Love is a Cunt

Book Blurb

2009-05-01T03:15:00.012+01:00

They say that lies die with time. Given enough time, you can uncover the truth. Given an eternity, you always will.

What if you were given an eternity but the truth behind it had vanished?

God has left the afterlife – why and where to nobody knows. In the meantime the angels are falling, the damned left unforgiven and the litany of Hell remains as ever: to suffer, to never escape.

One man journeys the breadth of the underworld in search of the ultimate truth – god himself – and in finding him know the nature of existence. As he struggles through a world of the wretched, the wise and the all-powerful, each on their own personal crusade for answers and all captive to the ever-changing whims and moralities of Hell, he comes to realise that the ultimate truth he was seeking does not lie with god; and that nothing could have prepared him for it.

Can faith become truth?

Can pain become livable?

Can death become beautiful?

Perhaps only eternity can tell.

Cunted Again

2009-02-16T17:49:00.004Z

My hallmark statement of statements is that I am not dumb.
I am oblivious to a certain point. I am a bad liar. I am a bad organizer of lies.
It was merely a matter of time until he found out. I should have told him in the first place, by all means, and ended it there, but people have a way of talking me out of doing smart things. Hence, I am not dumb, but oblivious and manipulable.
But see, the thing is, I orchestrated that lie pretty damn well. I didn't tell a whole lot of people. I, really, shouldn't have told anybody, but I am not a genius ... merely not dumb.
There was no way you could have known. You were grasping at straws to kick me out of your life, and that thought kills me. I will pick up and I will go on but at least in the end I was more honest than you could be.
[Along with oblivious and manipulable, I also like to believe that I am morally superior to others ... even when I'm obviously not.]
The worst part is ...
I am torn between wanting you back (it was my mistake, after all, right?)
And letting you go your own way because:
1. This relationship would be poison and
2. This relationship has already been pretty poisonous.
But in the end, the image of you in that doorway, filling it up like the paternal figure you were despite my protests. You tuck me in, you turn off the lights, you ensure security by locking the door. I have to live here 3 more months and finish the Bachelor's I never wanted ... YOU wanted it for me. But it would be dumb to stop now, when the finish line is fewer than 3 months away.
I am terrified this will be obsolete tomorrow, that once again the tears I have shed are going to be in vain because you're sorry, because you are going to forgive me too. It's not a completely implausible train of thought: you have given me ample previous action to support it.
In that case, why worry? Why hurt? Because you break off with me and suddenly you call your parents, you tell them when you're coming home. You can do everything that for me, you couldn't do.
It should be clear, but my cunted emotions are eternally in the way. It should be easy.
Just like it should be easy to walk across the street and hit the shrink's office hard. But it's just not.
Come home.

I miss you

2009-02-07T06:46:00.005Z

I look for you everywhere - on the crowded train, in "our" neighborhood, in the restaurants, by work, in my heart. My heart is the only place I find you. Always. Its been almost two years since something first happened between us and almost a year since it ended. Yet, you still haunt my thoughts, my dreams and my nightmares. I'm constantly preoccupied by you, wondering what you are doing, where you are, who you are with - wondering would it have been different if it were with me, not just different, better. Would you have been happier? Would I? I knew no matter what decision I'd make I'd spend a long time wondering, "what if?". You pushed me into this decision, but I'm still wondering. Are you? You fucked me real good. What happened to the rational person that I always was? What happened to the practical and proper? No, I was "fun", the bestest and I was your best friend. I still am. I never had a better friend and I miss you and I hate that you don't miss me too.

--
Sent from my mobile device

Progression

2008-10-30T06:57:00.004Z

Here is how we go from
“You know I would do anything for you”
To
“Don’t touch me”

And every failed relationship
Unpicks old scars
Unravels us

For now I’m all alone again
No where to go, no one to turn to

And yet we can’t stop ourselves
Rekindling that flickering hope
Only to see it gutter

Asphyxiate.

Remember when
New hearts couldn’t get close enough
And armchair arms
Were impediments?

Remember when
What you couldn’t have
Was all you felt you ever wanted?

Remember when
Sweetie
Was an unfamiliar word
I've watched it blossom from there to sweetiekins
Fade again to sweetie
And wilt back into
Nothingness

I am left with
Words
My worthless words.

That mock me.

I’ve deleted all your messages

All except the one thanking me
For the first good night’s sleep you’ve had in years.

It would be nice if we could heal each other.

Wouldn’t it?

It’s too bad.

Romance and all its strategy
Leave me battling with my mind
I’m just another writer
Trapped within my truth

And you
Are
Just another
Innoculation
Another
Pitfall

On my journey
back to
Solitarity.

If I Could Be Your Angel.

2008-10-03T07:01:00.004+01:00

I don't understand how love works.
Does love make a person perfect,
or does a perfect person easily excel in love?

Why am I imperfect,
and neither can I love well?

Or can I actually love well,
but I'm not perfect enough?

Why can't I ever be his perfect half?
Why do I always think I'm beneath him?

Can this love game really fuck a person up,
or is it just not my cup of tea?

Do You Miss Me?

2008-10-01T00:04:00.002+01:00

Do you miss me? Do you ever think of me anymore? Do you think of me the way I of you? Do you cry in the shower because that's the only place you can really let go? Was it all a dream? A nightmare? A lie? As much as I've tried to push the thought out, I still believe it was real. Oh, who am I kidding? It was only real for me. How else would you have moved on so quickly? And not just moved on, but went from this to that. Yes, our situation was complicated. Much more complicated than some melodramatic soap, but if nothing else, my feelings were real. They still are. No matter how much I try to bury them, I still miss you "every minute of every day.". I miss you the way you used to tell me you miss me. I miss our endless conversation about everything and nothing, our sarcastic humor, your hands around me, our kisses and the sparks we shared in bed. It was but a game to you - the thrill, the chase and when you had me you didn't know what to do with me, so you did what any coward would do, you gave up and moved on.

A year of space

2008-07-26T17:04:00.004+01:00

I haven't been here for a while. Why? Not a thing to report. I can list now even more women who have let me down, one more than others as she was one I'd relied on for over 30 years the rare times we spoke. First she was too young, then too far away, then married, then divorced with a boyfriend. But always wanted me. Until now. She rang saying she wanted to move to London and implied she'd been dumped. I waited to hear more as she wouldn't let me call her (long story) and after 6 months gave up and sent a few messages. Nothing. This from the woman who thought the world of me on and off since we were 14 and now she turns into the same sort of horse's backside all the others always were. I'll phone her soon and see if she lets me get a word in before it goes down as well, all totally unnecessary considering she rang me and was on the phone for ages last time we were in contact, then she treats me like cancer. Bitch.

I haven't met anyone since I can't even remember when, and have become beyond caring. I genuinely believe people turn up at the right time and we can do little about it, even if you go out every night as I almost did once the good ones still piss you around and you end up with nothing so makes little difference in the end. The only small light in the tunnel is a very attractive but mental woman I've known some time who went out with me once, disappeared and then admitted months later her boyfriend had come back. Now she's fed up with him and I may be next. No conversation or apparent brain but the rest makes up for it. The rule always was and is 'Over 40 take, what you're given'. All that happened was when I widened the goalposts in 2000 the women became better goalkeepers. Their standards rose as mine dropped. I had a few successes since, both unusable for long, one lives abroad and was here on a flying visit and the other spent more time in the asylum than home. To add to that with the same one who is hanging around now. But I now look at the cheese and not the holes and am happy with anything that is not unattractive, more is a bonus.

I also knew as we all do that TV personalities get women as they're on TV. Well since 2005 I've been on cable a few times and have another due to be on some time before I die, hopefully. I expect if this ever crosses the mainstream where people actually see it in 7 figures it may allow me to meet a few more people. Apart from being the average height for a woman, until my hair started going there was nothing that bad about me, I did actually go through many women in my teens and twenties, (still had hair then admittedly), but the good ones never lasted. And there were many. By 30 the supply dried up as everyone else was married and I got a decade of divorcees and mental patients far older than me that never wanted a relationship when it actually came close to becoming reality. I had one attractive two timer who let me take her out but had sex with the other man I didn't know about till she left me for him. She turned out to be so bossy and weird anyway it would never have worked besides the non-existent but potential physical side. The the three I described since and that was it. Plus a string of ex girlfriends I used for convenient sex but the same as living on vitamin pills and astronaut meals while others ate like kings. That packed up when the last remaining one met someone else last year and spent her whole time with him ever since. No great loss really except I was left with a huge gap to fill which has no clue where the filler is coming from. But it always has before. The gaps have increased to 3-4 years now but they arrive eventually. And internet dating, singles functions or not it's when they choose to not when I do. No formula I know of any different from that.

I hate

2008-07-23T19:19:00.004+01:00

I hate you. I hate you more than I've ever hated anyone in my life. Ever. I hate the way you laugh. I hate when you don't shave. I hate that your small eyes are so far apart. I hate that you pick at your skin. I hate when you're unshaved. I hate your femininity. I hate that after all this time you still have the ability to make me smile. I hate that you play with my emotions like noone ever has. I hate that I think about you constantly. I hate that you don't reply to my emails with lightning speed like you used to. I hate that you found your happiness without me. I hate that I'm searching for my own on my own. I hate that I don't believe you've missed me. I hate that you made so many empty promises. I hate that I broke my marriage and while I'm struggling to piece it back you're all I think about. I hate that I can't have sex without you. I hate that we can never be seen together, be friends, be together. I hate that we can't get away from the world to a world of just me and you. I hate that you call her the same nicknames you called me. I hate the stupid whores. I hate that you would pay for sex. I hate that you made me feel so cheap, so used, so much like nothing. I hate that I take credit for your newfound inspiration. I hate that I don't find you attractive. I hate that I'm so attracted to you. I hate that you don't think about me. I hate that I want to feel your hands on my bare skin. I hate that I've reread this post a gazillion times. I hate that when my grandmother passed away, you didn't even email/text/call. I hate the sneaking around. I hate feeling like I'm fifteen all over again. I hate that my favorite shoes are the ones that you tried to buy for me. I hate every poem that you ever sent me. I hate that you sent them not only to me. I hate that I can't kiss you. I hate that my inbox was empty three days after we stopped speaking. I hate that I still dream about you. I hate it when you wear flip flops and those stupid white shorts. I hate the green shorts. I hate so many things. I hate that I can't hate you no matter how hard I try.

It's Been a Year . . .

2008-06-30T14:20:00.005+01:00

Its been a year since we stopped speaking for the first time. I will never forget that day because I was running in and out of meetings and couldn't even call you to confirm our plans. After all, you still met me, but you were so cold, you wouldn't even look at me because you knew what I was going to tell you and we walked all the way to Bryant Park where we sat and we talked and we cried. I explained everything - I explained that I couldn't leave, I explained how much I love you, I explained how much I'm hurting all three of us...

We went in search of a bar where we got our signature, goose and cranberry. You wouldn't even let me order the drinks, because as I took my sunglasses off I had huge mascara circles under my huge eyes. We drank sitting across from each other our feet entangled together and holding hands. You kept telling me to stop crying as tears were rolling from your eyes. Yet, you still made me laugh and a smile kept
emerging on my lips despite the tears streaming from my eyes.

We walked to Herald Square where we sat and laughed and cried some more. Finally, we went to see that show. I don't even remember the name anymore, but the experience was surreal. I remember walking up that empty staircase and it was like a scene out of a movie, we were drawn together like two magnets. I swear there were sparks with that kiss, things like that don't happen in real life. We sat through the entire show holding each other as if for support. It was essential to both our survival. We laughed and cried and kissed. We both thought that it was the last time we're gonna see each other. With the curtain, we went separate ways, you to the left and I to the right. We were walking at the same pace and were both on the phone as I kept
following you with my eyes until I lost you in the crowd. I saw you walk out of the theater and in that instant on an impulse, I ran after you. I couldn't see you. Then, I saw you and I ran - I jumped on top of you and we hugged for a few short minutes which lasted a lifetime. You turned to go as your eyes never dried from the tears and mine just kept streaming. I looked after you until your white tee shirt blended with the rest of the crowd. I dried my tears and got into my husband's car when he came to pick me up. I couldn't say a word, because I knew if I were to open my mouth, the waterworks would start. Finally, my husband asked me why I am so upset and the only answer that I could muster was, "I just lost my best friend."

Asphyxiated.

2008-06-10T15:02:00.004+01:00

Love works in such a way,
that it twirls you around the finger,
and brings you to the highest points of life,
making you feel sweet and poignant,
and when it crumbles,
everything comes raining down, at the same time.

All of us have had our hearts broken,
yet at the same time,
we're all so needy inside.

It's like a never-ending vicious cycle,
like how rain will always follow after sunshine,
and it almost feels like things are never gonna pick up.

Times like these,
I know you would be the best thing beside me,
even if it's just us having one of our silent fights...

Yet,
it's the best time for a release.

Our release.

It hurts so, so bad.

Intellectual cunt

2008-04-14T21:08:00.003+01:00

You can think about things too much. You taught me that you intellectual cunt. All those years ago when I met you I told you I didn't believe in love. It's a construct I said. A need that is all about you and nothing about the person you supposedly love.

All the while my heart was jumping out my chest.

With time I realised thinking too much takes the joy out of life. I realised this when dancing to Abba with a thoughtless disregard for my dignity. Accepting something at face value has its merits. It is supposed to be a natural emotion after all.

Eight years pass. Now you are the intellectual with a raft of questions. I answer one & it creates more. Like the hydra of legend. It is paralysis by analysis & the cause of our love remaining in stasis for most of the last eight years.

And how do I know I am not overestimating my pull on you? Because you light up like a lantern when you see me you beautiful stubborn intellectual cunt.

Something Like This.

2008-01-12T15:06:00.002Z

She and I once hung out like good friends ; it was an attempt to get to know your friend(s).
But by and by I realized that she was a bloody cunt, to be precise, a big slut.
I was okay with that since it didn't affect me, but hey, I stumbled upon the fact that you drove her home alone.
Never mind that also, since it's just a drive.

Yet, I chanced upon an entire folder of pictures ; her lying prov actively on your body. You guys just looked so happy. There were at least what, 30 photos of her lying on you.

What the fuck was that about?

You didn't even bother to push that slut aside? You tell me that it was a moment of folly?

You are telling me that you've never thought of fucking her? Not even once?

And what's most ridiculous is, you're telling me I can trust you. Like totally.

This is just one of the many instances that caused me to lose my trust in you. Completely.

Just when things got better and I thought that well, maybe there's hope, you're "asking" me if you could hang out with her this weekend?

This is what I get for hanging with you for like, 3.5 years.

You're a lying, conniving piece of pretentious trash. But you're the same as every other guy.

Reverberations

2007-11-18T07:14:00.002Z

I hate that you took me from my security

My hard won happiness

Just when I had finally come to terms

With the fact that I

am altogether too complicated and too complex and too fragile

To be romantically involved

It was THEN you seduced me into security

In your cowardly, bastardly, lying arms

Stripped me of my ever-present armour

Spiked me with the narcotic need

That all my life I had forsworn

Even as you shared my most secret childhood fears

Led me on Led Me On LED ME ON

And then remorselessly, blithely made those fears come true.

I hate that now I have this secret pain

I cannot tell to anyone

You've left me longing for a hope I hate

Worse than torture

And all I have is this

To write on this whining blog

I despise you

I hope you die a horrible death, fail all your exams, marry a heartless grasping materialistic witch

And I hope that on the day your parents die

You finally feel it too.

2007-09-22T13:27:00.001+01:00

Somewhere along the line, something changed.
And tipped me over the line.

We were given a Gift...

2007-09-20T09:49:00.003+01:00

We were given a Gift, one so unlikely that most people never even come close to touching in their entire lifespan on the planet.

Two individuals.

So madly, insanely, perfectly, matched.
Too fucking amazing.
Falling simultaneously into knowing.
Led by fate.

And you used it, abused it.
And threw it back.

What a moron.

It's dead now.

Something so painfully rare, so beautiful, so powerful and so fragile... terminated. Aborted by your fear, selfish greed, dishonesty and sheer and utter, juvenile cowardice.

It's dead now. And soon the memories of the shining moments we shared will fade completely away, and it will be as if The Gift we shared had never come into being.

You fell into the actuarial trap.
Terrified yourself with all of the statistics and textbook facts.
And couldn't screw up the courage to even try to check on the simple reality.

Your deceit hurt me.
As I have never been hurt.
In ways I swore never to be hurt.

And I'm thankful for the blessing that revealed the horrible depth of your character flaws early.

You may imagine I have the Old Man Of The Sea on my back.

But I have seen the proof that you have TWO.

Silencing and strangling whatever there is left of your better nature.

And I wouldn't touch that horror with a 10 foot pole.

So, yes, I am amused.

You'll never find out how little of what you were so afraid of, fleshed out so frighteningly with facts and figures, was real.

...

And me?

I'm glad.

We become what we are through the choices we make. And now I know I wouldn't have liked what I would have become, from choosing a life with you.

I've found out, I'm stronger than I thought. Or perhaps, I've become stronger.

Embarrassment, shame and fear have lost their stranglehold over me.

I've discovered that often one's deepest fears are not as bad as all that when they come true.

Frankly my dear, now I find I don't give a damn, and it's what I've been trying to do for the longest time.

...

Moron

2007-09-20T09:20:00.002+01:00

How can you
... leave me here like this

You led me here
.... by the hand, with your warm touch
............................... and kind voice
............................ and your gentle kiss

You took me from the happy place
..... I was secure alone

With lies you took me from my sanctuary
...... left me for carrion, lost on my own

You came so close, as none before or since
So unlike every wishful start
The Perfect counterpart

Oh I see.
All that you wanted was a warm body all along.

I fell for a dance, and bled for a song.

Shared with you more than all of me
Gave you complete honesty
Gave you no lack
Got emotional raping
and a knife in the back

Tripe

2007-09-20T09:17:00.002+01:00

I keep a tight hold on my silly, pulsing heart
Leashed as it is
Lest it slip from out its steel safety cage
And meet with a semi-trailer train-wreck in progress

Outside the narrow confines
of my secure little safety cell
Airbagged, ABS'ed, Roll Caged, three-point-seat-belted,
Tautly reined;

But my own firm and frightened talons bruise it too
At every involuntary beat-
LungBagged, Rib Caged, and purple veined.

There was a time and a place to tell me.

2007-09-01T04:47:00.002+01:00

Why you chose the moment you did, I can't quite work out. Maybe you needed the time before to steel yourself, and thought the time afterwards would be good for us.

After all, we were halfway down a motorway - I wasn't going anywhere. You had me to yourself.

You touched my hand while you talked. It felt like I was being unknit. I don't feel much in that place anymore.

Then there was silence. Perhaps you were talking and touching my hand - I couldn't say. My mind was elsewhere. Somewhere sterile. You did well to trap me there, in your car, but all your words had switched to hissing static.

That chart music was no good either.

I suppose the only preferable time was never, and the only preferable place was nowhere. So you did the right thing.

Note to self: Be less of a fragile wretch.

The Separation

2007-08-16T19:39:00.002+01:00

He sat in the chair, as usual, casting sideways glances at her and then looking at me. Always the same suit, always the same low-level anxiety on display. And it was a display. I would broach the subject in the normal fashion, a suggestion here, question there, feigning concern when really I was past caring. Not so much about him, and his situation, but feeling jaded about everything. And so. Let the charade begin.

- Hello, Curtis, Stephanie. Curtis, how have you been finding things since we last talked?
- Hello Dr Sanderson. Well, really difficult. Hugely. A lot harder than I thought.
-Yes.
- I mean, I cannot accept it. At all.
-Uh huh. Did you try to go on dates, like we discussed?
-Mm, yeah, I tried. I went on one. It was just… well. Uncomfortable.
-How did you feel? Describe it as best you can.
- She talked and I just, I panicked. I couldn’t cope. She could, well, it’s hard to describe. She could have done anything. There was no control. You know I find it hard when girls speak. I hear great crashing sounds in my chest and I feel like I’m going to die.
- I see. But hadn’t we talked about that, about how safe you would be?
- Yes. But at no point did I feel safe.
- How about if I prescribe an anti-anxiety drug, like we talked about, and we try again?
- I might be able to do that, but…
- And we leave Stephanie at home next time?
- God I don’t know. I don’t think I can do it.
- Curtis, the object is to finally let her go. One day, soon, Stephanie is going to leave you. And you have to be able to deal with it. If you like, Stephanie can stay with me for a while. It might make the break easier. The drugs will help.

Curtis went over to the corner chair, where a female silhouette cut a sharp figure in the glow of the lamp.
-What do you think, darling? Will you be happy here? With the Doctor? You know I love you very much, I will never really abandon you. It’s just, well, the Doctor feels I need something else in my life. You do understand, don’t you darling? You won’t be mad?

Stephanie stared ahead of her, straight ahead, her blood-red lips forming all they were ever able to, a large, plastic O.

You love her

2007-08-05T11:22:00.002+01:00

Never forget what this feels like.

Cold Water

2007-05-29T19:36:00.002+01:00

Damn it. What’s taking him so long? She paced the kiosk floor, trying to act cool; smug, even. She wanted to laugh out loud. Laugh at the absurdity of it all. Her insides were screaming, you pert, dirty, scheming slut! but here she was, nonchalantly rummaging through the product shelves. Outside, the cloudy skies cast a sullen mood that clung to the skin and smelled like wet earth, a mood so malicious it drew scowls from commuters’ faces without them knowing it. But she was oblivious to the weather and to anything else now, as she passed a row of cookies and chocolates. He loved chocolate. He tasted like chocolate. And milk. And ice cream. He tasted like walks at the park, like cool Saturday afternoons one spends curled up with a good book, like a warm blanket on a rainy day. Luke. Luke. Luke.

