This is how it is.
I'm talking to someone and I'm fine. Or I'm reading a blog and I'm fine. And then I reali3e what's going on in my life and I'm not fine.
Some of my friends are saying he's been selfish to let this go on because of his own feelings. And some say I should absolutely and definitively not see him anymore. Because something will happen. And it will end badly.
But I don't agree with that. And I know if I stop seeing him now, this will be one slowhealing scar. Major LifeBummer II in the Book Of Scarlet-O.
I'm supposed to go out tonight. It's a beautiful day. And it hurts.
Showing posts with label don't even know what to think right now. Show all posts
Showing posts with label don't even know what to think right now. Show all posts
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The Whore Store, Industry Parties, and Date Rape.
I wanted to go to work last night. I ran 7 miles. I went home. I'd gone shopping with Jo on Monday at the whorestore to get her a starter kit and myself some new stockings and shoes since my gorgeous glittering asphalt tufli were becoming a deathwish. And I ended up getting this new mesh top deal and some ridiculous sportshorts. I liked the look and the shoes fit like... well they fit like shoes, and I was all rearin' to go.
But I got invited to a fancy industry party with a fancy guy, and I figured it was in my best interest to go, though my blood was boiling more and more violently with every passing minute of getting ready, as I reali3ed I had nothing to wear and no money with which to buy anything to wear to this crap, and that I'd rather be working so I could earn the aforementioned.
So I'm at this fancy party in an old speakeasy, downing fancy Martinique rums, neat, that were costing my fancy date about 20 bucks a pop, and again, thanks to my hard-drinking lineage, feeling nothing but a bit tipsy after 8 or so generous pours in a matter of a couple of hours, talking to some famous British actor who looked like Hugh Laurie but who definitely wasn't Hugh Laurie, and whose number I have in my phone with only a first name so I can't even google him and figure out why he's famous, and I had to pretend I had any clue, but I didn't, because I live under a rock.
And then my fancy date was starting to get antsy, and said he wanted to leave, and then the group collectively decided to get some blow, and I said I don't do blow, so they whittled on down to pot, and I said I don't do drugs, so my date suggested Vicodin and Valium, and I said Okay fine, and before I know it the man whips out a proper mortar and pestle, and proceeds to crush up the pills. And I said I don't snort things. So he said okay take it orally it'll still hit you faster. So I poured it into my 16th Martinique rum and gu33led.
Next thing I know I'm asleep at his apartment. I vaguely recall giving a striptease without removing any of my (secondhand bargain basement strait-from-the-crate) clothes and making out with him, even though, I like him, but he wrote a damn horrendous song on the piano, and I'm not really all that attracted to him. And then as the bits and pieces came back to me I recalled him wanting to have sex and beginning to unbuckle his pants and then getting really annoyed because I passed out mid-fondle, and then, he puts on a condom and thrusts in for some terrible sex anyway. While I was half-conscious. And then told me, like it were just hilarious, that I fell asleep.
I wish I'd gone to work at the club. People there have fucking morals.
But I got invited to a fancy industry party with a fancy guy, and I figured it was in my best interest to go, though my blood was boiling more and more violently with every passing minute of getting ready, as I reali3ed I had nothing to wear and no money with which to buy anything to wear to this crap, and that I'd rather be working so I could earn the aforementioned.
So I'm at this fancy party in an old speakeasy, downing fancy Martinique rums, neat, that were costing my fancy date about 20 bucks a pop, and again, thanks to my hard-drinking lineage, feeling nothing but a bit tipsy after 8 or so generous pours in a matter of a couple of hours, talking to some famous British actor who looked like Hugh Laurie but who definitely wasn't Hugh Laurie, and whose number I have in my phone with only a first name so I can't even google him and figure out why he's famous, and I had to pretend I had any clue, but I didn't, because I live under a rock.
And then my fancy date was starting to get antsy, and said he wanted to leave, and then the group collectively decided to get some blow, and I said I don't do blow, so they whittled on down to pot, and I said I don't do drugs, so my date suggested Vicodin and Valium, and I said Okay fine, and before I know it the man whips out a proper mortar and pestle, and proceeds to crush up the pills. And I said I don't snort things. So he said okay take it orally it'll still hit you faster. So I poured it into my 16th Martinique rum and gu33led.
Next thing I know I'm asleep at his apartment. I vaguely recall giving a striptease without removing any of my (secondhand bargain basement strait-from-the-crate) clothes and making out with him, even though, I like him, but he wrote a damn horrendous song on the piano, and I'm not really all that attracted to him. And then as the bits and pieces came back to me I recalled him wanting to have sex and beginning to unbuckle his pants and then getting really annoyed because I passed out mid-fondle, and then, he puts on a condom and thrusts in for some terrible sex anyway. While I was half-conscious. And then told me, like it were just hilarious, that I fell asleep.
I wish I'd gone to work at the club. People there have fucking morals.
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