to protect. No longer reliant on a source of outward reassurance. Empty. Not full. Not scared. Not anything.

What is most primal in me in not summoned by ghosts or whispers. It comes from a sound, a drum, a rhythm. Beating. Dreaming. It's there. The passion that I fear will engulf me is that which will save me if I let it. And yet I must let nothing come between it and myself. Nothing to coax me into insecurity. No burning bush, long-haired snake or apple. It wants not. I waste not.

Amazing to realize that the person I thought I was, the things I wanted to be, are not me. I pretended I didn't have opinions because I didn't think I was entitled to them. I didn't believe in my experiences enough to rely on their feedback. I was ashamed of my emotional responses, suspect of my conclusions.

In the past I feared hurting others so fervently that I forgot that I also counted as a person. You can be told that over and over till your cup is full, but nothing will convince you. Only a disconnect between an essential physical being and a sentient, thinking self can create such a sad disjuncture. I look upon myself as someone looks upon a malnourished child, a crying best friend, a wounded lover. And I see such a shattered heart. It maps the states of my wandering.

It records my spite, my anxiety, my hurt, my love disguised as indifference, my lies. It carries no legend.

It is an empty window in my chest that carries no mass of burdens and also no hope. It merely sits and sings out the sorrow of neglect.

It is a black hole. A vengeful space that dares to swallow any who comes my way and steps on a fault line.

It is my heart. It is a good heart.

I carry no capacity for arguing or being patient for those that do not give. Simply because I have nothing to give, either. My energy, my love, my primal scream. My tender smiles, my flirtations, my prose and verses. It is all gone. And I do not mourn it.

I only hurt for myself. Cry for my Self. See myself rise and fall as one sees the tides in a crystal ball. I am contained and I am everywhere. I am level. No hate. No pain.

I cannot follow the same dance steps. Wear the same shoes. Follow a partner that lacks no grace. I merely sit and watch the time pass.

What is here today is here tomorrow and gone, gone, gone is my sorrow.

White People

have you heard or heard of that song "tequila makes her clothes fall off"

7:52pmKaia

not yet??

7:52pmKimberly

well it's a stupid country song

and i was just thinking about it today.. don't ask why

and if some chump is going to get rich off of that stupid fucking line, im going to write a song that says "whiskey makes his dick limp"

7:54pmKaia

hahahahaha

7:55pmKimberly

that's it

thanks for playing party to my diatribe

Cats and Bikes and Rats and Rats and Rats for Candy

Can't be mad at a weekend where I acquired a full adult banana suit, went to a wedding, made some huge steps in creating my revolutionary rad fem community, woke up naked everyday and committed some serious acts of social and linguistic terrorism. 

I can't be mad, but my body is sure bummed the fuck out. It's a shame I cannot choose the synapses and thought patterns that get obliterated when I take my drinking seriously. Otherwise, the whole idea of re-booting my emotional and intellectual computer via booze would be trademarked by now. 

I'ma go mainline some gatorade and get back in to functional adult mode. 

And continue my program of single white female-ing every good looking gentleman and lady in this town. 

Good talk.