The digital clock near the store exit read 10:23:06. He said he’d be here by ten. You let him talk you into this, you gullible you. She walked past the periodicals section in a daze, and found herself standing before the toiletries section. FacialcleanserSoapShampooBabyoilCologneLotionMouthwashToothpaste.

She tasted heaven - and toothpaste - when Luke kissed her the first time. They decided to take a single room with two beds - what could happen? He was blissfully married, with a kid on the way, and she was still euphoric over her five-month relationship with Tim - so they could save up on the lodging. The publication gave them enough lodging allowance for three days so they could finish their documentary on some obscure ethnic group, but they agreed they could use some of the money for gallivanting if they finish early. The set-up promised to be very fetching, and they both looked forward to a real break. This was the first time they were being sent together for a field assignment, but they hit it off as soon as the van engine started running.

Luke had a very disarming way about him, and that was not just because of his schoolboy looks or his sunshiny smile or his quick wit. When he talked to people, he would look at them straight in the eye, or touch them on the arm, or put an arm around their shoulder. So it did not surprise Alex when she woke up the following day to find herself curled in Luke’s arms. Last night they had pulled the beds together because Luke thought it weird to be talking through the cold night with a great “divide” between them. It made him feel homesick, he said, being in a place seven, eight hours away from home, with the only reminder of home, Alex, two meters away from him. She smiled at his pretty sleeping face and wondered for a split second how his lips would taste before she dozed off again. When Alex opened her eyes he was there, head propped up on one hand, smiling at her. She smiled back and snuggled closer to him. Then he did the most incredulous thing: he kissed her. She did not know why, but she kissed him back, even when images of hellish fires, a crying Timothy and a woman nursing a cute baby boy flashed in her mind. When she could not bear it anymore she pulled herself away and giggled nervously. “Why are we doing this?” Alex knew the answer, but she had to ask.

“Because we’re silly,” Luke chuckled.

She gave him a quick hug and stood up. “I’m taking a bath. But hey, I have to give you credit. What a good way to start our first official working day together.”

Alex walked to the freezer, grabbed a Coke and stepped up the counter to pay. The cashier, a robust man in his late twenties, was unsmiling. Behind him were shelves stacked neatly with medicines and cigarettes and boxes of neon-colored prophylactics. The cashier rang her purchase and gave her change. She sat on the plastic stools beside the sandwich section and slowly drank her Coke. She smiled in spite of herself. It had been two years since that morning when she hugged him and went to the bath to douse herself. She did not heat the water up, but she knew even then that the cold water, or anything else for that matter, could never shake Luke off. He clung to her like a disease, and she to him.

They were careful not to talk about it, nor act on it - not even after being sent together for numerous other assignments for the publication. They both understood that they were walking on thin ice, and any miscalculated move would send them plummeting in cold, dark water. They were not going to ruin their lives by crossing the line. It was an unwritten, unspoken agreement that suited them both. But what pissed Alex the most was that she and Luke never really became friends. Sure, they had spent a lot of times together for out-of-town assignments and had fun visiting places and trying out different fast foods and restaurants, but she never really opened up to him. Sure they were a whole lot closer now - Luke would tell her funny things about being married, and his excitement over having a baby (he had hoped it would be a boy), and she would be all ears to him, but Alex could not, would not want to tell him about her life, not even snippets of it. Alex’s clamming up was annoying, but she could not bring herself to just blab to Luke, maybe because she felt this was the only way she could steel herself from him. She wanted him close, but she did not let him into her world. Luke did not know her, though he thought he did. There were text messages - hi hello how r u hve a nice day hey hw about a kiss I miss u do not text me d wifey is holdng d fone hi cn I hv a hug 2day wer r u - sent on the sly, furtive glances at work, and occasional sneaking off for some time together, but there were no proclamations of love. It hurt Alex, but what could she do? They entangled themselves in a web, and neither wanted to wriggle free. Lovers, that’s what we would always be. But it would always always be about our bodies. Our souls would never touch. They could not have each other wholly, fully, so they just contented themselves with hugs and kisses which always left them wanting more.

His kisses roused a primal, almost animal craving in her. Was it the way he chewed and sucked her lips? Was it the way his strong hands caressed her back? Or was it his scent that awoke in her recollections of home, and stirred in her memories of her mother’s womb? Alex took another swig of her Coke. Today, she was going to feel that animal craving once more. But this time, she was going to act on that craving, which is why she sat there waiting, feeling humiliated, irked, lost. Today she was giving herself to him, and he was late. God, Luke, why are you doing this to me? I love Timothy. Please don’t steal away my soul from me.

Alex had succeeded in putting Luke off for two years, but when his recent text messages started to sound exciting and scary and sad and desperate, she could not but say yes. Hell, she wanted to do it with him. So what if he’s married? She wasn’t going to take him away from his family. After this, Luke would go home and play with his boy and sleep with his wife, and Alex would call Tim up and tell him she was home and she missed him and would he want to come over and cook something up? But could she really do this? Could she look Tim straight in the eye and tell him I love you, honey, and talk about their wedding plans? Could she do it with Luke without giving up her soul?

Rain was pouring hard outside. Alex pulled her denim jacket tight around her, as she shuddered from the cold. If she left now, she could still save herself. But was she not damned enough to even be here, waiting? Get up. Leave before he arrives. If he does not find you here he would know he had lost you forever. He would know that he loved you more than you had loved him, although he never admitted it. She guzzled her Coke, as if drawing strength from it. She had to hurry. If she were to see his schoolboy smile right now or the sparkle in his eyes her resolve would water. She looked up at the digital wall clock. 10:34:11. She stood up and straightened herself. She smiled bitterly and looked outside. Cold rainwater would be good for her. Dragging myself over to the door, pushing the glass door open. I’m free.

From across the street Alex saw Luke, soaked, waving at her. She looked away and started towards the opposite direction. “Hey, Alex, wait!” Luke was pleading.

Alex walked faster, pulling her jacket tighter around her as the cold rain water hid her bitter tears. Hush, Alex. It’s over.

The black, weeping envelope.

2007-05-05T06:53:00.001+01:00

I was reading butterflyuk’s blog the other day and stumbled over a post that oiled my cogs and fired up the big, self-assured rant-generator in my arse. It was about that commonplace and heinous crime – emotional blackmail.

Observe the specific example I want to nail:

“I love you.”
“What?”
“I can’t help it anymore, I love you.”
“Well, stop it.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not a lesbian!”
“But I can’t help it, Melissa.”
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?”
“Nothing. I just hope that one day you love me back.”
“Danielle, I’m not going to.”
“But you should be more open to-

And etc. etc. Okay, so in my role-play both protagonists are girls. That’s just because I like shit to go down like that. But I’m rather hoping you can see what I’m illustrating, which is actually a case of something quite common. Someone asking someone else to deal with their feelings for them. Emotional blackmail.

Now, there are subtle distinctions here. I’m not saying it’s cuntish to harbour feelings for someone in secret. God knows, we all do that, wretched bastards that we are. Neither am I saying it’s cuntish to harbour feelings for someone and tell them about it. If you’re secretly in love with someone, then it could do good to the situation to let them know. Then they’ll understand when you start randomly self-harming during their dates with other folks. Or they can redress how they act around you. Or they might fall for you. Haha. Right.

We move into the realms of emotional blackmail realm when we tell them and expect them to deal with our feelings.

That’s where the subtle distinction comes in. Sometimes, it’s hard to spot. But it’s usually when the person doing the blackmailing keeps mentioning their feelings – as though the blackmailee should be taking them into consideration at all times. WTF? These are the blackmailer’s feelings, needing to be dealt with by the blackmailer. Nobody else. If he/she can’t hack it, then he/she should shove it or fuck off or both.

Because, let’s face it: These total cunts are trying to say that you owe them something because they feel a certain way. They’re trying to make out like it’s your fault they like you so much, that perhaps you led them on, or maybe they’re going through a hard time. They put the guilt on you, and the onus on you to make up for it. What a crock.

And sadly, there are folks out there that are well up for mercy fucking these psychological wrecks, doubling the stakes and redoubling the problem. They are cunts, too.

And the LIAC? Well, 99% of ongoing relationships started or evolved with some form of it. The other 1% are the couples that fell mutually in love at the same exact rate all the way to the bottom.

That’s a statistic I made up, of course, based on the Cuntageddon that I see around me. But if you think about it, you might just glimpse the demons.

Good luck out there!

Mr. Hindsight, Bastard Extraordinaire

2007-05-04T23:14:00.001+01:00

Ah, hindsight. What a dickhead, right? Personified, he’d be the guy that says “I told you so,” whilst guffawing at how absolutely idiotic you were for not taking cue or clue from all the instinct and logic you supposedly posses. He’s the guy that smiles wryly when you sob “I knew this would happen!”, as though he could’ve told you but just didn’t bother so he could experiment with how suicidally fucked-over you might get. He’s also the guy that buys you drink after drink until you’re so totally comatose you have to be delivered to hospital to have your intestines pumped, then stands by your bed telling you how stupid you were for getting into this situation. He’s a smug, snide bastard of cuntish proportion.

He’s also a liar.

Someone made the comment to me, the other day; about how the good memories of a relationship can become utterly painful to think about, after you’ve had your heart minced slowly apart by the person that gave them to you. If you’ve had your heart minced apart by someone that gave you special memories, then perhaps you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, well, you know – sod off.

So what’s going on here? Why is that memory of her...

giving you the most perfect present – the one you didn’t even know you wanted until you saw it and realised she knew your soul better than you did; before giving you the best fucking blow-job that the entire civilised & uncivilised worlds have ever bestowed,

... now such a painful thing to think about? What fucked it up? What in the name of Christendom is preventing you from enjoying that memory again? Is the human condition so unbelievably contradictory and illogical that you are fucked up with an inherency that is total and infinite?

Yes, yes it is. But that’s not why. It’s not even her fault. Sure, she took your soul and carved the little symbols of the Necronomicon into it with a red-hot, blunt bread-knife, but that’s a totally separate incident to her buying you that present or hugging you that way or speaking, always, in a poetry you understood. Why are you mingling the evil memories with the good ones? Why? WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THAT?

Enter, Mr. Hindsight. Swinging a cane made from the thousand truths you hide from, doffing a hat made of mirrors, and grinning like a cunt. He’s the one that meshes the memories of good and bad. He’s the one that doesn’t let you think “we shared moments that were perfect”, instead making you think “we shared some moments that were perfect, and then she fucked it all up! How didn’t I see it coming!? She never loved me, and I fell for it – everything we ever did, ever said was a lie, with the break-up always on the horizon”. He taints the good memories with the bad, and not the other way around. And then he makes you think you’re stupid. And you bow humble at his cloven feet.

Not that all of us bow. Some have tamed his sharp eyesight and commentary. Some have stopped him meddling in memories and thoughts that don’t concern him. But not all of us. And when it comes to catastrophic heartbreak, he comes hurtling out of nowhere to aid your confusion and help you understand. Because when we’re fucked over, we automatically turn to him for help. Unfortunately, all the while, he’s just fucking us up even more.

Good memories are memories of things that were good at the time – so dwell on them as such, and without considering the massive fuckeries that happened after they happened.

If hindsight tries to come into play, try belting him in the fucking jugular. It won't stop him, but he really is a cunt.

Venus and Medusa

2007-04-22T06:37:00.000+01:00

So tell me about Venus.

Well, people say Venus is a woman. I have seen Venus and he’s a man.

And he’s the personification of love?

Yes. He’s a warrior and myriad. He exists for every love, though they are all the same man.

What do you mean?

If you and I were in love, another Venus would be born. The exact same Venus that was born when any couple falls in love.

So this Venus… Is like a set of duplicates?

Almost, but not quite. He is more of a hive mind. They understand each other.

Like ants?

What are ants?

They’re tiny, simple creatures individually, but when they combine on a large scale they show… What’s the phrase for it? Emergent behaviour?

No, Venus is not at all like ants.

Okay. Tell me about him, or them.

Let us discuss the one I met. First: He is invisible to everybody. This includes the lovers that made him.

Then how’d you meet him?

I am a Seer.

Ah, alright. So what did he look like?

He’s a warrior, as I mentioned. He carries weapons and wears armour. He has four legs, four arms and two faces, much like the creatures Aristophanes used to joke of. He cartwheels around.

Sounds very strange.

Love is strange.

So what does he actually do?

While love remains perfect, he does not do anything. He sits and smiles and sharpens his weapons. He rests. He gets ready to fight because, for Venus, his strongest will is to survive. When love becomes imperfect, he starts fighting.

Fighting what?

Another, similarly myriad being. Her name is Medusa.

Medusa, with the hair made of snakes and eyes that turn you to stone?

No. Where did you hear that?

Legends, I guess.

Legends are secondary to what I have seen. Medusa is composed of snakes, entirely – thousands of flying snakes which flock as a swarm.

How do you know she’s a woman?

Venus refers to her as a woman. She’s born in the eye of a needle, knitting herself together. Sinews wrap over bone, and these become snakes. She feeds on time. When the snakes grow wings she comes for him.

But why?

She is the antithesis of love.

Hate?

No. More complicated than that. She is the will and want for love to die.

Okay. So if Venus knows she’s coming for him, and he sees her being… Built… Why not slay her then, before she’s grown all these snakes and wings?

She’s born in the eye of a needle. He finds it difficult to see her.

Well. With four arms, legs and eyes Venus sounds capable enough of destroying Medusa.

No. Once she is born, he will always lose.

Always?

Always.

Je te suis, tu me fuis, je te fuis, tu me suis...

2007-04-19T23:28:00.000+01:00

So today I've been at work, positively fuming over another blatant reason that love can and will always strive to be a cunt. It's all to do with perceived value and its inherent failings.

I can tell I'm already losing you - you total fucking idiot - so I'd better start with the basics.

See, when you go for someone, chances are you fancy them. That's a given, right? Who goes for people they don't fancy? Only rapists.

So let's take the definition of 'fancy' a bit further: Fancying someone, by its own nature, requires that the person being fancied is somehow equivalent or higher than a pre-defined rung on the ladder of attractiveness. Each rung of that ladder, of course, being an average of all traits that can be associated with attractiveness. The rung at which you set your sights are your 'standards' when it comes to choosing a partner. Perhaps you aim at the bottom of the ladder or higher - you utter whore. Or perhaps you aim towards the top - you frigid twat. Most people tend to aim at rungs around the one they themselves occupy. Or at least, tend to aim slightly higher, then eventually settle for something slightly lower. Losers.

Anyway - the point is, there is a ladder, and we've all set a standard on it. Even if you ignore that it exists ("oh please, I just take each person as I see them, and if we hit it off then that's great" - read less Cosmo), or don't realise it exists ("everybody's equal, right?" - read more Orwell), your standard is still on there, flapping away like the flag of Denialsville.

So how exactly is this important information on standards fed into our brain for processing into horniness for an individual? Perception!

Motherfucking perception.

That's what we use, as our rung-(or, more accurately, value-)detection-system. Our stupidly subjective perception, which is subject to all manner of defects, both internal (denial, longing, need) and external (peer pressure, social proofing, massive tits).

So the situation's already fucked. It's at this point that girls and blokes have different ways of dealing with the whole standards issue.

Girls, on the one hand, are quite perceptive even at the peaks of their baseline dementia. Given time, they will fathom out guys that are around the attractiveness threshold they desire/succeed with, and date them. Hence the 'gorgeous girl with nothing guy' scenario that's been debated endlessly on the fucking idiocy that is now Friends (to be fair, earlier series were okay). There's no debate required. Girls just know what they're doing.

Blokes, though. Oh Christ. Blokes are shit at this. We are way too physically shallow, and way too emotionally retarded to quite understand how to 'profile' girls as to where they belong on this ladder system. Hence we have all manner of common situations, ranging from 'gorgeous guy with nothing girl who has very keen sense of manipulation' through to 'guy mistakenly goes out with tonnes of girls and breaks all their hearts without really meaning to'. All of which arise from the fact of the guy not really knowing what the hell to look for in a girl.

An aside: Some girls think like guys (end up manipulated / accidental
heartbreakers) and some guys think like girls (sorted / clearly gay). Fine. But let's leave the generalisation for simplicity's sake...

The easiest way to overcome this perceptive difficulty? Over the years, we learn to be more passive - let them decide their relative value for you. The more they don't fancy you, the higher up on the ladder they are. The more they do fancy you, the lower down the ladder they are.

A lot of people do this.

LIAC evolves from the two simple results:

A lot of people don't like clingy partners. Even couples that have been together happily for years can shear apart on the appearance of true love from one side only.

A lot of people like running prey. The very act of showing disdain or negativity towards someone might actually make you more desirable to them. Even though you might, simply, hate them.

What to do?

Unfortunately, too many people are unaware of the ladder, their own standards, their higher perception of people, and the fact it might be based on how they present themselves to you. That's normal - it's hard to tell when all that's happening.

So, uhh. There's nothing you can do. LIAC. Quod erat fucking demonstrandum.

2,500,000 Solar Masses of Fate

2007-04-19T23:00:00.000+01:00

Hello plebeian masses! Now, I know the weather’s great, summer’s here, and all you want to do is go and get pissed up in a park on off-license liquor. Or maybe I do. Anyway, before I head out to lasciviously ogle the kempt, tanned nudists on Hampstead Heath, I’d like to teach you a thing or two about astrophysics.

Boring? Fuck you!

Now look here – let’s talk a little about black holes. No, I’m not talking about racist pornography, I’m talking about theoretical space phenomena which have a mass which might approximate 2.5 million times that of our sun. Okay. So you’re a dozy fucker and a magnitude of “2.5 million solar masses” might just seem fairly big to you. Well, let me tell you, it’s bigger than you think.

Take the Earth. It weighs fucking 6,600,000,000,000,000,000,000 tonnes! Although most of this is now accounted for by Lawrence Fishburne, 6.6 thousand billion billion tonnes is very fucking heavy. Then, the sun weighs 330,000 times that. That’s one solar mass. And Christ, even though my ex once claimed she did, in fact, weigh one solar mass after consuming every chocolate in the house, a single solar mass is a huge amount.

So these black holes, weighing 2.5 million of these motherfuckers, are pretty big right? Nope. They’re actually so heavy that their own gravity collapses them in on themselves until they’re a tiny dot. That’s called a singularity. Something smaller than even your cock, and it weighs more than the entire TNT equivalent that the US will have dropped on folks by the time they realise they’re wankers.

Thus, the black hole singularity is more dense than Jade Goody on ketamine, and exerts a gravity which sucks with more potency than Heather Brooke of IDeepThroat.com. In fact, it even sucks light into it. And this is why it’s called a black hole.

There is a spherical perimeter around a black hole called the Event Horizon, which is the distance furthest from the singularity at which light cannot escape. Once you enter that event horizon, a number of fucked up things happen, even if you were wearing a nice space suit.

First you’d notice yourself being torn apart. The amount of gravity is so immense that your feet would feel it an order of magnitude more than your head, with the result that your feet would fall faster than your head, and when that sort of shit’s going down something’s got to give. Your waist, as it happens. That doesn’t matter because at the acceleration you’re going at, you’d probably hit the singularity before you died anyway. So your disembodied head might look around and wish that you’d packed some sort of rocket pack to help you escape. Not a chance, unfortunately, because once you’re past the horizon then nothing can escape. The singularity becomes a part of your future.

So why am I babbling on about all this? Well, it all ties in with my ideas on fate. Do we have control over fate, or do we not? Do we decide who we fall in love with, or does it happen at first sight / by chance, accident / when the planets are aligned?

I think fate is like floating through a field of black holes. The black holes are the people you fall in love with. Sometimes you can see them coming, because you’ll see their event horizon ominously blotting out the bright stars behind them. Or perhaps you’ll feel the gradual pull as you get close. Or perhaps you just won’t see it before it’s too late. They are hard to spot, after all.

But you can control fate at this point, to some extent at least. Go this way, that way, avoid one, head for another – whatever you like.

But once you’re inside a horizon, its singularity is in your future. There is no device in the universe which can set you free. If you’re lucky, you’ll love it all the way down, though you’re torn apart, exposed, fucked and helpless to prevent yourself moving in any direction but in. And once you arrive – at the singularity, her soul – let’s hope she notices you there. Or else your broken body will feel quite alone.

You’ll have no control over that fate.

[ PS – This post was invoked by something I read by ButterflyUK. A lot of my posts are based on hers these days, and this might be seen as favouritism - well, it's not. It's just that the rest of you churn out utter drivel that makes me want to tear out my eyeballs and chew on their optic nerves. And I hate ButterflyUK, anyway. I hate her most of all. So spin on it, you foetid motherfuckers. ]

Truly, Madly, Deeply

2007-04-18T23:42:00.002+01:00

Watch it, you cunt.

im sorry.

2007-04-02T18:10:00.002+01:00

im sorry for sounding so childish,
getting upset over what seem to be, trivial, matters,
but i cant help it.

im sorry for being sad because you leave him testimonials and not me,

im sorry you never do reply my emails,

im sorry you always, always, always miss my calls and give me silly reasons,

im sorry you seldom come online on your own free will to chat with me,

im sorry im always hoping secretly you will remember what you promised,

im sorry i have to wait so often for you, to tell me something, to hear from you, only to get disappointed all the time.

im sorry you cannot assure me.

im sorry you havent told your parents about us despite us coming to three years,

im sorry i nearly got knocked down by your mom, and all i got was a glance from her because she doesnt even know of my existence,

im sorry that my parents think im stupid to stay with you to let you toy with me,

im sorry i feel insecure.

im sorry for all your mistakes or not,

im sorry for not being able to understand why you just cannot do these small lil' things for me,

im sorry for wallowing in self-pity and always and forever feeling upset over the same damn things,

im sorry for being your girlfriend,

i feel sorry for myself.

im sorry, to think of leaving if you still dont change soon,

im sorry to not have enough faith in you.

im sorry for creating excuses for you all the time,

im sorry to say, i love you too much to give up.

we were a mistake from the start, perhaps.

Fuck You Cocksucker.

2007-03-16T20:33:00.000Z

You're right, I was wrong about you.

I wonder if its actually my problem, this seeing the good in people when its not actually there.

I obviously know its not his fault. Shit happens, but he handled it poorly and he seems uncaring and indifferent to the fact that I'm puking because of anxiety attacks. I can't help this, it comes with who I am. Its not like I WANT to puke.

But its not your fault. I get that.

I haven't eaten anything for the past week. Its too difficult to chew and swallow and food is sincerely grossing me out. I've managed to keep down fruit, vegetables and rice and that empty feeling that's sitting in the bottom of my stomach makes me feel comfortable, nothing else. Just comforting.

He said that one of the reasons why he wasn't attracted to me was because I didn't have any self confidence.

Sure. I get that too, cause I don't.

Not when it comes to him anyway? Why should I? He also said he'd give me a list of reasons as to why I suck. That was like getting beaten with an emotional 2x4.
When I tell people that the reason he doesn't want to date me is because I'm not confident, the look of absolute shock spreads across their already horrified faces. They say, "You Anna? YOU? That makes no sense." And I tend to agree, but the indifference is weaving its way into my comfort zone and I simply don't care enough to be bothered anymore.

The only good thing that came out of this was the conversation I wanted to have with my sister for ages. I'm tired of not having a connection with her and he brought us together in a way that I think only he could do. Good for him. At least he got something right.

People have asked me why I look so miserable. I say its because I'm tired, but the comforting feeling of an empty stomach is overshadowed with enormous pangs of disgust, self loathing and the most atrocious anger I've ever known.

The first stage of separation goes as follows: Desperation. The powerful stench of confusion, bent emotions and words getting caught in the middle of your throat, It burns throughout my mind, constantly reminding me that once again I have been fucked.The second stage balloons into an aggressive complex that makes me want to spite the bastard and everything and anything that's close to his heart. I want him to regret ever knowing me, I want him to regret not being able to have me. I want him to cry because he missed out on something that was more than he could ever possibly handle.The third stage is indifference. I just don't care anymore.

Chelsea said the reason why I liked having him around was because he belched out positive energy. She's probably right because he is the epitome of sunshine, but the more I think about him, the idea of dating him becomes absolutely asinine; my heart just needs to catch up with my brain.

And I need to stop chirping.

But I still feel like a god damn dumpster.

I should have known when he went online to talk to my sister after we fucked that it never would have worked. I should have been mad when he didn't get up the next morning to drive me to the bus stop. I should have been sly enough to turn an oblivious shoulder to his conclusion of our short-lived romance, but that's not who I am.

I can't not care. But I definitely can break his nose the next time I see him.

She stinks for me

2007-02-24T02:33:00.000Z

We were well past saying I love you anymore. We both knew we’d said it to previous lovers and even after the first month of using it we realised we’d killed off those notorious three words if not the feeling. We’d only started saying it to get a stamp on our feelings, but the words themselves quickly became stale and vapid. I’d say that her checking how I liked my coffee showed more love than saying ‘I love you.’ I’d been with lovers who’d told me they loved me all too often, but had never cared about the quantity of milk in my morning drink.

We also knew neither of us were ones for poetry. Sure, we tried that sometimes early on too – spilling out clumsy phrases that we’d taken from a book or film that had come our way: ‘you’re everything to me’ and ‘you complete me – without you I am nothing.’ – and several other clichés of that nature. We probably rattled through a couple of dozen of those before we started taking the piss out of them. Again, I knew she loved me more when she was sarcastic with and acting all fake when saying these things.

We got to a stage where we ran out though. Sure, actions show love and all that – we know that from love and from crap soul songs, but we still wanted words for it. I’d say it took us another month or two until we found how. I say we found how – she introduced it:

‘My cunt fucking stinks.’

‘Does it? Sorry, what did you just say?’

‘It stinks like fuck of your cock.’

‘Ha! Wow! How is that darling? We haven’t done it for a couple of days?’

‘It’s sending out a search-stench – to check it’s still there. Calling it for more fucking and man fat.’

I jumped her with a comedy pirate’s laugh and I want to say we fucked like it was our last – but that’s a cheap description. It was nothing like our last – just our best. Love made whole from the nostril-flaring hardness of flesh, the smell called ‘funk’ and our sweat, juices and cum on and in each other.

The tone was set. We'd found a dialect which worked for us.

Whispers in the supermarket by the fruit.
‘I’m gonna bend you over and fuck you in the ass. You’re gonna be the first woman to have girl-cum shoot out of your fucking shithole.’
‘I’ve already been doing that one with you, you dirty, fucking animal.’

Halfway through watching some rubbish on TV:
‘Why don’t you wank that cock hard at shove it in my mouth you lazy cunt?’
‘Well, flick me some ripe fucking pussy lips open and I will.’

I could go on, but will leave anymore up to you. All I can say is that I’d never been more in love, because this is where failed attempts at love had taken me. I’d say it was the same for her too, but we were talking love like this now – so I could never really ask.

RuKsaK

Fade from Magic

2007-01-23T18:55:00.000Z

If there’s one type of romance which won’t get you fucked (in either of the word’s self-antonymic good or bad senses), it’s a romance with music. I have that type of a romance - not in the post-modern style of some goth jizzwit basing their morals and emotions off shit lyrics they don’t really understand, but in the old style of having my soul torn calmly asunder by live classical music. Having said that; goth chicks are hot. Fact.

So I was recently in New York and saw their Philharmonic play Elgar’s Cello Concerto. As with any of the world’s best orchestras playing one of humanity’s greatest works, over the course of forty minutes I went through a range of feeling that put the sum total of events in my emotional deathcoaster of a life into a box marked “trivial” and forced on me what felt like an orgasm but without all the grunting, spunking and “that wasn’t forty minutes it was more like two”. Not that I wouldn’t love to breach orgasm with a violinist at some point. Comparing a woman with a violin in her hand to the same woman without a violin in her hand is like comparing the white-hot searing beauty of The Venus to a dead dog. Fact.

Recently, also, I was in the Ukraine (yes I’m international like that) at the Odessa Philharmonic Hall, not to see their orchestra, but to see a Russian pianist (whose name I can’t type with this keyboard) play all of Chopin’s Nocturnes. Yet even though I love the Nocturnes, even though this guy was one of the world’s top and in particular top Chopin-playing pianists and even though I was completely surrounded by the stark, near-suffocating beauty of a century-old historical monument – I was not as moved as I was by the Elgar. Now that isn’t to say I wasn’t moved – I was moved. I was moved, in fact, approx. seven dimensions away into a world which had converted all its shittiness into goth chicks holding violins. But it wasn’t as much as with the Elgar.

I know tangents turn you on a little, so let’s talk about literature for a while.

I read any chance I get, but I’m the least well read bastard you’ll ever meet. I’ve also studied nothing of literature, its history or mechanics. I also read Harry Potter books and sort of like them. I have a friend who lectures creative writing at Warwick and he would sorely like to rip out my viscera and spit up my windpipes because of everything I just said. Because for him, the enjoyment of literature comes from its analysis and being able to read into what the writer does rather than what the words do. And for me, sitting here like the plebeian book-cripple I am, I think that’s sad. Because there are vast swathes of books he’ll now write off as rubbish, because he can see straight through them, spot every mistake and regard with absolute clarity what the author was trying to do to the reader. Books lose their magic.

Okay I’m melodramaticising – obviously there are books that literary scholars enjoy, but what I’m saying is that the type of enjoyment is different. It’s more technical and less intangible. More practical and less esoteric. I’m speaking generally. And I prefer to have my imagination driven by JK Rowling rather than being unable to read her books because they’re written like a pile of rotting tits.

And this is why, when I see a jazz band playing their solos, I get blown away by every single instrument except the piano. Not that I don’t enjoy the piano – I fucking do – but not in the same magical way. I play piano. When I see or hear pianists I’m cataloguing their mistakes and enjoying their technical skill. The notes don’t fly out at me in the same way as they do from a saxophone or double bass or harp. It seems more… Normal. And this is why Elgar won over Chopin and I think it’s a crying shame that I’m corrupted this way.

And isn’t love like this? Isn’t this why, when people first fall in love, they’re so taken aback by how intense, eternal and completely fucking mystifying the feelings are? Isn’t this why they think it’s the most brilliant thing that’s ever happened to them? And isn’t this why, as you become more used to it, more experienced and more able to recognise the chemical imbalances and rationality-failures, you’re just a little more jaded against the magic? What was once carefree is now a careful weighing-up. What was once heart-before-head is now head-before-heart. What was once “I’m in love, what else matters?” is now “I’m in love”.

It’s not the end of love as you know it. It’s the end of love as you knew it. As with anything; you touch it and it fades to grey.

Cheerio.

Festive love

2006-12-21T15:44:00.000Z

It’ll be pretty much ten years ago now that I first really questioned it.

We’d been in bed, I’d fingered her arsehole a little and she’d moaned in the right way and pressed herself against me more – one of those grunting embraces people do when getting fired up in bed. It ended up with her sucking me off and me coming all over her breasts. I’d said something like: ‘how’s that for a white Christmas?’ and she’d laughed. That’s why I’d said it – to get a laugh – a dirty one.

We’d been together five years and within those five years we’d got progressively closer in a physical way and more distant in all others. I barely fancied her anymore and it was simply because we continued fucking each other in the way we did that kept us together. It was the same for her too. I knew that much from her contentedly behaving exactly the way I did on every single piece of the monotonous. For example we’d make breakfast completely separately – same ingredients, eggs perhaps cooked slightly differently, but I’d cook mine, she’d cook hers and we’d eat them at the same table. Going for walks in public we’d be silent because the only thing we had left was sex and it wouldn’t have been clever to go on about it within earshot of grandmothers and the like.

Anyway, it was seeing my sperm spilled on her breasts this time when it occurred to me. We were fucking and fucking like this all the time to empty ourselves. I don’t think either of us felt as vacant as when we’d orgasmed. The worst of it was that we’d had times in the earlier days – the ones when we didn’t do anal or she wouldn’t swallow, that we’d make love together and feel the opposite – full. Full of love. But, it wasn’t love any more – it was porn and we were the only ones watching.

And it was that moment, when we both looked at each other, like porn stars forced to work together, that we knew we’d be over by Easter at the latest.

RuKsaK

A Brief Illustration Of Woe

2006-12-19T15:49:00.002Z

Love is introducing someone to you inner child (if you will pardon such a nauseating cliché). Love is taking the intrinsic part of you that is love, in it’s truest and purest sense, out of the armour plated box. The inner toddler, to which Deceit, Betrayal, Hurt, Loss, Disappointment and Vengeance have no meaning. Love is letting him take that small child for a walk.

The depravity of the human heart is when he takes that toddler and pushes it gently in front of a freight train. So to speak.

What now? Head off to an inner-child adoption agency? Or am I taking this analogy too far?

That motherfucker.

My deceitful darling

2006-12-19T15:19:00.003Z

R, my darling,
I love you, I do. I have done so for many years, since we were fourteen, even.
I remember when I finally told you I loved you. Ironically, your multifaceted emotional response was a perfect example of what I love so much about you. No sooner had the words passed my lips it was clear that you do not love me.

A split second saw Surprise, then Dismay chase across your delicate features, with the merest echo of fear, swiftly smothered beneath what you believed to be an attitude of accommodating tolerance as I continued to explain how I felt. It’s the same kind of compassionate unconditional positive regard routine so popular with therapists (you’ve been to enough of them to know it inside and out, and yes, darling, it comes across just as disingenuously when you wear it). Beneath the façade your alarm became pity, followed quickly by guilt.

Deep down, your heart rejected me but your desperation for someone, for anyone to love you (oh, abandoned and manipulated child) would not allow you to pass up this opportunity, on the premise that any love > none.

So you quieted your panic (but I could still see it. It’s amazing the things that love will show you) and attempted to respond with eloquence. Expressing gratitude and making a show of being flattered and surprised in a suitably feminine fashion. Then hasty assurance that the adoration was mutual. A kind but cruel lie. One you are still telling, to me and to yourself.

And I wanted to hear it. I wanted to be convinced. I wanted you to love me. But you are the only one that believes your lie. I will still love you, truly, deeply and sadly. You will never love me, not like this. So, I release you. You don’t have to pretend anymore. It hurts us both.

Evolution of Beauty

2006-12-19T00:13:00.000Z

Awesome "natural beauty" advert from the hypocritical "buy our shit or else you're ugly" fucktards at Dove.

Divine Forgiveness

2006-12-14T19:57:00.000Z

We’re all congenitally dysfunctional. You probably don’t understand those big words so I’ll explain this way – you’re a bit fucked up. Yeah, you are, and don’t pretend you don’t know it. Everybody has their share of foibles, neuroses, psychoses and arsewittery.

I’m not talking about your genuine mistakes, by the way. The things you do by accident, on the off-chance, wondering where it came from. I know you do stupid shit all the time but I wouldn’t call it a lifelong defect. You’re just human. And thus, an odious little prat most of the time. Join the club.

I'm also not talking about ridiculously bad flaws, like wife-beating, cock-shearing, murder or not giving head. If you commit any of those then you must introduce a small piece of metal to your sinus cavities via a gunpowder-based delivery system.

What I’m talking about are long-term, repeated offences. The stuff you do all the time and can’t help it, no matter how many people tell you to sort it or how many points drop off your “fit to live” quotient each time you do it. Something in your personality. Attitude problems. Too clingy, too overt, obnoxious, shallow, unfaithful, insane, liking Jonathan Ross. You know who you are.

Obviously these “unavoidable” flaws can be overcome a lot of the time – but nobody’s going to be perfect. If you think you’re perfect then that’s your unavoidable flaw, QED. So now that I’ve finished telling you something you already knew – that you’re malfunctioning – what does this have to do with love?

I’ve seen and been out with people that are well into their forgiveness. And I, almost cataclysmically, fucking hate it. Though I’m not quite so freakish as you, dear reader, I do have plenty of ludicrously bad personality flaws. And I’m not a kid. They’re not going to get fixed in any sort of hurry. So I don’t want anybody’s fucking forgiveness for them; I want – as per the natures of the human condition and definitions of love – to be understood. And then to be dealt with, based on that understanding.

What do I mean? Let’s talk about Jesus fucking Christ for a second.

The late JC and his dad worked out some sort of morbidly fascinating, sadomasochistic deal through which they could forgive all mankind’s sins. This is not the same type of forgiveness that people usually dole out. It was divine forgiveness. When someone forgives you in a relationship, that typically means they think you’ve made a mistake and it’s not going to happen again. When god forgave mankind, he forgave everything, ever, that we would do wrong. So the real definition for what he did was that he understood we're a little fucked up and accepted this. Then laughed his sick ass off cos he’d made us this way.

[ Aside: Let me point out, as I always do after making a religious parallel, that I think all forms of religion are totally fabricated, anaesthetising, war-driving devices deployed by the real lords of humanity – but there’re some good stories in there. The power of stories, eh? Anyway… ]

Love requires that type of forgiveness - the divine type. Not the "don't worry, just don't be like that again" type of benevolent, pious fucking crap that people normally dish out. Not the ephemeral “forgive and forget” BS that lasts the seven days until the problem crops up again. If you're in love then a specific requirement of that is you understand the person you love, or at least have an overwhelming desire to try and understand. And then, if you can't live with it and nothing changes, get out. Anything else is some weird form of denial that there was ever an issue in the first place.

And listen – I’m in no way saying that, if you’re a personality train-wreck, you shouldn’t try and tackle your issues. You should. Or else all the people that love and understand you will deal with that complacency by telling you to fuck off. But what I am saying is: if someone says they love you, with all your flaws, then hope that they’re actually loving you and not some potential future of you without those flaws. The former is far more healing than the latter.

You flawed motherfucker.

[ CUE: God’s merciless laughter. ]

The Doomed Romantic Test

2006-12-12T22:28:00.002Z

Good evening, my fellow gits…

It may have escaped your attention that I’ve not been posting much these days. This is, frankly, because my life is fucking excellent.

But I was re-jigging an online test I wrote on OKCupid a while back – one which I never posted here. So I’ll post it now. If you decide to take it, the intro screen tells you pretty much what it’s about. But basically I wrote it with the intention of lancing such a brilliantine spear of psychoanalysis through your skull that your viciously cycling screams render in horrifying detail every truth of your Pandora-box soul. It calls you a cunt, too.

The Doomed Romantic Test.

She's gone

2006-11-23T11:04:00.000Z

I still loved her when she died. She'd had some other guy inside her, as I referred to it back then (and still sometimes now) since she'd left me.

It took me several months to come to terms with the fact that the girl I'd lost my virginity to and therefore had automatically, and teenagerly loved had had her head pulped inside a crash helmet.

I kept saying if she'd stayed with me, with no fucking motorbike, she'd be still alive with me inside her. Feeling all warm like we had with our skin all over each other, tired from our first pieces of sex. The music we had playing back then I still can't listen to without her wrapped all over it.

Then it came to me that she'd probably fucked around for that very reason - she knew it was coming. I wouldn't be surprised if she got on the back of that bike, with her latest suck-and-fuck job, knowing that it was going to fling her fifteen metres in the air - a missile made of her skin and bones.

Years later a medium described her to me - that she sometimes stands next to me. Not sure about that. I guess she doesn't anymore at least.

She doesn't anymore because I wear the story on my sleeve. I've walked into pubs with it, gone to work on the train with it, taken shits with it. Fuck - I've even picked up other women with it.

I think I still love her a little bit. It's been over twenty years, but I can imagine her in hairstyles she never had and in clothes she never wore so, so much easier than I can with her brain all fucking mashed in that helmet, hanging off her neck, with someone else's cum inside her still.

RuKsaK

Get This Man Out of My Head.

2006-11-15T06:27:00.000Z

"Woman... woe-man... whoooa-man. She was a thief, you gotta belief, she stole my heart and my cat. Judy, Betty, Josie and those hot Pussycats... They made me horny, on Saturday morn-ee... Girls of cartoo-ins will leave me in ruins... I want to to be Betty's Barney.

Jane... Get me off this crazy thing... Called love."

You said it Charlie.

It's fucked y'know. You settle down with someone only to think your life is perfectly indestructible. You're happy, comfortable, enthused that things are going so smoothly. You think you have everything and you're perfectly content in your little bubble of ignorant normalcy. Queue complacent sigh.

I've got it bad.
The crushing feeling that he bestows upon me creeps away when I distance myself from him. When he's not around, neither is the most atrocious feeling of paranoia and grief I have ever known. When he is around, I giggle like a little girl. I feel like I've met my equal and I swoon like a forty-five-year-old John Travolta fan.

It's disgusting.

I need the closure of a solid ass pounding. I need him to take me in a moment of sexual frustration and I need him to fuck me endlessly. I need him to finish this stupid game of bad timing and two minute phone conversations. I need him to know that this is screwing up my head and I definitely need to stop devoting so many random posts to this random man in my life because it is also, disgusting.

I don't understand how I could want to change my whole life over a five minute phone conversation regarding his work day. I'm dumbfounded by how the tone of his sweetly sarcastic voice could make me see Andrew with such repugnance.

I hate him and yet at the same time, am completely enamoured by him.

And I suppose what makes this so confusing and perhaps so magnetic is his lack of opinion, comment and commitment to the whole mess. Yes he wants me, but can't make the time for it. It's ok that he's attatched, he dated a married woman once, why would it be so bad to do it now? But when it finally comes down to it, he only wants to be friends. Emails, phone, existing together for any longer than two minutes is completely forbidden and the only place he can manage sexual coagulation is during office hours. Cause that totally makes sense.

What the fuck sir? Your gender is not supposed to be the confusing one.

So what the fuck do I do? Forget about him? Continue on with Andrew and hope that I don't think of him to keep my relationship steady? Do I somehow find the perfect timing and screw him mercilessly only to fall even more deeply in infatuation with him? Do I remain his friend and lust for him from a distance? Do I tell him how badly this is fucking me up and hope he understands and cares enough to do something about it?

What exactly do I need to do to not be a lunatic anymore? And why is it that the first time I feel passion, is when I am in a state of lunacy?

Never Forever

2006-11-12T01:47:00.000Z

“I have to admit it was never fireworks, more like roadworks”

My dad talking about his relationship and subsequent marriage to my stepmum. I was shocked at the time, being young and full of hope. They’re still married by the way, with two lovely children to boot. What’s more, they’ll be married forever. For EVER. Perfect, no?

No.

It just works. It works that way because there’s no other way to meet their requirements (raising children/living comfortably/avoidance of insanity/loneliness) other than - business-like.

The very best of luck to them. Keeps them out of trouble and their priorities and interests necessitate this sort of relationship.

My interest when it comes to these matters is, ‘the other love’.

On passionate love that goes the full distance, my dad there, surmised it was as

“rare as rocking horse poo”.

At the time, I entirely dismissed the statement as rubbish or, something that he’d never had and therefore ‘didn’t understand’.

Ten years later though, I’ll admit the old fart’s profundities, though lacking subtlety, aren’t that shabby. Familiarity breeds contempt. Isn’t that why the octogenarian Diamond Anniversary Couple of the Week in your local rag advise every single time –

“you have to work at it”

“never go to sleep on an argument”

“be each other’s best friend”

The first one kills me - if we have to work at it, it means I can’t fucking stand you. If we’re routinely able to sort out arguments before we sleep, one of us is a doormat. And the reason my friends are my friends is precisely because we’ve never been in the love charabanc to Hades (and back on wheel rims when the tyres melted). But nevertheless it does work.

It’s not for me.

My sought after love is passion. A frequent and willing exchange of a baton of power. A paradox. Mind massage. Sustenance for my ever inquiring soul.

I don’t want to know all about someone – I want their unknown to unnerve, inspire and excite me.

I don’t want to talk about it – I want to SHOUT about it.

I don’t want to be fed when I’m hungry – I want to be starved to the point of each and every tiny morsel being the grandest banquet I’ve ever devoured.

I don’t want to try to force something so illogical, unpredictable and mutable, into structure – I want to be a slave to my own heathen chemistry.

I want to measure an association by depth – not by distance.

I want to break things before the intricacies of their form don’t invite my minds eye any more - so I can keep them encapsulated, bouyant and thrilling.

All these things, I think, require a full stop, an end, a death that may seem premature.

What do these two types of relationships have to do with each other at all? The common link being: that people don’t realise that it’s a case of one or the other. True love with all it’s dizzy highs and devastating lows That? Forever? Pfff. Listen, if you’re still feeling the buzz (and I’m describing a tremendous buzz here don’t forget) in three years (six max, if one of you is in the Forces or summat) I’ll eat the next thing that comes out of my pet cat’s behind - on national TV.

IF you rock upon rocking each other’s world, savour every little chemical inducing moment. Because you’ve given life to something that lives fast and hard, and dies spectacularly. It’s you that kills it, you endorphin driven nutcase.

One day you might go for the other kind of love, like my old dad back there. Maybe that’s what happens to us all. But don’t constantly look in earnest to the horizon with your hands clasped to your Pandora’s box of a heart. Your ‘forever’ won’t come charging in hoofs ablaze and blow your mind to smithereens (not in any irrepairable way anyhow), true love wouldn’t let them do that! They’ll be gentle, kind and unassuming and they’ll take care of your sanity and maybe they’ll ameliorate (if only partly) what’s been done to your soul in the past.

And that, you passion weary traveller, will be that.

So you’re in a state, it’s all gone wrong, it huuuurts, you were supposed to be together. No you fucking weren’t, you just got off on each other, monstrously, you sucked it up. You can have these experiences again and again and again if you get off on it. Or you can just give up passionate love, and go for the other love. The different love.

Me - I’m sticking around here for a little bit longer, I haven’t had nearly enough wrecking to want, or need, to resort to option two.

2006-11-06T06:27:00.002Z

When you are sorrowful,
look again in your heart,
and you shall see that in truth
You're weeping for that
which has been your Delight.

Vulnerability

2006-11-05T14:18:00.002Z

He was recently devirgined (bad english I know). She has the habit of sleeping with the wrong men, possibly because she's lonely. Or horny. Maybe both. I don't know.

Him: You know, now that I'm not longer a virgin. That means I don't have to hold back again any longer.
Her: Ahmm.
Him: And given the fact that you tend to sleep with men when you're emotionally vulnerable.
Her: Your point?
Him: Don't you EVER dare hit on me. I'm physically vulnerable right now.
Her: (laughs) Ok.
Him: A physically vulnerable person and an emotionally vulnerable person ain't the best people to hang aroun with.
Her: Are you trying to tempt me?
Him: You shouldn't play with fire. You could get burnt.
Her: ooh. Fire eh? I've been burnt before.

The guy's physically vulnerable. Someone put him out of his misery.

2006-11-04T16:18:00.000Z

And you wonder why...

2006-11-03T02:54:00.002Z

Her: *whimper "sob. I can't believe he's cheating on me with her. Bastard!"
Me: "The world's fair, honey. You cheated on him with Mr. I too remember?"
Her: "But that's different"

Oh yeah. Sure.

I don't know why...

2006-10-31T20:19:00.002Z

I think of her even though I know that I probably don't love her.

At least I think I don't. How could I? It could have have been a memorable one night stand or a beginning of a beautiful long distance relationship. It turnt out to be neither.

I kept telling myself it wouldn't work out. Keep digging that spade into that big gaping crevice in my heart saying: it won't work out.

She's gorgeous, she's probably got a dozen boys/men in a dozen countries. It won't work out. She's 4 hours away from you man. She doesn't use the internet much. The only way to keep whispering sweet nothings to each other is through massively expensive conventional phone lines (READ: non SKYPE). She's a top-of-the-food-chain model from a 3rd-world country. You're a bottom-of-the-food-chain executive in a 1st-world country. Other than the connection that we'll be making at the hips. There isn't much that we have in common.

It won't work out.
That's right baby. Keep telling yourself it won't work out and chances are it won't. Screw all you motivational gurus out there.

On hindsight, I probably deserved it. I stopped texting her sometime after February. Stopped calling her a few weeks before that.

She wanted to fuck on the 2nd night. I wanted to but didn't. I always turn down women because I think it's cool to turn down women. To prove that I'm in control. To be able to get them into bed without actually getting them into bed. To lead them on to a point where they would want me and say "sorry honey" and then proceed to give them the best oral of their lives. I only wanted to give them what I wanted to give, but never all of me. I gave my all twice. So I'm careful. (I know what you jaded fuckers are gonna say. "Only TWICE. This fucker doesn't know what love is." I do. I may not be JIB but I do.)

Of course I always regret not sleeping with any of them. Especially the gorgeous ones. Especially her. Virginity is a valued commodity only if you are a woman (rarity these days). It's a double-edged sword if you're a man. Women are naturally curious, which probably explains the attention I receive sometimes. Except when they realise that you're REALLY not sleeping with them. Suddenly it's not funny or interesting anymore. But those are stories for another time.

Not that it matters anyway. I know that I'll only get my heart broken when I see her next Feb. If I see her. I half-hoping that she has a wealthy boyfriend because the alternative that the whole thing might actually work out would be too much for my pea-sized brain.

I won't text her because I'm a self-absorbed egoistic coward. I want her yet I can't afford the time nor the energy nor the money to pursue a relationship with her.

So all I have to keep her alive in my head is the fashion magazines with her in them and the promise of that air ticket next February.

In the meantime I spurn lovers and send them packing home after months-old flings. Or bury myself in church and work so that I won't have time to ponder why I'm still single after such a long freaking time.

I'm a sorry excuse for a loser when it comes to love. I hate dealing with it. And that's probably why I feel right at home at LIAC.

I think of her still. I don't know why.

Goodbye My Lovers

2006-10-28T19:25:00.000+01:00

I realized, just recently, that sex with my lovers never involved love. Regardless of how I felt for them emotionally, I could not love them during sex. Like my days in high school, sex was not something emotional but physical. I used the moment to try to fulfill my own needs and to find their faults. Typically, my lovers could not please me and I’d end up having to do the job myself. I began to wonder whether I had the lover purely for sex or for other reasons. And in doing so, I realized my own faults and the truth about what I really want: I only want him. He is my husband. No one can do me like he does. Only with him has sex been something emotional as well as physical. We make love and this emotion continues on in our daily lives. No wonder he drives me crazy. He knows all the right buttons to push, whether he’s trying to piss me off or get me off. None of them could do that. But I never gave them the chance anyway. Because obviously what I cut off during sex, I must have also cut off in the relationship. Intimacy is still a mystery to me, but I think I’m starting to learn.

Repeat Offenders

2006-10-27T16:04:00.002+01:00

We've all done it. Gone back for more. Maybe you didn't hurt your ex enough the first time around, or maybe the sex was just too good. Either way, you knew you shouldn't but you still went back and now it's over, again, and it feels even worse than the first time.
I've been an addict of this type of behaviour. I'd dump the guy, remain "friends", and then he'd ask me back after a few months had passed. I'd go "talk" with him about our future, we'd end up in bed, and then all sorts of unpleasantness would occur.
If only you could just learn the lesson the first time around you'd save yourself hours of contemplation, sleepless nights, and bad poetry.
So why do we do it? Or better yet, more to my point, why do I do it?
Why do I always go back when I was the one that ended it in the first place?
A friend told me that ex's are ex's for a reason and they should remain that way and while I agree with her, I always keep going back for more.
Am I a masochist? Do I feel for the underdogs and *honesty* losers that come my way? Or am I simply too thick skulled to say goodbye the first time around?

That Dialogue You Wish You'd Never Had

2006-10-25T23:22:00.000+01:00

Him: Every bloke's tried tasting their own come, right?
Me: Err, no.

I would leave the works of Rumi at your feet.

2006-10-20T02:37:00.002+01:00

I am a sculptor, a molder of form.
In every moment I shape an idol.
But then, in front of you, I melt them down
I can rouse a hundred forms
and fill them with spirit,
but when I look into your face,
I want to throw them in the fire.
My souls spills into yours and is blended.
Because my soul has absorbed your fragrance,
I cherish it.
Every drop of blood I spill
informs the earth,
I merge with my Beloved
when I participate in love.
In this house of mud and water,
my heart has fallen to ruins.
Enter this house, my Love, or let me leave.

~Rumi

Wherefore

2006-10-20T02:30:00.002+01:00

I write to you, though I know you not. I write to you, though we have never met.

Much like a prayer, I cast my words with a thin hope born of a desperate need.

Much like god, you do not exist.

Why does the absence of that which was never present cause such pain?

It's not like I know what I'm missing.

Still, I'll write to you. I don't know what else to do.

Love is a Vampire

2006-10-20T02:00:00.000+01:00

My good friend shared this with me ages ago. I thought it was interesting.

The world is a vampire, sent to drain
secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames
and what do I get, for my pain
betrayed desires, and a piece of the game.
(Bullet with butterfly wings)

A man has only one escape from his old self: to see a different self in the mirror of some woman's eyes.
claire booth luce

Isn't that what we all strive for?
To be seen by our lover as a better person than we see ourselves?
We hope that they can look beyond all of those idiosyncrasies, those things we cannot abide in ourselves, and can see instead the person we wish to be. And help us become more like that which we desire to be.

So why does it always seem that women get the short end of this stick? That we are supposed to tolerate constant comparisons to embryonic twits that leave us only more ambiguous, more fearful to gaze at ourselves? Smaller, diminished in some way, in order to keep him happy? While he grows and blossoms under our loving touch.

De Beauvoir --I think?-- says that it's women only that possess the amazing power of reflecting a man's image back to him doubled in size...
and only half of her own.

That's how I am feeling today.
Half of myself.
The least important half of a happy couple.
My first instinct is to beat myself up for feeling this way. Some form of my vicious hatred of self pity. If you know me at all you know that I don't tolerate antagonism well. Yes, not one of my better qualities. I do not suffer fools either. And if you piss me off you'd better do it wearing armor because I like to fight. I didn't come by my former name accidently. I earned it.

And so my first instinct is to lash out when I'm feeling any form of self-loathing. Lash at myself, lash at anyone within scratching distance. Never unjustly though - it does take a lot to piss me off.

But protecting loved ones is one point where I never hesitate - and my wrath is awesome. But with every drop of blood drawn I become less. And he grows. I swear love is leeching. It sucks the blood from my very veins sometimes. I give my strength and once given it can never be restored. That part gone.

And would he prefer that? To see his lover diminished? No. That's what he finds attractive. So when she has drained her very spirit for him he looks upon her as weak. And he must look for someone new and vibrant. Someone to feed the appetite of a strong man like himself.

I find it sickening.
And gross.

And I will staunch that flow and restore myself.
No one may take from me and I have no need.
Now be gone with you.
Suck the life out of someone else.

Humiliation

2006-10-20T01:15:00.002+01:00

I am at a loss as to what to say. I can neither defend myself nor remain silent without the fuckery escalating. I guess I'll try my best to make this stop, but I feel powerless.

I am devastated that LIAC has sunk to this level. This was supposed to be a haven for the wounded, a place to perhaps vent and call each other cunts, but never with a truly hateful spirit. It was supposed to be a place of humor, and ultimately of healing.

I have accepted all the blame that is mine to take. I would accept even more if I thought it would help. I have not played the victim, or if I did at one time, I did my best to stop. I made mistakes. Oh god, I've made mistakes, but I've done everything in my power to make amends and to try to set things right. I know some things cannot be fixed, some things remain broken, but goddamn it, JiB, I have tried my best.

I might have tried to hurt you like I was hurt, but I never tried to hurt Diddums. I'm saddened that she thinks otherwise, and all attempts to be conciliatory and sincere with her have failed. What happened between you and me pales in comparison to what is going on now. I did not initiate this new onslaught of venom, and I wish I had the power to make it end.

Who among us has never said things in anger, fear, or grief and then deeply regretted them? Let me be a warning to everyone. Crucify me and watch my friendships dissolve. Let me be an example of how not to handle being wounded, how not to be a heartbroken bint. Let me be the poster child for the things that can go wrong when you speak out of turn.

All of these horrible things should be taken off LIAC. Not because they are true or untrue or because they hurt me, but because some things should just be laid to rest, especially when all they do is continue to hurt people. This has reopened wounds that had long ago been licked clean, healed, and sealed over. I still don't understand why you've dragged out shit that is old news and for which I'd long ago been forgiven.

I have begged you in private, JiB, to put an end to this travesty, and now I am begging you here.

What happens in private should remain off the internet. No publication of private conversations (doctored or otherwise) should be put in this forum. How much more do people have to be wounded? How much more do people have to suffer because of something personal between you and me a long time ago? We both had healed and granted forgiveness and even said that we didn't want to see stuff from that time because we were cool with each other again. Nothing new has surfaced because nothing new exists.

Yes, I was incredibly wounded when you dumped me and I talked shit about you to a handful of people. And yes, I spoke to two ex girlfriends about you last winter, trying to figure out if you really were the cunt that you seemed to be. By the time I realized that doing so was making matters worse and fucking up any chance we ever had as reconciling as friends, I did what I could to undo it. It was the biggest mistake of my life and I see that nearly a year later I am still paying for it. Unfortunately, my crimes are now being made to look like mortal sins on a level with adultery or as if I killed someone's dog.

Since then you and I had proceeded like we were again the best of friends. I told you repeatedly how sorry I was. You forgave me and said we were cool. You've known I'm not a bad person and do not, as a rule, deliberately try to hurt people.

Why can we not continue to operate in that spirit?

I told you I wouldn't fight with you and I will not fight with you. I said I'd neither post nor comment so as to not fuel the fire, but I can't stand by and watch something spiral out of control.

My pleas and apologies may mean nothing to you, but they have been from the most sincere place I can access.

Let this end now, please. Again, not because I'm looking like a cunt (though I'm not a selfless saint, it's gotta be obvious that I don't like it), but also because LIAC really is supposed to be a place of healing and humor. I don't want that to change because of old personal shit between you and me. And more importantly, I don't want anyone else hurt by this website.

Let's talk to each other privately, one human being to another, and spare people anymore details. It all looks far more wicked than it ever was at the time, or else we'd never have managed to restore our friendship the way I believed we had.

Tree.

2006-10-17T22:37:00.002+01:00

Due to the onslaught of insane females that have bombarded the message board as of late, I think it's necessary for someone to continue with yet another example of dear Tree's insanity. I think it's utterly cowardly to have your friends batter an outlet for someone's emotions and frustrations, especially when it embodies the epitome of hypocrisy. I think it's only fair to return the same lunacy.
I wrote this email to Tree ages ago. It's a return to a post that she had left on LIAC that she has since deleted. Probably a good idea.

Tree,

While I appreicate the time you spent in attempting to suss out the issues regarding the possible misconceptions between us, I am not inclined to forgive you, or befriend you, or rework our never existent friendship to make you feel better.
It's nice that you want to sort things out with me, but unfortunately after reading your email and your responses on LIAC, there really isn't anything to sort out. I think you're a twofaced coward and exist to make people on the internet fall in love with you. I also think that's pathetic and quite stupid, but that's just my humble opinion. It should mean nothing to you.

There was no miscommunication or misunderstanding regarding my role in your, "falling out" with JIB because I had no role in it. Your relationship with JIB ended because of whatever problems existed between the two of you. Yes, it was a bad idea for you to start talking to me when you were a grief stricken pyschobint and I'm not going to play stupid to your apologies regarding your actions, because you knew exactly what you were doing.
How can you tell me that your communication with me was a mistake when you had the same communication with numerous other ex girlfriends? How can you tell me that you wish you never had spoken to me about the situation, but not feel bad about the other conversations with the other women? You make no sense Tree and I'm not privvy to your victim complex like everyone else seems to be.
You knew that my relationship with JIB had gone sour and you took advantage of it to fuel your anger regarding your broken relationship with him. You needed a reason to get angry and you found it in me. You did a great job of making my anger concerning JIB explode all over again. The only difference in all of your conversations was that the outcome of our chats didn't end the way you wanted it to and that pissed you off. I had rekindled my friendship with JIB and you were watching yours go down the toilet. THAT has never been my fault, and never will be my fault and fuck you for even considering it to be.

You were never the reason why my friendship with JIB exists and you never will be. I'm not surprised that your insecurity made you so alarmed regarding the "rebirth" of our relationship. I am surprised that you think I used our "conversations" to regain that friendship. I didn't talk about you to convince him to be my friend again. The only thing I said to him was, "Tree's been talking to me. I don't like it. It's fucked up, and I wanted to tell you incase it got out of hand." And that was it. And then it was my fault that your life turned to crap.
I didn't hurt you Tree, you hurt yourself. You decided to talk to me, you sat and listened to my stories and you wanted to hear them. Don't tell me that you believe it was never my intention to hurt you or JIB because my existence in your life was completely innocent. This is YOUR mess, not mine, not JIB's, YOURS.
From what I can tell of you, you've done an excellent job at making yourself believe that your mistakes are anything but your fault. Unfortunately, most people won't tell you that you've fucked up because they don't want to see you cry. I however, don't give a crap if you go blind from crying. It makes no difference to me.

Do not feed me crap about how we equally shared our hatred for JIB. You went looking for an outlet, you found it and you pushed all the buttons to have me spew out anger. You took advantage of me. DO NOT flower it up to make yourself feel better. You knew the situation better than I did and you fucked with me and now I sincerely dislike you for it.
Your whole email was just a giant boo-hoo story about how you screwed things up for yourself. You basically told me that everything I said was correct and you've not only lied to me about your actions, but everyone else on LIAC as well.
It was never a, "he said, she said" sort of thing, it has been a, "What tree says" sort of thing and I'm sick of it. Just because JIB doesn't havethe bollocks to hurt you with the truth doesn't mean I don't.

It's time for you to take responsibility for your actions Tree. How can you willingly say that I was the fuel to end a friendship and not expect a lash back? I know you through LIAC, and you know that I'm a gigantic bitch. You should have known better than to open your mouth to spout garbage and not expect anything in return. Obviously LIAC was going to hear about it.

I have no desire to talk to you, or about you ever again.

Grow the fuck up, own your mistakes and stop messing around with decent people's existences with your stupid insecurities.

The JIB's Wives Club

2006-10-15T11:57:00.002+01:00

So with every month I exist I find it more and more conclusively proved that I'm hooked into an uninterruptible power-supply of 1.21 gigawatt bints, lunatics and morally bankrupt, emotionally blackmailing psycho-masochists that dwell in more denial than a freshly raped Neverland kid with two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollars in his fucking bank account. In fact, it's been proved more conclusively than even an overlong sentence can convey. Nor will this entire post relay the fucked-up, disturbing web of interplaying social retardation that's woven around me like Shelob with half a brick of bad crack up her ass.

Aww, JiB, what's the matter this time? Well today's massive serving of steaming cunt dumplings is having your ex-girlfriends chatting to each other.

See, when you break up with someone (depending on the person), that person in many respects becomes five tonnes of nitroglycerin exploding in a big wooden barn. Their friends and family are the firefighters, helping to put them out though perhaps inhaling some fumes. You become another tonne of nitroglycerin - stay away from that motherfucking barn, there is literally nothing you can do to help. Your exs, though... Your exs become wood that senile, dyspraxic construction workers will use to rebuild the flaming barn. They think it's a good idea, the barn thinks it's a good idea, but really, it's a fucking stupid idea as that barn will just keep burning until it's a slightly bigger pile of sodden ash.

So that barn analogy was big and clever on par with a dwarf retard, but it gets my point across. Your exs, the ones you dumped, have a similar purpose. They crave denial. They crave that golden syrup which means you didn't finish with them because they were pratfalling fuckzips, but means you finished with them for some external reason. Something beyond their control. Something which means they don't need to face the actual reasons for break-up.

So when these exs get together, they just love to talk and warp their relationships with you from X months of detailed sociological interaction into a few uncontextualised and character-assassinating snippets until their shared view of you is about as one-sided as a fucking stroke victim.

This makes them feel oh-so-good.

Onto the particular example that's re-convinced me that the whole of humanity is a shambling horde of slackjawed country cretins.

Yes, this actually happened.

My ex - let's call her Tree - whom I broke up with for the simple and non-dramatic reason that "it wasn't working out", has since decided to contact each and every one of my exs in turn and make damn well sure that I didn't split up with her for simple reasons, but because I am Satan. It's almost funny. Like a huge diamond spike being lodged into one's tonsils, where the tonsils are MySanity and the huge diamond spike is StupidFuckers.

She started out by going to the girl I was with directly before her. This ex of mine had sent me a totally unprovoked 4-page love letter during the exact same time that I was about to break up with Tree. Not that she knew I was going to break up with Tree - she was just being a bint. But I was about to break up, so I spoke to her via text message for a while, about what might have been or could be between us, but in no way about our future because there never was one and nor will there ever be because well - the reason why is another post entirely. I never told Tree that I spoke to a manipulative ex just before breaking up with her because, well - what's the fucking point of that except to upset her? "Hey! I spoke to that ex you have a monstrous loathing for the other day. Nothing came of it, just thought I'd tell you... OH and you're dumped". Lovely.

Now I'm pretty sure that nothing constituting "betrayal" went on there. But no. Apparently, I actively tried to keep her from knowing about it. Apparently, I betrayed her. Apparently, the fact that nothing actually came of that conversation and I dumped her anyway has flown over her loony-tuned head. And - of course - the evisceratingly tactless and insidious event of my ex having sent me a fucking love letter while thinking I was in love with someone else is just swept under the carpet. I am the Devil, The Betrayer, let nobody steal my limelight. FFS.

Evidently not satisfied with this answer, Tree went to my ex-ex-ex-ex-ex, a poorly-adjusted miscreant I met in 18-fucking-74 that leaps on every fucking chance she gets to trash my name into the dust. Why? Because she's a vicious, projecting psychotic. But more pertinently, you’ll need to know what happened between her and I - and brace yourself for the parallel, because fate was having a fucking field day.

I had a "thing" with the ex-ex-ex-ex-ex several years back, but that "thing" finished because she lived in fucking CANADA. I then dated someone that I was living with at the time. Ex-ex-ex-ex-ex now maintains that I was screwing / falling for some other girl whilst still with her, and then broke up with her because of that. Not the much simpler, less dramatic and truer explanation, which was that she lived in fucking CANADA so I moved on.

So Tree puts her disfigured 2's together and gets her nightmarishly distorted 4:

"Betrayal. I've only known it once before, and it almost poisoned me. Now that I know the truth of a sad and serious matter, I've wanted to write and write and write about it, make the injury sing, make it something of value, at the very least let it serve as a warning for the others to come. And there will be others, as I am not the first."

I am a serial fucking betrayer.

Me, who abhors any sort of betrayal because I've been in the "Be Betrayed!" school of fuckery since prep. Me, who hates with a passion anybody that can't just state purely and simply what the fuck is going on, because they have no character of conviction. Me, who literally cannot come up with the words which would do justice to just how fucking abyssmal I find people that hide, cheat, are passive, go behind backs or just plain and simple barefacedly lie without ending up like this:

And Tree is still trying to contact more of my exs. She never even knew them. She is insane. Apparently she needs also to "warn those to come" under the crystal hammer of my infidelity. Give me a sodding break.

There is, as far as I can see, absolutely nothing I have ever said or done to anybody, ever, which could construe betrayal, and I’m pretty sure that every ex I have that isn’t a fucking hobgoblin would vouch for that. The savagely retarded social manipulation and mutilation that's going on around me has only, ever, been thanks to the people I miserably spend fuckloads of time, money and feelings on. Including here and now. It's staggering to realise that someone I genuinely cared about, someone that knew how much I cared, and someone that I spent not just intangible feelings on but literally thousands of pounds, something that can't be fucking faked, on my hunch that I would want to spend the rest of my life with her, can simply turn around when it's all over and decide that I'm a danger to everybody I meet. I don't care how much pain she went through over the break-up - that is painful to me, just from the standpoint that the universe is infinitely fucking unfair to everybody.

I had already amputated these people from my life, as soon I saw them clubbing together and letting Tree build her obscenely lopsided autopsy of me. I know how it goes. I just promised not to post about their craziness. I ignored that she's contacted people I know. I ignored that she's sent them select parts of my private correspondence with her. I left her to dig whatever grave she wanted to put the memories into. But this ridiculous maelstrom of BS has built to the point where it's a sick, damaged joke, a step too far and my restraint for making a stand has been stretched and broken.

Not that any of this matters, as this post is an epitaph. The people I rant about are already and invariably lost to me. Not because I lost them. But because, in a very real sense, some people just aren't worth the bother.

And certainly not crazy bints that cannot accept your reasons for splitting up with them to the point they have to contact everybody you've ever known to quiz, stir and sit woefully in the huge, fabricated pile of shit they’ve created.

I'm a serial betrayer... Sheesh.

God give me strength.

Chasing the Wind

2006-10-04T06:33:00.002+01:00

Boy, am I an idiot. I always get sucked into it.
I guess I *am* a sucker-- a sucker for that pretty face and that pretty smile.
You can claim you have an IQ of 150, but here I am chasing the wind.

Maybe it's the thrill of the chase.
Maybe I do love her.
Maybe I've lost my mind.

But still, I cant stop my feet from running.
Even when my body and mind are numb.
But I still push on, thinking maybe...

Just maybe. The wind will stop running.

Only then will I find out that there's nothing there.
Not her. Not love. Not vindication.

But I drag my feet chasing the wind.
So wild, so free.
Unlike me.

Yeah, LIAC.

This is the End?

2006-09-14T03:59:00.000+01:00

I haven't had sex in almost a month.

If you look back far enough into the past of LIAC you will find a very naive and lovestruck diddums. You'll find a girl that was madly in love and convinced that her logical relationship would last forever. A stupidly happy girl that was sickened by the idea of love, but pleased to think that whatever term she applied to her relationship would be a proper representation of whatever it was and to, whatever was to become of it.

I moved in with Andrew during the last week of August. After almost two years of being in a long distance relationship with a man that I thought I would marry, one would assume that I would be turning handsprings over the biggest step in our relationship thus far.

I was shitting my pants.

The week that lead up to moving in with Andrew was spent hanging over a toilet - I was terrified. Not only was I moving to a gigantic city that was two hours away from my closest relative, I was starting a new career path, at the best chef school in all of Canada and I was doing all of this on the sole income and support of my boyfriend.
I currently owe Andrew at least $1000. He's paid for all of my books, uniforms, utensils and even my safety shoes. I have no job, I have no other income. He's paying the mortgage, the utilities, the groceries and for all the extra bits of lunacy that come flying at me through the must haves of George Brown.

I repay him by cooking, cleaning the house and supposedly by what happens between the sheets. I believe he once said, "ass, cash or grass" while explaining to a friend how I'm managing to freeload off of him during my time in school. I'm sure he didn't think anything of it at the time and he probably still doesn't, but when your girlfriend prides herself on her independance and suddenly, needs to depend on her boyfriend, hearing that sort of crap is a fatal blow to her confidence and selfworth.

So now I've been reduced to a stay-at-home-whore and I can't even look at my boyfriend. I purposely stay up late so I won't have to talk to him in bed. I do my homework while he's eating his dinner and I have ridiculously long showers while he's watching TV to avoid him completely.
The funny thing is, he has yet to say a thing about it.

So the next logical question would be, "Is my relationship over?"

I think it is, but I can't have it end for the sake of my education. Andrew knows this and he wants me to stay here, even if we do break up. I feel like I'm freeloading, he sees it as something that I just need to do.

Love doesn't seem to resemble anything other than annoyance the more I grow into it. I think the idea of marriage is completely out of the question.

Will you come home and stop this pain tonight?

2006-09-02T11:10:00.000+01:00

How can you lie next to the person you love, and know that it's very likely to be the last time it happens? The more I think about going into a relationship with him, the less I want to do it (for reasons I shan't explain here), but the more I think about him the more I want to be with him.

So now the time has come when I need to make a choice, and when I see him on Tuesday I can decide whether it will be the first of many happy encounters, or the last of what I love more than anything else I've known.

Sigh.

Juggling

2006-08-29T17:40:00.002+01:00

I haven't added much recently as there was nothing to add. Is it better to be pointlessly pursuing unattainable women or have nothing to do at all? Both have the same outcome, zero, but the end is reached a lot faster the second way.

Now I am pursuing two, and have virtually reached the point where both know how I feel. One has been told clearly and said she has a problem with men and I have to be patient. Yes, I get the unliftable baggage yet again. Patient? If I get her before the pension age I'll be surprised. The second after over a year of patient development was about to be put out of her (and my own) misery on Friday but a third party made my planned message arrive in a later email. The only difference was I couldn't a) elaborate by email, and b) see her reaction. Possibly ever. So, to continue my mathematical comparisons, there are a few possible outcomes a) she missed the hint entirely (it was a hint that Helen Keller would have got had it been made about anyone else, but herself, so-so) b) she got the hint and was so disgusted she didn't reply and c) she got the hint but doesn't know how to reply. The trouble is I am no better off as if she doesn't reply all three possibilities still could apply. I know no more now than I did before I told her.

What a cunt.

While at the possible fag-end of two women who I have to admit in one case is 99% lust and 1% love, the other maybe 50-50, it took me some time to meet either and if left with nothing to attempt will probably only meet the next by chance as I did those two. I rarely meet women in the official places as singles dos for the over 40s are sadly as much fun as an incontinence convention. And over 40 usually means over 60 anyway and I feel a twat going to things for 20s as I remember how we felt when the old guys turned up to ours. So I meet women by chance. I met one at a barbecue recently, one of the last social events left to me. She was perfectly friendly, apparently single and maybe 10 years older than me. I hooked her not by getting the phone number but offering to show her healing as her own friend refused to try it. She knew where I was and when but didn't turn up, a week or so later I caught chicken pox and she randomly saw me with her friends in the park and saw me covered in spots. No wonder she never came round. I'd never seen her in all those years and the day I do anything that would put her finally off the idea happened.

Meanwhile instead of shooting off the ones who rejected me hang about. Admittedly just before I told woman two I wanted to see her she met someone else and to this day she doesn't know I was about to have a go. The other uses me for free advice and wipes her dogshit covered trainers on me when she needs a doormat for which I get little but the odd gift to try and keep me sweet. And before I knew here dark side (as in pretty dark) it was 100% love and she knew it. The one woman of them all I both loved and she knew it, and she as per usual treated me the worst of all. She needed a father figure and of course incest is out of the question in her eyes. The one who's a friend now tells me I need a makeover. My clothes change every day and my personality is what I'd call satisfactory plus genetic faults. The bits I can change I don't want to and the others are god-given and not within my power to alter. The Americans who tell me they want 'more than friendship' online, with the safety of 5000 miles between us are the polar opposite of the British weird and repressed cultural representatives I am stuck with.

When a British woman (I include women who live here as even the yanks seem to catch 'cat got their tongue' syndrome when they move here) asks a man out the stars all line up and the calendar shows a palindromic number. You know what I mean. It's as frequent as when the cat uses the toilet and flushes afterwards. But like a cat the women can be trained to do so so it becomes second nature. No American women die as a result of asking men for sex, they just get sex or move on, like men have here for 5000 years. We survive the iniquity of rejection and admitting we like sex. Without a woman a man couldn't have sex, so some have to like it as much as us otherwise we'd all be hard up. But tell a man you want it and you turn into Jezebel. This is a sad cultural deficiency and one that has at least contributed to me going on tablets. The selfish attitude and twisted values of the women who either want sex but wait years if necessary for their target man to make a move or the ones who know you want it but act like you've exposed yourself in Brent Cross when you tell them. We can't fucking win. Well I certainly haven't.

The princess and the pauper

2006-08-29T17:32:00.002+01:00

Imagine, if you will, a princess, or maybe not a princess but a queen. You are a part of the aristocracy and see the queen but are secretly in love with her. You are so far below her despite being about to inherit a lordship, but you still feel totally inadequate for someone at her level. After all, you'd need to be a prince to really expect the queen to see you as any more than part of her extended family. But you can only see her as a woman. The fact she's the queen comes back to you every now and then but you know her as a person, herself, and the fact she may be a queen would vanish into the air should you share a bed together.
Of course it's not impossible for the queen to consort with minor aristocracy. You're not one of the ordinary people, or you'd be unlikely to ever meet her and see her as part of her social group. But fall in love or lust? With a monarch? What would everyone think? Could she see herself with such a relatively lowly person? How do you compare with the other men she knew before who had whole countries at their disposal?

So after time passes what do you do? The feelings don't go away, she is still free and could have a man if they met up to her standards, but how could it be you? In the end you have to make a move. The trouble is how can you get messages to the queen as so many people are around and may listen? She has all her staff, family and visitors constantly coming and going and you are just another one who for all you know are seen no differently. But you hope maybe you are. The look in her eye when she sees you may be different from when she sees others, the way she restrains a hug when you walk towards her, she hugs you in her mind but the arms just can't make the move, as she's the queen, and what would everyone think?

So many fairy stories have a happy ending, they live happily ever after. This has no ending as the queen is confused and little you do seems to be able to repair that confusion. You have tried, many times. With the Prime Minister there you can hardly throw your arms around her neck and give her a big kiss. The whole government and press would find out. Everything you say is possibly picked up by the maid or cook and would make the palace buzz with gossip. So you make do with passing comments and clues that grow with each time they are apparently missed.
Eventually the point comes when the clue has to be the size of a small country. Wrapped up a little in brown paper so you only see a parcel but can clearly see the shape of an elephant inside it. If everyone looks at the parcel they can all see what's inside, but somehow the very person who needs to know may miss the design and just see a mass of paper. And being a clue there's no elephant to unwrap, just a huge elephant shaped package. Short of writing 'This parcel contains an elephant', which of course would tell the world and all the corgis what's there so you needn's have wrapped it at all, what can you do?
So the queen has received the package, and has been looking at it wondering what to do. Maybe it's just an innocent empty box with no more than paper and cardboard. But something tells her it may look a bit like something. Can she see the outline of a trunk or a tusk at the front? Is the whole shape somehow familiar? And if it is an elephant hpw should she reply? Does she need an elephant at the moment? Does she have room for one? She does actually like elephants, but now, and this particular one? She may like elephants, but though the palace is huge and she has room for one, and secretly she'd always liked one, is it really inside or is she now imagining things herself?

Sadly this isn't a fairy story. If it has an ending it hasn't happened yet. The parcel is sitting in the hall being inspected every now and then, but not yet sure both what's inside and whether she wants it if it is, everything has stopped. Of course the gift depends who it is from. She knows it's from you and if it was, could only be a token of how you feel. But you? Send her a present? Why? Of all the people she expected something from maybe the last one she did was you? But this is speculation. She hasn't told you, she may not even have spotted the parcel but had the butler remove it with the rubbish. She gets lots of things sent to her and can't deal with them all personally. So it may not be an ending, and may very well not be a happy one. The queen may even strip you of the lordship for your impertanence so you lose your aristocracy and never see her again. You soon forget you were ever part of the queen's entourage and become part of the masses like everyone else, never mentioning it again except the odd time you're with an old friend late at night, and say, did you know I once knew the queen... Sad ending indeed...

Friday wisdom...

2006-08-18T17:36:00.000+01:00

Even if you're in that eternal, true la-la love; one of you is going to die first and leave the other heartbroken.

Have a great weekend, cunt.

The Weather Girl

2006-08-17T18:22:00.000+01:00

If you imagine the furthest distance imaginable and then doubled it, you would not come close to how far away Amaurotum is. When I arrived, it was a small, snow-swept village and every house seemed deserted except one. When I knocked on the door, a girl answered.

“Who are you?” she asked.
“A traveller - I mean you no harm,” I said.

She showed me her dagger and I gave her mine. Happy with the balance of power, she welcomed me inside. It was bitterly cold outside and her hospitality welcome, but curiously, for all her benevolence, she wept all the time.

“Why are you sad?” I asked.
“I’m sad because it’s winter,” she said.
“You’re sad because of the season?”
“Yes, it’s cold. And lonely. Everybody left when winter came.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“This is the house of my late husband and I will stay here forever.”

It seemed strange that she was so affected by the weather, and during my stay with her I noted it was more than just seasons which changed her. At dawn, while the sky was warming, she became happy. When snow fell she was forlorn. As strong winds blew she turned angry. It was peculiar and I felt a sadness for her – the type of sadness one feels for the afflicted.

“Where are you travelling to?” she asked.
“I’m travelling to join the King’s armies,” I said, “I’ll be on my way once I’m rested.”
“Very well.”

As the days turned into a week, I found myself caring for her more and more when the weather affected her. There was a lightning storm one night and she had nightmares. I lay with her until the storms died down.

“The weather seems nicer today,” I said.
“It does, isn’t it wonderful?” she replied.

Spring started to show itself, finally, and a few plants poked through the blanket crust of snow.

“Maybe your friends will return to the village?” I said.
She beamed at me.

And sure enough, one by one, they did. After some weeks the entire village was bustling with people and summer was in full bloom. I would rise each morning and go to market, fetching all the materials she’d need to prepare our evening meal. While she worked on the food I’d work in the fields, now full of crops basking in the hot sun. And she was happy. It made me smile to see her that way, and made the fact I’d overstayed my welcome no great deal.

But I did have to leave.

“I’m afraid I have to go, now,” I said.
“But why?” she asked.
“I’m still travelling to join the armies of our Sovereign. I cannot forsake them.”
“I could come with you.”
“You would not stand the journey. I’m sorry.”

I will remember until my end of days, that at that moment a light rain broke out across Amaurotum. The first rain of the summer. She was crying. I went to wipe her tears but she pushed me away, smiling.

“It’s okay, really. I always cry when it rains.”
“No, it rains when you cry.”

She laughed. It stopped raining. She hugged me.

“Please don’t take away summer,” she whispered.

I hugged her back and left. Outside it was raining again. As I reached the market I heard thunder and children being rushed indoors. And as I reached the village gates, snow was falling.

Note to self: Drive more slowly you cretin.

2006-08-15T12:28:00.000+01:00

In the car, dropping an ex off for the last time.

Me: Hey, there’s this song that really reminds me of us.
Her: Oh? Is it horrible?
Me: No it’s nice. Sad but nice.
Her: Which song?
Me: I’ve got it here somewhere… *fumbles around with CD player*
*song is playing*
Her: Who’s this?
Me: They’re called The Reindeer Section, it’s a Scottish “super-group”.
Her: Oh, I think I’ve heard of them – it sounds good.
Me: Yep they’re cool.
*listening*
Her: The lyrics are a bit harsh…
Me: This is just the first half, the second half is important.
Her: Hrm. Are you trying to make me feel shit?
Me: No, not at all.
*pull up at destination*
Her: Well I don’t think it’s such a nice song.
Me: But wait for the rest.
Her: I don’t have time, I’ve got to go.
Me: Okay okay, I know.
*quick hug & peck on cheek*
*she leaves forever*

"Your Sweet Voice" by The Reindeer Section

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So hell froze over today

2006-08-14T19:21:00.002+01:00

So I was talking to an old, ex best friend today and she gave me some information that was either false and/or disturbing. She told me that her relationship with her long time bf had ended 2 weeks ago (not at the disturbing part yet) and that she realized that she was in love with someone she had known for years and plans to move in with him asap. That someone happens to be my ex boyfriend (this is the disturbing part), the first love of my life.
Now I had dated this guy years ago, but it was a horrible one, that left a fair bit of scarring. He cheated on me and broke my heart. Everyday I dated him she would tell me to leave him, and with good cause. He's a loser, perhaps a puesdo intelligent one, but none-the-less a loser. He's never employed, does way too many drugs, and tries to fuck anything that crawls, and that includes girls ages 12, 13, 14 and up, oh and boys too.
Now, I hung out with him not too long ago to see if anything had changed, and it hadn't. He still tried to hump me and the only things he would talk about was his drug usage and American Politics.
What the hell is wrong with her! Either a) she's lying or b) she's just plain fucked. But to lie about something like that you'd have to be fucked as well anyway. It's just a shock as she seems to be an intelligent, ambitious women with a great future. Talk about eating at the bottom of the food chain.

Glass

2006-08-14T03:33:00.002+01:00

My heart is telling me what he wants, and I must apologize, for I cannot give it to him. I try to explain the logistics of the matter, but my heart doesn't understand the concepts of time and space. What does that have to do with anything? he asks. I want that. Go get me that.

My mind understands. He knows the limitations of space and time, and he is quick to remind me of the even greater barrier: the damageI have caused. What's done is done, he says, what is broken cannot be fixed. The child is dead, the child shall no longer live. All is gone, and gone forever.

My heart and I, we ache for what we desire, for what we cannot have. We sit together and watch the paradise we lost; the life that lives on the other side of the glass. We've tried to break through the glass, but it has proven to be stronger than iron. The glass, we learned, was born from the hurtful words that were spoken and the malicious acts that were committed. It will forever keep my heart from what he desires the most.

My brain tells me that it is all my fault.

Because of that, my heart will not forgive me.

The Scent of Dying Candles

2006-08-11T13:14:00.000+01:00

Senses are overwhelmingly associative, aren't they? Bastards, when it comes to dead romance. You hear their voice, smell their scent or see their picture and seemingly fucking immortal synaptic connections in your brain light up and start pumping the feeling "omg" into your stomach before flooding your mind with lucid memories like a Krugeresque dream-monger.

Touch and taste would do the same but let's face it - they ain't going to let you do that, ever again.

So to kill off these connections and memories, we get pro-active right? We stop hanging out with them, stop hanging out with their mates, move away, get a restraining order placed and scratch out the eyes in their pictures before burning them and burying the ashes under a gooseberry bush. With a bit of selective sensory deprivation, the memories will die. Surely.

Culprit no. 1 in fucking over that plan is your sense of sound, because nobody can predict when the particular song that played when you first kissed is going to play in the pub and send you into a mogoloid state of weepy wtf. But you're expecting that.

Culprit no. 2, though, catches you more unawares.

"Hey it's just a bottle of perfume, I can sniff it without being instantly transported backwards in time to a place of such shearing dichotomy that I just want my brain to instruct my hands to smash itself out of my skull, drop it and hope my brainless feet will accidentally pulverise it."

It’s just a smell. Yeah, right.

Do you know that McDonalds, out of all the fucked up technological magick they do, work on their food’s smell the most? They have chemical factories the size of Kent, staffed by legions of scientists churning out tiny bottles of clear, colourless liquid that smell precisely like strawberries or pickle or beef cooking on a grill. This is because they know that - even if their food tastes like cardboard, feels like soggy tissues and looks like a smacked arse that's been set on fire and put out with a shovel - if it smells like the real deal your other senses will be clouted into submission and build an experience based on how it smells.

Out of every sense, smell is the most surprisingly and effectively associative with memory. I don’t know that that’s true, so don’t quote me in your fucking end-of-year’s. In fact, I’m not sure it can be proved either way. What I do know is that the slightest whiff of certain perfumes will give me an out of body experience unmatched by anything – reading letters, seeing a picture, talking on the phone, whatever. Some bint walking past me on the tube wearing a certain perfume can bring me to a different part of the metaverse in a single instant.

It’s almost scary.

Only a few girls I’ve dated have worn something specific, every day. Those perfumes now conjure in me something far greater than the sum of their parts. Years of friendship, emotions, sights, sounds and orgasms all brought to bear in a single go, behind the shields and point blank, on a soul that thought it forgot. And it’s not like I’m still pining for these people. I’m not, and they can go fuck themselves. But just like “that song”, their scent can reformat your brain, snap ten years off your life and cast you all the way back. Amazing what chemists, a personal preference and a bint on the tube can accomplish.

	Contradiction for Women by Calvin Klein Pure pepper, rose, satin wood and sandalwood. Back at University, approx. 100,000 arguments with a girl that was more levels of stimulation than getting blown by an angel. Lots and lots of wine and music. Total abandon. Invokes an ecliptically foreboding sense of danger in me.
	Tommy Girl by Tommy Hilfiger Floral, with low notes of sandalwood and heather. Also a University smell, but much more stabilised. Summer in forests and by the sea. Her long white nightie. Eyes that cut soul. The smell of fairy tales. And trust no one.
	Sentiment by Escada Mandarin, iris, vanilla and sandalwood. Though I’ve never been to Paris (!) it is the smell of that place, and many bits of London too. Also the smell of Mozart and it makes me think of money. Lots of money. Mmm. Oh and being dumped.
	White Linen by Estee Lauder Fresh florals including jasmine, rose, berry, moss and amber. She was a northern girl. So now this reminds me of everything north of Watford. And forests. Forests are cool.
	L'Eau D'Issey by Issey Miyake Fresh water florals. No girl I knew wore this. But every girl should.
	One by Calvin Klein Amber, wood, musk and clover. What my dick smells of after a quiet night alone.

Boomerang Effect

2006-08-10T18:51:00.000+01:00

You know the old saying, “actions speak louder than words”. It’s obvious shit, isn’t it? It just means that people that actually do something for charity are far less murderously annoying than people that just bang on and on about socialist crap. Fuckers. One teacher being sent to the third world is worth at least a thousand vapid assholes chanting socialist bullshit in posh London bars. I’m a fucking capitalist and even I give money to certain funds, though admittedly it’s very hard to find one which isn’t a total backstabbing shambles.

Anyway, that’s part of a different rant titled “Why Chomsky should be shot in the testicle”. Obviously I’m going to talk about actions vs. words in terms of relationships, shags, love and cunt. For completeness’ sake here’s my updated version of the rule:

Actions > Words > Appearances

The new bit on the right just means that fat fucking bastards can and do get laid because if they spout the right sort of banter girls will still want to blubber-fuck them. This doesn’t usually apply with guys so if you’re a big girl, you know, good luck with that fatty. Interestingly, this is also why it’s quite feasible to fuck up and fall in love with someone’s words over the internet. Words are powerful stuff, man.

One of the most powerful words that I know is the word “cunt”. It’s a decent indecency and useful to describe certain classes of imbecile. One of these classes is the one that keeps going back to their exes. Don’t get me wrong – I’ve done this. When I was a fucking imbecilic cunt, I did this lots of times cos it’s fun if fun means driving a seventeen-inch nail into your left temple again and again until you’re full frontally lobotomised. But yeah I’ve done this, so I know how it goes. I don’t claim to be a psychologist, but it’s not like you need a degree in physics and biology to know that if some numbnuts jumps in front of a train going at 120mph his brain is going to experience a lethal and violent exposure to air. Right? It’s obvious. So here’s the 2-point psych eval to invoke the Boomerang Effect:

1. You’re desperate.

Not just desperate for anybody, though. You’re desperate for them in particular. There can be any number of reasons for this, and ones I’ve witnessed or partaken of include issues of trust with other people, familiarity, inability to find someone else, living in the middle of fucking nowhere, wild jealousy, false-hero-worship, being ridiculously ugly or just sheer, plain laziness. This list is not exhaustive by a long way.

But it’s never that you love them. You’re just incapable of loving anybody else.

2. You’re unable to evolve emotionally.

Whether it’s because you don’t want to evolve or you cannot evolve is unknown, but it’s true that it’s not happening. Why else would someone keep going back when it’s obviously not working? What happened to moving on? Emotions, like your body or mind, need to evolve or else they’ll get stuck in a stagnant state. And just like if you pull your face into a weird shape for ages it will get stuck that way (my mum told me), if you do it with your emotions the same thing will happen. Better analogies are addiction and acclimatisation.

The longer you do it, the harder it is to break the habit.

And that’s all it takes to be an inert, emotionally-crippled roundabout-thrill-seeker.

This can almost be excused in the case of people that keep firing up a relationship with someone that is feasible. By this I mean someone that isn’t continually fucking you over, that hasn’t told you “it can’t last” and that isn’t fucking married. Yet I’ve seen people doing each of those things recently, and it sometimes makes me wonder if some people are really born with matter in their skull that’s more faecal than grey.

Why in the name of every fatuous gospel do people consider staying in doomed relationships with cunts - cunts so massive they resemble the breadth, depth and stench of a sweaty fucking clown's pocket - for even a single second? I have no psych eval for it because I’ve never done it. But people do it, knowingly, all the time. Three hundred people have done it in the time you’ve taken to read this – no shit. Three hundred near-lobotimised emotional cripples are driving the last seventeeth of a seventeen-inch nail back into the scabby wound on their left temple as we speak.

I have no answer to this. However, I do have the cure. Yes, you monumentally retarded cackjaw, there is a cure to the fact that your love is married or keeps dumping you or is even more of a swollen purple vagina than you are. And it doesn’t even involve swivelling that nail in your skull around until your brain is mulch and you expire.

It comes down to something the clever and exceptionally attractive Pallas Athene said to me once, during her long-standing run of being a cretin and falling for a goit. She recovered, just as anybody should, by annihilating the two points I made above and saying this:

“If you keep going back to them, you give them no reason to change. They can sit back, knowing that they can carry on in just the same way, and you’ll always be back for more. The way to deal with it is; tell them what you need and then step away. If he concedes then you’re fine. If he doesn’t you’re better off.”

I’ve paraphrased her there (apologies) and the way she said it to me would have involved classical poetry and a touch of Latin. Anyway, she was spot fucking on with the solution: Actions speak louder than words. No amount of discussion or promise or lukewarm comforting pillow-talk will ever make the staggeringly complacent prick you keep going back to change. You have to gather up the last milligrams of self-respect you have and put it to action.

Maybe they’ll cut you loose. Maybe you’ll evolve. Maybe you’ll find happiness somewhere that doesn’t involve you getting hurt. And maybe – just maybe – they will come to you because they really do care and now have reason to change. Any of those nonexclusive outcomes are equivalent to decreasing the cuntishness of the world.

But of course, that’s not going to happen is it? Cos everybody’s a flaming fucktard with more capacity for self-asphyxiation than the gaping, saggy clown’s-pocket cunts they’re going out with.

Yes.

LIAC Blog of the Moment: True Wife Confessions

2006-08-09T15:51:00.000+01:00

I know, it's been a while since we've had one of these. Go fuck yourself.

True Wife Confessions is a series of anonymous mailed-in contributions which detail what certain fucked off women would like to say to their partners - sometimes giving quite graphic accounts of their secret revenges. A bit like LIAC, in fact. But with more misandry.

Confession #097

I truly, truly hate that every time you think you are paying me a compliment
you end it with a but....dinner was good, but... You look nice, but....
You are an asshole. No but.

Confession #378

I wish you had the slightest fucking clue how much I long for a little emotion from you. A little passion, a little compassion, a little romance...goes a long way. That's why I started screwing my ex again.

Confession #088

I am far more experienced in the art of providing oral sex than I have led you to believe.

Confession #053

You know how I tell you to roll over when you snore? Sometimes when I am pissed off with you I tell you to roll over even when you are not snoring just so I can watch you mindlessly obey me.

Confession #388

I secretly pray that you will cheat on me so I can leave you without being the bad guy to our kids.

Confession #055

When I talk about writing my blog and you wave me off with a dismissive sigh? Makes me want to put my foot in your ass.

I was talking to my mate the other day about starting up a similar blog for guys to confess about their partners on. But then we realised that every confession would be a variation on this:

Confession #2736402934

I want more BJs.

So we didn't. Anyway, go have fun.

The Failed Suicide Note

2006-08-08T22:25:00.001+01:00

Suicide must be the most fucked up concept in the entire world. Nothing puts “fucked up” quite as succinctly as someone taking their actual existence and voluntarily snuffing it out. Though funnily enough, I'm quite happy that the suicidal kill themselves. Fuck 'em.

There is, however, a certain type of suicidal freak that doesn't actually get on with the job of stabbing themselves twenty times in the cheek though they probably should. I'm talking about suicidal exhibitionists. People that use the idea of suicide as something romantic, something meaningful and something which highlights their suffering. You’ve never seen this? You’ve seen this. Wake the fuck up.

It occurs in public.

It has to. That’s why it never used to happen much. Suicide exhibitionism is a blazingly contemporary phenomenon, because the best a failed self-death fuckzip could come up with before the internet age was dragging a bent razor half-assedly across their wrists and lying about in a gothic pose in a bathtub surrounded by poems and flowers and waiting impatiently for someone to find them. Only a few people would ever find out they failed suicided, the highlight probably being their poor, grief-stricken parents who will forever wonder where they went so wrong as to rear a child that wanted to take their own life, all the time not realising that their child is just a melodramatic fucking imbecile that doesn’t want to really die because they’re too chickenshit and think their poetry really isn’t a slagpile of unoriginal angst. As we all know, suicide is not hard to get right. Get knife, stick knife in jugular, death occurs in approx. 45 seconds. Sort it.

As time and technology have progressed, it’s become steadily easier to broadcast the set of flash-onanism disguised as pseudo-suicide, gothic poses, poetry and black rose petals to a far wider-ranging audience than the ambulance crew, police and parents that come visit you looking like a drowned, gormless rat in a bathtub. There are blogs out there documenting the tragic life-accounts of middle-class fuckheads that think their lives are bad enough they’d rather die. Mind you, I’m not talking about people like the guy that really did kill himself live in an IRC channel*, the stupid cunt. Nor am I talking about people that frequent such social self-help channels as the #alt.suicide.bus.stop which is a fine and dandy way of trying to repair the monumental psychological damage one must’ve sustained in order to contemplate suicide and also a place I can go and talk with real suicidalists to get my kicks. What?

Anyway, I’m not talking about them – the people that genuinely need help or the people that really are killing themselves. I’m talking about the people that yack on, publicly and endlessly, about their fucked up lives and how they need to end it all and blah blah fucking blah just so they can jack off on the 2.5 comments they get saying “no you’re great and that picture you drew the other day was brilliant and didn’t look like something an incontinent spastic epileptically shat onto canvass”.

It might not involve suicide.

Weird, huh? Nope. A failed suicide note does not have to involve the actual killing of oneself. In fact, by its own definition, it requires that one does not kill themselves.

What it does require are the following:

1. A hopeless arrogance.
2. A betraying sense of worthlessness.
3. A sense of personal validation defined by external opinion.
4. An exhibitionist streak.
5. Being absolutely unable to turn your sob story into something which people would enjoy or benefit from so instead just release it as a lazy mish-mash of “woe is me” pseudo-suicidal bullshit.

EXAMPLE: The protagonist, thinking themselves brilliant, must null the betraying sense of worthlessness they have about themselves through people commenting positively on their tragic boo-hoo diary.

EXAMPLE: The protagonist, thinking themselves brilliant, must null the betraying sense of worthless they have about themselves by cutting seven lines of blood into their forehead and showing their friends & family who all coo and fuss over them.

It’s all boiling down to the same shit. It’s always a cry for help. A cry for help in the wrong direction – which is in every direction. The right direction would be to tell yourself to get off your own lazy arse and sort out your shambles of a life you fucking loser.

I normally spot these types of posts by the fact I’m trying to remove my eyeballs and chew on their optic nerves. Perhaps now you can spot them too.

And yes there are a few on LIAC. Fuckers.

* If you do follow the link through, be forewarned that reading the IRC transcript of his last moments and beyond is not for the faint-hearted and will almost definitely make you upset. He really was an idiot, though.

Just the once.

2006-08-07T17:47:00.000+01:00

You know something? If you took a cute baby seal and only half hammered its little face in, that baby seal might well survive – just not so cutely and possibly a bit knackered and sociopathically jaded. This is analogous to your heart. When I say heart of course, I don’t mean your fucking ventricles - I mean that random bit of your brain that releases the chemical “you’refuckednowxytonin” into your blood supply when you fall in love. The important thing to note here is that the baby seal cannot get its cuteness back unless there exists some sort of baby seal doctor that wouldn’t rather sell its skin. And though you might think the world is a happy place with baby seal doctors restoring the half-broken faces of little seals, the fact is these people do not exist because baby seal corpse is worth a lot of fucking money and that’s tangible while cutesy bollocks is not.

So fuck the seals. And fuck your heart, to be honest. If it got broken once, hard enough, it’s never going to be restored. Don’t cry. It was just a form of innocence lost and thus not a bad thing; esp. in a world full of cunts that will play you like a cacophonically broken violin if you weren’t walled in a fortress that only gives way when they say the passwords to your soul. You don’t know what those are, of course. That’s the point.

Now it might look like I’m rambling or losing my train of thought, but I’m not because I’m clever. This post will close on the idea that your number of soul-passwords undergoes a huge reduction only once, ever. You only get heartbroken once. It won’t happen again. I know – you think you’ve been heartbroken a few times or whatever. I don’t buy it. I’ve been fucked with by every permutation of demonic neuroses that’s ever been implanted into female format and unleashed on earth. Don’t ask me how it happens, it just fucking does. The one thing I’ve learned is that it’s hard to tell when you’ve been really heartbroken.

Telling when you’re in love is easy. It’s that clichéd “you just know” feeling. It exists. Not had it yet? Boo the fuck hoo, but it’s out there. Telling when you’re heartbroken can seem like a “you just know” feeling, on account of the fact you’re sitting in a dark room in a pile of broken vodka bottles and you don’t want to turn on the light in case you really did carve her name thirty-six times into your forearms. But that’s just pain, loneliness, anger, being messed with, blah – any number of negative emotions all rolled into one and making you experience them at the same time. It does pass. Real heartbreak doesn’t pass.

Oh, you’ll always get over them. Reiterated: If you’re not a dependent, desperate fucknut you’re going to get over the person that really broke your heart. But you won’t be able to tell it broke until years later. Not because you still pine for them, but because your heart is actually fucking broken. You suddenly realise you’re a bit fucked and it’s not going away even though you’ve received enough blow jobs in the meantime to presumably cure any ailment the world could inflict. It will have caned you just like the baby seal’s face. It’s an actual breakage, no shit.

And once something is broken you can’t break it again. Not really. Not to the point where it makes much difference.

The good news is that it can only happen the once and it’s a good thing to have happened before you venture into the big badass world where people will call you a cunt, y'cunt. You can be more straight with people, take damage on the nose, be more confident, whatever. You’re safe: Play with fire. You won’t get truly hurt even if you try.

The bad news is that you’re broken and nobody will ever be able to get close to you again.

And when I say “nobody will ever”, I mean that. Nobody, no matter how brilliant or different or “soul mate” they are, will get the to the same places the first person did. You are built against that now and there’s no treatment to reverse it.

Man, and it’s raining.

Mission Crush.

2006-08-06T14:05:00.001+01:00

So I've got a bit of a crush.

It's not a sexual crush. Thinking about having sex with Paul makes me a tad ill, but I most definitely own some sort of puppy love for the manager of store 3649.

I suppose it parallels a seventh graders infatuation with their English teacher. Or perhaps the Little Mermaid's googly eyed glance when she laid her baby blues on Prince Eric for the first time. It's all too surreal, all too funny and all too heart-fluttery sickening.

When I see him, I smile. When he talks to me we flirt. When his dry sense of humour bounces around the wall of his office, I become wet. He makes me jell-o.

So I've decided to confront my innocent love with a note. It will say:

Paul,

I sincerely regret having to leave store 3649 because I have a gigantic crush on you and I have no idea why.

Your,
Annoying Night Stocker

This confession will be given to him with a coffee cake, two weeks after I officially leave my job. I figure the least amount of awkwardness would be appreciated for everyone and this way, if he thinks I'm a complete nut job, I'll never have to see him again.

Aw, diddums.

Ten Ways to Know That You're an Impossible Fucktard with Love.

2006-07-23T15:24:00.000+01:00

Have you ever cringed with absolute agony while attempting to understand someone's logic within the walls of their relationship? Have you ever been dumbfounded by the actions taken to obtain a relationship with an absolutely, unobtainable person? Have you ever wanted to kill someone for being so alarmingly love-struck?
Obviously this happens far too often and obviously I think that people are fucked for it and because of it. So naturally, I've devised a list to aid all the retards with their fidelity issues. Here they are, in no particular order:

1. If you're writing shitty poetry about the state of your relationship (or a very uninteresting and semi-melodramatic lack-of a relationship), or ultimately, any type of poetry for a website that owns the word, "cunt" in it's title, it's time to end it all.

No seriously, ALL OF IT.

Composing a load of love-sap-dribble isn't romantic, it's annoying. Eventually your lover (or fantasy), is going to make it outstandingly clear that he/she isn't interested in your pathetic ass, 'cause while you may think your romantic proses make you clever, everyone else just thinks you're desperate.
The only way to remedy such an atrocious and to be quite honest, embarrassing situation for all persons, is to lower yourself into a giant vat of boiling canola oil for a very dramatic and love-torn ending.

Seriously Casanova, no one wants to hear it.

2. While it may be fun to pass some work hours away with a solid dose of Frogger, it is not appropriate to dash indisputable car-wrecks within your relationship with good timing.

Such instances include:
"It's ok that I got pregnant now. Yeah sure it was a one night stand and my gentiles are burning like a pizza oven, but I'll be getting a raise next month."

"I'm sorry about all the promises I've made you and all the time I've invested in our relationship. I realise that perhaps I may have lead you on, but my ex boyfriend is in town and I think that immersing myself in our dual insanity for a two-week fling, is just what I need."

"What? You're single and I'm single? Perfect. Lets get married."

And the most horrible and gray-matter-hypnotic trend in all of these is: I've born witness to each and every one of them. What the fuck is wrong with you?

3. Meeting men or women on the internet, conversing with them for twenty minutes and ensuingly deciding that you are in fact, "soul mates" is fine.
Creating the false impression by investing all of your time in your pixilised lover that you are in fact a sane and proper person, and you and he have been, "torn apart by the cruel and barbarous bonds of geography," is not. Writing numerous upon numerous emails emphasizing the fact that you will do anything for your long distance lover after knowing them for a week is also not appropriate.

Neither is hunting down their friends through msn after they dump you, to attempt to create this person into a false monster. Obviously it's not his fault you're a god damned lunatic and obviously it's not his friends' fault that they want no part in your insane ambitions.

Side Note: If this is a reacurring instance in your life, it's time to throw out your computer. Also, if your accumulated ex boyfriend's can find a link to each other through the use of your blog/myspace/okcupidaccount for the purpose of discussing why all your relationships fail, it's time to face the overwhelming and painful fact that you are, the common denominator.

4. Staying awake for fifty-four hours straight to analyze the future of your relationship, and then calling your partner for a chat in the midst of sleepy oblivion, is not going to solve the problem. I know this from experience.

5. If you do not understand what the concept of, "alone" means and find that your life is meaningless without the guiding light of love in it, this also may be a suitable time to off yourself.
While it's nice that you want to be loved, no one is going to love an overbearing & clingy teenager. Take the queue from the last fifteen hundred relationships you've been in, and realise that just because he's an art fag, doesn't mean he's going to be the right art fag for you. It's time to explore your singularity, enjoy the time you have to yourself, sleep horizontal on a king mattress and perhaps, eventually, ten years down the road, date someone that owns at least a shade of grey in their closet.

6. Your marriage of thirty years has just collapsed and you feel like a fat cow. While it is appropriate to feel angry and rejected, it is not appropriate to tell your twenty-one-year-old daughter that you haven't had sex in ten years.
If after four years of being alone, you still believe that the alcoholic, remarried man who left you with $50,000 of credit card debt is still your soul mate, you may possibly need more than a little pyhschiatric help.

Please move on. For all of us.

7. If the best lover you can find is a spoiled brat who firmly believes he is one with the universe due to his massive Phish t-shirt & bong collection you need to re-evaluate who you deem a tailor-made boyfriend.
Relying on your dad to pay your cell phone bills at the ripe age of twenty-two and indubitably deciding that it, "harshes your mellow" to work on the weekends, are not qualities you want to marry into.
Keep in mind that if your boyfriend finds it increasingly difficult to introduce you to his friends as, "his girlfriend" you're probably not, his girlfriend. And now that we've established said fact, also keep in mind that this man probably has more STDS than a strung-out, Vietnamese prostitute.

8. If the highlight of your dating career was the three years you spent with a promotional model, do not feel it necessary to remind every one of your friends that you got to shag a hottie at every available opportunity.
While it may help boost your incredibly low sense of self-worth and perhaps aide your dwindling lack of male pride, it ultimately only makes you look like a commiserable lemon to your fellow males and a major dud to us females. Women generally don't keep points in our sexcapades, so hearing about yours is not something that impresses us.

And if you keep it up, your friends will eventually remind you that she is your ex girlfriend for a reason.

9. If you're still brooding over Brad leaving Jen, I firmly suggest a quiet stroll through a minefield in Iraq.

10. If you have, addressed women as, "Grade A Ass," blown kisses to young girls walking innocently down the street, dated someone with the same name as your mother, slept with your boyfriend's, best friend, borrowed your roommate's dildo, taken out an add in the local paper, replied to an add in the local paper, tinkered with the idea of a 3some in your boyfriend's presence, convinced yourself that those, "odd bumps are not warts," thought your dog attractive, wondered what your sister would look like naked, been flattered by someone mistaking you for a prostitute, have invested in a penis pump, been accused of, "dipping your coffee cake in your egg yoke," enjoyed listening about periods in your grade four sex ed class, made ten phone calls to the guy you met last night at the bar in under five minutes, have stolen a one night stand's panties because you enjoy the aroma, think that sticking a beer can up your ass is normal, shown up at your crush's place of employment just to stare at them, bruised someone's ribs and passed it off as a form of flirting, keep locks of girls hair in your closet, watch porn while you eat your dinner, keep lists of the people you've fucked, still own your prom corsage and desperately believe that squeezing your fat ass into a size two will land you a man, you are fucked and so are your chances of ever having a normal relationship.

So please, invest some time in your insanity, join LIAC and write all about your failed relationships over and over. It's what keeps us alive.

Cunted Compliments

2006-07-22T15:45:00.000+01:00

Cunted rhymes with stunted.

Why can't I be beautiful?

Stunning?

Intelligent?

Missed?

I must admit he's trying to be different, intelligent and hopes that I'll find him beautiful.

"May I simply say you are an acquired taste."

"Like I said; fare well"

2006-07-19T00:20:00.000+01:00

It's true that you don't miss the water until it's gone, likewise you don't understand what a huge part of your life the Significant Other is until they are gone. I didn't even see him that often, but I've found that I must have thought about him a lot. Now he's gone I find myself not knowing what to think about.

It's not even that I can't make decisions without his approval, I never sought his approval for anything. It's that I have nothing to make decisions about. There is just a void in my head. A void that seems chaotic, though, contractictory (sp?) as that may be.

A void that can't be filled or ignored. It doesn't even formulate itself into structured thought. It doesn't tell me anything. It just rests there in my head and won't piss off.

I'll be interested to know what it turns into, when it evolves into whatever it becomes. Perhaps it will become anger, and then I could make posts that contain more crude language.

And due to the lack of the "C" word in here, I would like to add that: love is, quite truly, a cunt.

Rage

2006-07-06T14:10:00.000+01:00

It's been a little over a year.

Candles... Games...sultry sexual explorations...

Seems so long ago, and yet?

"Thought I'd see how you were..."

12 months, give or take a few days, later.

Charming, I think and nausea grips my gut. Saliva streams down my throat, and I want to hurl abuse.

You fucking cunt!

Prick.

Asshole

Bastard.

Technology's a lovely thing as far as cell phones go.

"Who's this?" I reply.

Some may call it silence. I call it emasculation.

His voice fades, I feign recognition and match it with a fake apology.

"Just called to say hi,' he bleats.

"Oh, yeah...hi..."

And then I let him go. He falls, and he may as well be dead for all I care.

My big Fuck You to the men in my Life

2006-06-30T18:00:00.000+01:00

At the current time I can not remember a single thing a man has done that impressed me. In fact, I can not remember why I ever liked men. Currently do not care if I'm turning into a bitter, man-hater, because the men I've known in my life have been so unbelievably selfish and unimpressive.
I refuse to settle for the assholes I've had in the past. If they're typical of men then I want nothing to do with the male sex. I'd rather be the "cat lady" then settle for that.
Three major relationships and I always come out with nothing. James was an improvment from Ian and Jon, but we're still split up. He tells me he wants to get back together, that he loves me and needs me, but he's still at work from 9am - 12am so I can never get through to talk to him. What does he need me so badly for? He wouldn't even be there to be with me!
This is fucking unbelievable! I'm so tired of it. I'm tired of being what my boyfriends "need" me to be, what about what I need? What about what I want? No one seems to care that those needs aren't being met! Fuck that. I refuse to do it. I refuse to let another man treat me like a hole, or a teddy bear, or his mother. I refuse to put another guy before me. If a guy wants me, and really deserves me, then he'll work fucking hard to get me. I'm tired of being used. I don't deserve that, and I certainly won't take it.
Fuck you to every guy that has ever cheated on his gf or wife. Fuck you to any guy that has ever hit any women or any man for any reason other than self-defense. Fuck you to any guy that makes promises and never keeps them. Fuck you to my father and to every single asshole I dated that didn't treat me right. Fuck you Jon, fuck you Ian, and fuck you James. I'm done with you.

The Idea of "Us"

2006-06-29T08:54:00.000+01:00

"I guess you haven't noticed lately but its a "me" world. You want a relationship but you don't even consider the fact that its about what I want from you. With Myspace and things like ipods almost everything I could possibly think about in this fucked up world is directed towards what I want. I just don't see the "us". Not only is "us" a scary thing but unrealistic. How could I ever put you first? Even while saying this I started with myself. I've been told to be myself my whole short miserable existence. Never have I heard be "us". This love thing everyone talks about so adoringly has never been an "us" thing. Its about how I feel when I'm with you. Sometimes I feel great most of the time so-so. Basically hating the fact that I'm afraid of butchering this thing I have with you. Notice I didn't say "we". There is no "we". Never will be. There's I and you not you and I. I figure if I repeat this a little more you'll give up on the "us". Remember there is no "us". Please just imagine how I feel when you say "we" need to talk about "us". How could you just put two of my no-no words in a sentence? Why don't you go curse in church too! I didn't want to talk about "us" but you insisted. For some reason you feel like I'm not serious about "us" and that this isn't a game for you. That's where you start to lie. Everything's a game and it seems I'm being told to win it everywhere I turn. I know your heart is not a trophy. It is an organ it pumps for you to live. Given to me to put on display to glorify "us". To declare "us" as a team. There is no "I" in TEAM but there's a "me". That's all that really matters.... me. For you to give me your heart is committing suicide. "

These hands...

2006-06-26T22:12:00.000+01:00

...grip hard the ground; a message I wish I could deliver. Three weeks old today. Graffiti on paper, thin like tissue. Quotidian blue biro covers three small sides. The envelope damaged in my bag ready for delivery, creased by every day life mindlessly thrown in - then left on the dresser in my room to avoid impulsive delivery. Chewed thoughtfully in the top corner on a Wednesday. I sat in the place where I can see your bedroom light. From the walls of that metal room my untruths did resonate, so very loudly. I drove home again, your letter on the dashboard ringing in my ears, the envelope as gleaming white as my lies dark. Three drafts and one final they did scrawl on these pages. Each page a panel in the barricade looming within my chest.

These hands so cold, smother this panting fire, writing reasons why not. Why I can’t be with you, like you, listen to you, forgive you, stay with you, remember you or understand you.

Yet in all these words

All it says is – meet me

meet me

meet me.

He called

2006-06-23T21:10:00.000+01:00

He's called twice since I moved away. The first time he sounded sarcastic and moody, asking me if I had slept with anyone since I left. I was slightly insulted but more surprised that he had called and that he would expect me to become some sort-of slut. We didn't talk very long. I had to go and told him I'd call him back.
That night I called and got the answering machinge. I left a long message explaining why I couldn't move back home, and how much the situation saddened me. In truth I've cried most every night, but that's to be expected isn't it?
He called me at around 3:30pm. Oddly enough I had massively overslept (the first time in a while) and woken up about 10 minutes before he called. I was just making toast.
He said that he loved me and missed me and that he would move up here to be with me.
I don't know what to do. I do love him and yes I miss him, but I left him for valid reasons. Would him moving up here change any of those reasons? I feel so confused and the uncertainty makes me even more depressed.
What do I do?

An Awesome Account of some Awesomely Awesomeness. You Dumb Bitch.

2006-06-22T13:44:00.000+01:00

Gather round ladies and gents and hear the tale of the most preposterous crazy lady known to this emotionally charged and dumbfoundingly comical website. I promise you, if your amour propre is at an all time low, this report will boost your spirits sky-high. You're probably not as bat-shit-bonkers as you think you are.

I wrote about Ann recently on LIAC. Well, I posted my summary of my feelings regarding Ann on LIAC and from what I can tell, LIAC's general conclusion of Mrs. Ill-conceived is that she's just a wee bit cuckoo (And by wee bit, I mean chock-full cockeyed).
When I made my last stand against the Quixotical Queen, I was hoping she'd limit herself to my existence. Seeing her every morning while she waited for her husband after work was enough to make my stomach turn daily, it just never reached the full-out projectile vomit stage, ONLY because I assumed she'd be smart enough to keep to herself.

I learned a great deal about wacky women while living with my mother. I should have known better. Ann, will never give me up.
Like an obsessed, boy-crazed fourteen-year-old Ann has maintained my presence in her life, all by her lonesome. She keeps a healthy eye on not only my personal blog, but also LIAC and has stated openly to her husband that she is,

"Extraordinarily offended that she would post the email on LIAC. LIAC is a website for serious relationships and your relationship with Anna is definitely not serious enough."

This of course was brought to my attention after being pestered for IP addresses because Ann claims that she never posted a comment on LIAC and is completely offended that someone would credit her with such bad grammar (to be honest, I thought the grammar in 'her post' was quite errorless compared to her every-day speech. Before I deleted her, her msn nick was, 'I don't want to be led down.' Whatever that means).
I suppose I would be prone to believe that someone would just make a random comment on LIAC, pretending to be Ann 'cause the situation was easy enough to read into, but unfortunately for Ann the past predicts the present and Ann is anything but oblivious with women that she feels threatened by. I mention this because Ann has stalked her ex-husband's, wife's blog for years now and even though realising it does nothing but hurt her, continues to do so 'cause she a sadistic fuck.

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to remove myself from her and Josh's life if she won't leave me alone. I am sure that she's one card short of a full deck and frankly, am a little afraid of her.

According to Josh, the interrogation begins from the moment he steps into the car, from the moment he puts his head down at night.

"Did you talk to Anna today?"
"What did Anna say about me?"
"Did you discuss our relationship?"
"You're not supposed to talk to her anymore."

I don't feel particularly sorry for Josh only because he chooses to put up with it. This does however cement my fears of the loose screw 'cause seriously, my name shouldn't be used as frequently as conjunctions in every day conversation.

And the be all to end all of lunacy in this bizarre reality that I exist in is that Josh is no longer allowed to use the word, "awesome" because I use it too much in my journal.

To this I say: In the past three months, I have used the word "awesome" two times.

You are a derailed freight train of emotional bullshit and absolute lunacy Ann. Get on some meds, get a hobby, get a scalpel and give yourself a lobotomy - I don't care.

Just get the fuck out of my life.

Never ever

2006-06-21T13:24:00.000+01:00

Ever since I broke it off with my ex it seems like All Saints' "Never ever" is permanently stuck in my head. It's strange because I hadn't heard that song in years or so it seems. Now I'm blaring it as some sort of anthem.
This is my second "serious", failed (or seriously failed) relationship within two years. I've come to the conclusion that I must be a sadistic mother fucker to allow myself to get into these sort of relationships. The kind that move so fast that within a week you're living together, buying engagement rings, and planning a future together based on such passion that could never last. I am an addict to the honeymoon stage, and with that realization comes a few questions.
I don't really change during the relationship, those butterflies and essentially the passion and lust that seem so abundant in the beginning of any new relationship, lasts for me. I experience a slight increase at the beginning but essentially I'm the same at 3 weeks that I am at 3 years. This doesn't seem to be the case for those I end up dating. The first few months are fantastic, sex 5 times a day any place and anywhere you are, hugs and kisses and "I love you"s anytime you part ways, flowers, dining out, going to shows.
I love those things and I have the passion to live that way, so why wouldn't you want to? Why wouldn't you want to look at your partner after 5 years of living together and still feel the same excitement you felt when you first realized you have feelings for them?
Am I just a freak? Why is it that those around me change but I remain the same? Is there something wrong with me?

The Goethe Moment

2006-06-18T23:58:00.000+01:00

There are moments in life that are so sublime they transcend normal human experience. Moments that live in your soul for all eternity as the most fulfilling you have ever had. I refer to these as Goethe Moments.

In Goethe's Faust, the title character makes a deal with Satan. The Devil will grant him all the world's experiences, and when Faust has found the thing, the moment when he says "This is it, this is the best life has to offer", then Satan can come and take his soul to Hell.

I was in my thirties before I had my first Goethe moment. Not surprisingly, it involved sex. I had several of these with the same person, but they were all sexual in nature. I began to doubt such a moment could derive from an experience outside of the bedroom.

Then I met her. A friendship developed, and after she and her boyfriend broke up we became extraordinarily close. We hung out together whenever I was in town. Much to my shock I discovered I was developing feelings for her.

She had mentioned on several occasions not being able to get tickets to an event she really wanted to attend. I went onto E-Bay and bought tickets, and took her as her Christmas present. As we were standing in line this look crossed her face that I lack the eloquence to describe, she smiled, put her hand on my back and said "Nice job."

That moment, that smile was the ultimate Goethe moment. In my mind I said "This is it. You can take me off to Hell now."

Little did I know the Devil would take me seriously.

The Night We Met

2006-06-16T23:26:00.000+01:00

You are a fool.

The first time I met you, you were with her. I had never met either of you before, but we were all out at the bar. I was introduced to you both seperatly, and I remember thinking she was cute. As the evening wore on, when I happened to glance at the two of you, it was obvious how together you were. And I thought how great it was that you were so into each other you could be in a room full of people and not notice anyone else but yourselves.

Then she and I became friends and I discovered what a fantastic person she was. We grew closer and she honored me with her confidence. She shared with me some of the troubles in your relationship, and I was surprised.

We both attended a reception the night you broke up with her, and later we had a drink while she cried over the loss. I put her in a cab and sent her home, then spent the rest of the night wondering what was in your head.

From that day to this, I still can't figure it out, but I can tell you you are fool and have no idea how lucky you were.

I would give anything if she would look at me the way she looked at you the night we met.

Oh yes...

2006-06-15T11:52:00.000+01:00

We took such pretty pictures.

2006-06-14T09:32:00.000+01:00

There's a certain beauty in death.

A Final, "Fuck You" to My Best Friend's Wife.

2006-06-12T16:54:00.000+01:00

I'm writing this email because I've had enough.

I've had enough of the complete load of bullshit that you've dumped on my relationship with your husband and I simply, can't take it any longer.

I wish you would have actually taken the time to talk to me.
Whether it was in the form of a letter, an email, a phone conversation or a simple, "fuck you" on msn, it would have been better than what you've left me with.
I'm insanely frustrated that it had to come to this, but unfortunately, I see no possible way of this ever working out and if I'm going to loose my friendship with your husband, I might as well say my peace.

Ann, I absolutely in the purest form of the word, HATE you.

From what I know of you, I think you're a lazy and ungrateful woman with no amount of intellect or emotional smarts in your empty fucking head.
I WANTED to be your friend in the beginning. I wanted to make sure that you knew that I had no intentions of doing anything with your husband because HE'S YOUR HUSBAND.
I paid for your movie tickets, offered to dye your hair and kept my mouth shut while you constantly battered my character through your asinine and completely unjustified lack of faith in your spouse.
As time passed, I grew overly concerned for your husband who was living his life to keep you happy. He was completely selfless, completely in love, completely honest and he sincerely didn't mind that his wife kept him from having friends because he just wanted to make sure she was ok.

You are such an ungrateful cow.

If every man was as committed to their wives as Josh is to you, there would be no broken marriages.

As my relationship with Josh grew, the impressions that I learned that you had of me, completely broke me.
I've never had the pleasure of being picked on because of my gender and for the first time in my life, I learned what it was like to be discriminated against based on something that was completely out of my hands.
At first you wouldn't let Josh and I hangout at all. Our time together had to be supervised based on your asinine fear of an affair. Eventually, after much frustration and my admitted disliking of you, the only option we had was to lie.

All we wanted to do was go to Taco fucking Bell and eat some disgusting, greasy food and you couldn't muster up the grace to find enough faith in your husband to let us, so we just lied.

It never got easier to like you.

You acted like a complete baby when I came to your house to spend time with your husband. You bitched and moaned because he wasn't paying you attention and like a spoiled brat, ruined our few hours together with your pouting, moping silences and overwhelming accounts of your miserable life.

It was around then that I admitted to Josh that I considered having sex with him, only to piss you off.
I sincerely hope it hurts you to know that your husband wants to have sex with other women. I sincerely hope it hurts you to know that he wanted to have it with me and if you choose to believe that the reason why your marriage will fail is because I've secretly had it out for you since the beginning, AWESOME. 'Cause I frankly, don't give a fuck no more.

I am so tired of these preconceived notions of my character that you've derived from a private email that existed between me and your husband and your general and poor understanding of women. I'm so tired of being painted as a whore that wants to steal your family away from you and I'm so tired of constantly being berated for things I am not, and for things that I have not done, for the sake of your husband.

I'm sorry that I could not be stronger for his sake, but there is only so much battering someone can take before they raise a giant, proverbial middle finger to their attacker.

I hope you're happy that you've driven away your husband's only friend.
I hope you're happy knowing fully well that he's absolutely miserable because of it.
I hope you're happy now that you've gotten what you've wanted all along.
I hope you're happy knowing that you've robbed me of a friend.
I hope you're happy with this stupid situation that you've created and I seriously hope you understand that you, and you alone are fucking up your marriage so badly that it will be a miracle if Josh chooses to stay with you past his thirties.

And to be completely honest with you Ann, I hope it does fail, 'cause your twenty-five year-old husband deserves better than a shitty job at Wal*Mart, with an ungrateful wife and a stack of bills he solely has to pay 'cause his wife won't get a full time job.

Josh deserves better than that.
I wish I knew how to express to him how sorry I am that our friendship had to end, No. Actually, I wish I never had to express it at all. I'm sorry for writing this email, but I only want forgiveness from him.

He gave up everything for you.
His family, his home, his security blankets and his childhood and all I wanted was to be a soft place for him to fall when he was scared and confused about what steps to take next.

I'm done with you and I'm done with your husband.
I wish I had the patience and the grace to allow you to walk all over me further, but I can't allow it any longer. I'm tired of this situation, tired of bending over backwards to keep you from acting like an overbearing psycho and tired of having to tip toe around your insanity so Josh can keep a friend.

Fuck you Ann.

Lessons from the Doctor.......

2006-06-12T11:24:00.000+01:00

After a two year absence I finally feel the time is right to come out of posting retirement. The more long term LIAC members may remember (probably not) that my last post mentioned the cult 90's dance act 'Haddoway'. They wrote the techno-rave inspired anthem 'What is Love?' which turned out to be a more of a career obituary rather than a stepping stone to the pantheons of dance stardom. In fact those of you that know me a bit better know that the imitating plagiarist in me has a habit of quoting cult pop/film trivia, sometimes word for word. Well not being one to break tradition and with a sense of knowing irony I can say about my following post - 'these words are my own, they're from the heart....'.

No, two years later I'm older and wiser and having working in the cynical world of the NHS (that's the National Health Service for our friends across the Pond) I have become quite the bearer (or is it barer?) of war wounds and scars. I appear to have reached a hiatus in my life which has given me an opportunity to prepare this post for you, it's been influenced by a veritable plethora of sources - one of which includes my old friend JiB. I've used the template with which I manage my patients to create a guide, if you like, to surviving a relationship. It can be broken down into several parts: history, examination, investigations, treatment and follow-up. Now listen carefully.......

1)The History: This is the most important part of patient management and should be taken carefully. People would present to A&E (that's the ER) with multiple problems e.g. chest infections, asthma attacks, diabetic complications as well as other multiple and varied pathologies (numerous failed relationships, baggage, divorces, STDs, psycho-social dysfunctioning). This information, if correctly elicited can provide you with an instant diagnosis (complete fuck-up/tard/festering cum-bucket).

2) Examination: The most important of this stage is inspection. Inspect the subject for signs of frank inbreeding (six digits on any extremity), dysmorphic facies (posh for pug-ugly cunt). It is also imperative to observe for scars as this will alert you to any previous surgery performed as well as whether they tried to slash their own wrists in an unfortunately unsuccessful attempt to end their own life. In the eyes you always inspect for many things: anaemia, jaundice (yellow tinge in the white of the eye), high cholesterol, guilt, insecurity, fear, jealous (green tinged eyes) etc. Use your stethoscope in a meticulously methodical fashion to listen if they have a heart.

3) Investigations: Always do your homework! Perform a CT scan of their head to check for any obvious malformations, asymmetry, bleeds and the status of their brain (an absence is indicative of Chavsters sign). Do the right blood tests and don't forget to always screen for syphilis prior to engaging into a full relationship.

4) Treatment: Usually a short, sharp course of antibiotics should do the trick. Failing that you could always prescribe some antidepressants or antipsychotics to take home after dumping them from your care. You may also wish to consider an enema for a laugh.

5) Follow-up:Usually a 4-6 week (and sometimes much longer!) post-breakup follow up can be done in clinic. If there are still signs of psychological trauma/ acute paranoia/ frank dysentery then I would recommend immediate discharge from your care. If there are any further problems the ex can always come into A&E or see their fucking lazy GP. Long term problems can be addressed with rehabilitation in the form of marriage counselling, a good lawyer or going back to an old flame who treated you like shit.

Now people, this is of course just a rough guide and peoples individual circumstances vary. First line therapy would be to stop smoking, drinking, doing drugs or getting into 'relationships' in the first place - Doctors orders. I am still confident, that if you follow the proforma above you should live a long a healthy (love) life. If you have any further enquiries please feel free to phone NHS direct on 0845 4647. Failing that you may wish to try the Samaritans.

Disclaimer: All characters in appearing in this post are purely fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A toast...

2006-06-03T18:03:00.000+01:00

To every time he said that your kisses were the best he ever had. To the time when your skin "looked good in the sunlight". To the time he held you just because. To falling asleep in his arms. To the day he spent just looking at you. To resting your head on his shoulder. To seeing the universe through his eyes. To seeing the universe in his eyes. To the comfortable silence. To the lack of secrecy. To his protective arm around your waist. To the way you're not alone when you think of him.

To every time he told you he felt the same way.

Cheers.

Ever get the feeling you're being watched?

2006-06-02T16:16:00.000+01:00

Shakespeare Lies

2006-05-28T18:09:00.000+01:00

Good feelings are transient, bad ones are not.

That’s the deal you signed when you came out of the womb. You don’t know you signed it - it’s just one of those things in the contract of human nature. That long list of fucked up traits and clauses that Satan drafted and God approved and that you’re now stuck with until you die.

Right there, in Section 342 “You’re Fucked”, in Paragraph 712 “Contradictory Feeling Implementations”, Clause 93b “Negative Reinforcement”, it clearly states “You will agree to acclimatise to good feelings far more quickly than bad ones.”. Yeah, you agreed to that. Asshole.

This is why, at night, you suffer insomnia over bad thoughts rather than good ones. It’s why you remember that horrible insult levelled at you when you were nine years old and have already forgotten that someone paid you a compliment yesterday. It’s why when all is well, the tiniest most trivial fuckery will null the goodness in your life and send you crashing into the deep, panther-filled caverns of life-is-shitsville. It’s why fondness can only be fresh while hatred lasts forever. It’s why requited love fades and unrequited love does not.

I know, you fucking clit, I know you think true love is this crazy eternal thing. But it’s not. Once you understand my last two sentences, properly, then you’ll be that much further along in understanding exactly what it is you’re doing here. And you’ve wasted too much time on your precious, impossible ideals already, so pay attention now.

The story of eternal, unfading love has been common in all walks of fiction since the dawn of our species. The reason for this isn’t because it does happen, but because it doesn’t happen and we want it to. Just like we enjoy stories about people that go from rags to riches, or defeat the odds to overpower seven thousand million bad guys and save the world, or part the red sea or somehow manage to screw Jennifer Aniston even though they look like a sodding monkey, we enjoy stories about undying love. The common theme here is impossibility and myth. This shit just doesn’t happen. Well, it might happen, but it sure as fuck doesn’t happen to you.

Never to you. Get over it.

Nobody you know has been in eternal love. Nobody. Love fades after some years of being requited, to be replaced with a deep friendship that might feel a bit like love, but it’s not even a tiny fractional hemidemisemi-speck of the soul-apotheosis you felt when you kissed her the first time.

“OH,” you’ll say, “but OH that deep friendship is love! You’re just defining things differently than me!”. Shut the fuck up, man. Seriously, shut the fuck up and put your chin in a meat grinder. If there’s one thing I’ve had enough of, it’s arguing over definitions of love. We all know what love feels like. It’s inexplicable and fucking amazing and unsustainable. One example: There is no way you’re going to think about someone 24/7 for decades. Weeks, yes; years, maybe; decades, no. And if you’re not thinking about someone 24/7 then you aren’t in love with them. Fact. So shut it.

Unrequited love, however, can last forever. Funny, isn’t it? Yep. Ha.

Ha ha ha.

Just looking for love

2006-05-17T22:57:00.000+01:00

I’m 45, I have had one long (mostly sexually frustrating) relationship in my life since the age of 22, and little else besides, until recently.... I have never had LIAC/romantic love (see post above for definition) for my wife. At least our relationship is based on something real – ever since I’ve known her, I’ve admired her / liked her company, jokes etc. She is my friend, always has been since day 1. Ask yourself if people you know in their 40s/50s/60s are in romantic love with each other? Are they in romantic/LIAC love, or did reality kick in? If so, why ever respect that jump into the choppy waters of unreality?

If you are far younger than me, all this talk of the long distant future may piss you off, but the point I’m making is that romantic love is a lie that eventually gets you into trouble. OK, so we may all know that part of our rat brain cant help doing it. But here, especially at this website, lets not pretend it’s ever going to come anything other than pain. Lets help each other to learn to quickly climb out of the water and dry off (see adjacent post about LIAC love).

This was all fine until recently, when I started “seeing” women other than my wife. I told myself it was to deal with the sexual frustration, which I shant go into any more here. Now I constantly feel the desperate need to connect emotionally, and know that I am addicted to the world of blogs/sites/affairs where I can get some reasonably kindly attention at little risk. Mixed in with this desperation/addiciton is a constant tendency I have to fall in LIAC-love with women I meet, even if I know them very little, and especially if they reject me. I am sure that this is not common or "nice" – on the contrary I am aware of a sad streak in me, constantly looking for someone to love, to connect with, even though I have a family to devote myself to.

I don’t quite know why I’m so desperate, but don’t you tell me, please! The one thing that I do know is that my desperation is part of my make-up now, and maybe always was since my childhood. With this piece of self-awareness, I hope to make better choices in future.

What LIAC means to me

2006-05-17T22:55:00.000+01:00

When I joined LIAC, I only thought LIAC meant that unrequited love is painfully stupid (and stupidly painful). Now I feel I should make it clear that I have come to a wider conclusion. LIAC for me means that all romantic love is my enemy. Romantic love is possessive, unreal, negative and painful.

By “romantic love”: I mean the sort of love that is peddled in songs [from “Someone to watch over me” (I. Gershwin) to “Feel” (Robbie)]. The sort of love that makes an irrational suggestion about what the object of my love is. The sort of feeling that makes my heart race with excitement. The sort of feeling that someone out there might save me. I want my mummy! Being more positive, I could say it is something absolute and spiritual. I have read a description of this romantic feeling (in a book by The Barefoot Doctor) as “falling off a log”. He suggests we imagine oursleves balancing carefully on a log floating in a lake. We reach out to someone, we embrace them, enjoy them, it’s mutual, so far so good. [I even call this love – brotherly love, not LIAC-love. The kind of thing that friends can have for each other, quite happily for years, which can even get quite strong, but is always rational, and based on reality.]

Then out of caprice, we decide to allow oursleves to lose our balance, and to fall/jump into the water, hoping that the other person will fall in too, but knowing that this is not a realistic / successful approach to survival on the lake. Once in that water, we may enjoy the immersion in the irrationality and loss of control to a force stronger than ourselves for some while, but eventually (apparently the average is 3 months, but at this site I think we all have different stories to tell) reality will kick in, and we’ll climb back out to survey our life / our loved one in the full glare of reality. And that is where pain is almost inevitable – fitting our fantastical vision into what exists in reality is going to hurt. If it hurts less than usual, maybe you both climbed out at roughly the same time, and maybe you can set about seeing if you and your partner actually like each other. But you can only really tell then, once the magic curse of LIAC-love has worn off, and you see things as they really are.

So my suggestion: if ever you find yourself “in love” get your friends to break your fingers. The better alternative: at all times keep things nice and friendly, like your significant other as a best friend, want what is best for them, not what is best for you. They will annoy and be imperfect, so will you. Don’t bother them with your crazy romantic notions that don’t fit with reality. I realise my views may be very idiosyncratic. To perhaps explain how I arrived at them, I may post about my past (see next), to show that I have my own set of issues/problems.

Short & Curly Poke in the Eye Top 3

2006-05-13T05:51:00.000+01:00

‘We can be friends’ - There’s a position opening up. I need a psychoanalyst on hand so I can unfurl my angst.

‘I’ll call you’ - I’ll sleep on it, then I’ll think about it some more and if I don’t come across a better prospect, I may call you but chances are I won’t because I only said that because I’m conditioned to aspire on being a pickup artist.

‘It’s not you, it’s me’ - It’s you and me: I’m not attracted to you and I want to sleep with as many people I can before the Earth is hit by an asteroid.

Sheep and love

2006-05-09T22:37:00.000+01:00

I rode on the top deck of a bus through the countryside. Though it's now late spring, there were still lambs around, playing agreeably, destined for a nice navarin. Their condition is much the same as ours...for sheep, not only love, but life generally is a cunt, and if you are unfortunate enough to have the Burdizzos ( a splendid name for a band, why has it never been used?) wielded to make a nice dish of testicles, you won't get much of the love part anyway.

The movement to return mutton to the British menu (which I heartily endorse, by the way) is another worrying trend from the ovine perspective.

It made me thing about ageing, which is much on my mind. However much I disguise it with bold talk of Petrarch and his Laura, Dante and Beatrice, the matter of age is insuperable. And note that Laura died, and both girls were entirely indifferent to their elderly dribbling admirers. In my gloomier moments it has occured to me that my passion for L is the final flush of flower on a old rose bush ready for the bonfire. "Even the Swainlets [14 and 12 years old-LS] would be ashamed to carry on the way you do about L", said the Burra Mem once; the adolescent quality present here is a distorted mockery of how love overpowers when one is young enough for it.

The best I can hope for is to be spared for a while longer for my fleece.

Technorati Tags: castration, dante, petrarch, sheep

Friends reunited?

2006-05-01T22:12:00.000+01:00

I haven't posted here for some time, having emptied 45 years (46 now) of history there was nothing left.

But I can vent now. Friends reunited? My fucking arse! For the possibility of finding out 47 of your old girlfriends and crushes are now architects and solicitors, living in Spain or Islington with their husbands and 3 kids you have to be ignored by 80% of the members you email and forgotten by half of the rest who reply.

What's the point? I say this having finally cracked the final name in the code, the first of at least 8 Fionas, all of whom were the sexiest women I could imagine. Due to a mystery glitch she'd been registered for three years, but never showed on my screen till last week. But that's just software for you. She's happily married with 4 kids and living the statutory average 300 miles away, so nothing new there. Having nothing to gain or lose I told her straight that before I left our primary school in 1969 (early in my case to go to a 'posh' school) she was my favourite. And I bet my meat and two veg (not much use gathering dust here so why not) she wouldn't reply, which a few days later is still correct. Meanwhile the glitch had uncovered a few more names, and in true friends reunited spirit, the second name had returned to Indonesia, replied but hadn't a clue who I was. I sent her a comprehensive list of reminders, which as soon as the light dawns will guarantee an instant refusal to continue emailing. That's how it works.

All the stories you hear about the site are true in that the opportunity to have a second chance exist, but only happen because there are millions of members and we hear about a handful who got lucky, not the shedload who got ignored.

What I can't handle is why people join if not to contact old friends, of both sexes. I've been a member 5 years and not one person has ever emailed me first. I was a sod at school, I admit, but only to the teachers. I was the school lunatic and rarely forgotten by most. But by 17 or so I'd calmed down and have been a pussycat since as I used up all my fire very early on while friends used theirs when older and far more dangerous. My parents were lucky.

I've met the second best girl at primary school, who now looked as if she'd turned into a prune, or possibly the Idris lemon (who remembers that?) but she couldn't help that. That is the only reunion I've had, and I don't think she actually ever knew who I was as it was her sister who I knew well, and admired her from a great distance, being (like Fiona) two years older than me. Oddly enough she was having it off with her old boyfriend she met on FR just before his wedding day soon after we met. So it worked for her, and he was (in contrast with my school lunatic) the school psychopath. So that hadn't changed in his case, what a bastard!

But in general the results versus the satisfying of curiosity (not to mention the disastrous portrayal of human nature) at FR are barely worth the small annual fee. And if I just wanted to see what they're doing most have profiles you can view for nothing. I paid to reunite, and all I've done is apparently disturb a few hundred people (including a few I'd had intimate carnal knowledge of) who seem to have joined on false pretences. But I think if the rules were reversed and Fiona wanted to cheat with me I'd be on the next plane to Newcastle. In my bloody dreams of course... Arseholes...

No, I'm the Greatest Doomed Romantic

2006-05-01T21:20:00.000+01:00

I have recently come to the modest yet entirely reasonable conclusion that I am The Greatest Doomed Romantic I know. This is a simple fact. A plain truth. I have no competition in this arena that even comes close. Begone, pretenders.

You see, I have gazed into the future, and at no point does undying love or happiness seem to leap or even drift into my path. Fine. I can live with that. I have come to accept that I have no choice in this matter.

However, I do have a word of advice to pass on to my fellowed Doomed Romantics out there, even though they are neither as Doomed nor as Romantic as I. Listen carefully, for I shall share this profound secret only once.

It is time, high time, that you all stopped talking about having a heart full of love for someone, about two hearts becoming one, about having a broken heart, a wounded heart, an empty heart or, indeed, anything to do with your heart. Your heart has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with love. It is no more than a vessel, a piece of meat - and not even a particularly attractive piece of meat once a hand has pushed itself inside your or your sweetheart's chest to rip it out and hold it up as a prize in the battle of life. Art, literature and poetry have pursued the idea of the heart being related to love for far too long, to the point where it is now worthless and outdated. It's time to see sense, to pause and rewrite the language of love.

A broken heart can be mended, after all. You simply call in a skilled surgeon and have a transplant or open heart surgery. Even a stopped heart can be restarted, thanks to the assistance of a couple of large paddles surging with electricity and a medic bravely shouting "Clear!". So as Doomed Romantics, who know all too well that nothing can be fixed or repaired when it comes to love, why do we keep associating this throbbing, pulsating, putrid mess of flesh with the greatest of all emotions and experiences?

No more. Every true Doomed Romantic should now throw out all references to the heart and replace them with words that poetically refer to broken minds and, at best, distorted souls. At worst, our souls are even more rotten and diseased and crying out for release; make sure you work that into your verse if it's more your style.

Yet neither the mind nor the soul be fixed, unlike the heart, because they do not exist as solid matter. They are not tangible. The heart can be squeezed through your fingers and left in a bloody heap on the antiseptic floor tiles of the post-mortem lab or the operating theatre; the mind and the soul cannot. Like love, they exist only as a concept - a powerfully moving, emotionally complex and at times deadly concept, but a concept nonetheless.

Throw your hearts in the incinerator. It's for the best, believe me. Being The Greatest Doomed Romantic, I know about these things. Indeed, I have (almost) lived to tell the tale.

Best Friends with All The Benefits

2006-04-27T18:32:00.000+01:00

Right, you dismal motherfucks. Let’s have the cry babies exit stage Hellward, because I want to discuss something that might fuck you up a little. Hopefully a lot.

When you love someone, that someone is – by definition – also your best friend. Right?

If you’re not with me by this point then please for the love of god sit on a spike.

It follows, then, that someone that you fall in love with is a best friend that you fuck. That’s not a weird idea. Now, I understand that a lot of you would consider someone that doesn’t call you a total fucking cunt a “best friend”, and that’s because you’re a cunt. But I’m talking about friends that you connect with on all the levels that count, friends you disagree with just enough to provide stimulating discussion, people that you would give a kidney for and people that would do the same for you. They are far and few between - if you think you have 10 best friends or more then you are a cunt and actually have a friend-count of diddley-shitting-squat – but they do exist. And this level of friendship is required at minimum to be in love with someone.

So if you push that best friendship into realms which include fucking, then I’d say you were in love. A couple that shares the benefits of deep and unending connections as well as the benefits of attaching genitalia to each other in fluid-evoking configurations. That’s love. ALL GOOD.

But, this raises some issues:

1. If you are best friends with someone appealing to your sexuality, and you don’t end up in bed together, then at least one of you looks like they’ve been born in an orang-utan gangbang and then hit repeatedly in the face with lepers’ bones before being injected with Merrick’s reconstituted DNA and sent to Jackson’s surgeons. “Rough as fuck”, colloquially.

2. These things cannot all be true simultaneously: “I did love you” “I want to be best friends instead” “You are not rough as fuck”

3. If you are a believer in celibacy then it is possible for you to equate being best friends with being in love, and you can all be as rough as fuck as you like.

4. If you become best friends with someone online, meet, and do not get it on, someone is being rough as fuck.

5. If you fall in love online, meet, and don’t get it on, someone sent a photo which bore no fucking resemblance to their rough-as-fuck face whatsoever.

But mainly:

6. If two people fall out of love, the chances of them remaining best friends is zero.

The only possible reasons for it ending would be synonymous with reasons why you could never be best friends. So if you suffer through the collapse of a loving relationship, don’t bother trying to be best friends or scamming that you are. It’s over. It’s all over and that is that. And your life sucks.

Further reading: Fable

Penelope

2006-04-23T02:41:00.000+01:00

FADE TO: INT. CIRCULAR ROOM OF CASTLE RUINS

The room is dim, lit by wall-mounted candles with one WOODEN DOOR. In the centre is a black DENTIST'S CHAIR around which are various SURGICAL TOOLS on METAL TRAYS. Standing by these is PENELOPE, a FALLEN ANGEL, in WHITE ROBES. She has only one WING. Where the other is supposed to be is a BLOODY STUMP. The blood is soaking the back of her robes. She is doing nothing.

The door opens.

[ SFX - CREAK ]

A GIRL walks in. She is dressed in TORN CLOTHES. She addresses PENELOPE.

GIRL: You are Penelope?

PENELOPE: Yes.

The GIRL closes the door.

[ SFX - CREAK ]

GIRL: You embody change, correct?

PENELOPE: Actually, it’s freedom. I embody freedom. [ smiles pleasantly ]

GIRL: I see.

PENELOPE: [finishing] - through change.

GIRL: Very well. [forceful] I want to be free of love.

PENELOPE: [smiling but confused] Free of love?

GIRL: The love I have for a boy who no longer loves me.

GIRL takes a PENDANT from around her neck, opens it and shows it to PENELOPE.

PENELOPE: [whilst examining the pendant ] Is this him?

GIRL: Yes.

PENELOPE: Why doesn't he love you anymore?

GIRL: He still does, in some ways. But not enough. He said it was not to be.

PENELOPE puts the pendant on one of the trays of surgical tools.

PENELOPE: Okay, your love for him - what shall I change it to?

GIRL: I want it unrecognisable.

PENELOPE: I can change it to a sudden, inexplicable indifference?

GIRL: That's not enough.

PENELOPE: Not enough?

GIRL: I want it mutilated. Badly enough that every memory of it will tarnish. I want it changed from start to finish. I want to be free of it. That’s what they say you do.

PENELOPE: [ nodding ] Well, they’re right. You want to be free of this love and its history?

GIRL: Yes.

PENELOPE: Why?

GIRL: [ affronted ] Is it your business to ask why?

PENELOPE: It will help facilitate the miracle.

Pause.

GIRL: Because it's easier this way.

PENELOPE: What’s easier?

GIRL: Moving on. Forgetting. Coping. It would be easier if I do not believe it was love. It would be easier if I believed it was malignant.

PENELOPE takes a SCALPEL and SHARPENS it.

[ SFX - SHARPENING BLADE ]

PENELOPE: You'd prefer to have experienced and lost something painful rather than something beautiful?

GIRL: Is that unusual?

PENELOPE: I try not to reason with wishes - I just clarify and grant them.

GIRL: Then yes, you are right.

PENELOPE gestures to the GIRL to sit in the dentist’s chair. The GIRL is hesitant, but PENELOPE pats the chair's seat and smiles at her. The GIRL gets into the chair.

PENELOPE: [ pondering ] Hmm. I could switch the love for a feeling of betrayal?

GIRL: That would suffice, but I trust him too much to believe that.

PENELOPE puts the SHARP SCALPEL against the GIRL's TEMPLE and cuts a line of BLOOD around the side of her head. She is marking out a pattern for dissection.

PENELOPE: Okay. How about I switch the trust for mistrust and then the love for betrayal?

GIRL: Yes. That might work.

PENELOPE has drawn lines of BLOOD across the GIRL's FOREHEAD and sides of her FACE. She puts down the scalpel and picks up a CIRCULAR SAW.

PENELOPE: Excellent, then. Let's begin your transformation.

GIRL: Will it hurt?

PENELOPE: Not you, no.

[ SFX - CIRCULAR SAW WHIRRING ]

FADE TO: BLACK

Science

2006-04-17T18:15:00.000+01:00

There are three phases to falling in love and different hormones are involved at each stage. Events occurring in the brain when we are in love have similarities with mental illness.

Stage 1: LUST
Lust is driven by the sex hormones testosterone and oestrogen. Testosterone is not confined only to men. It has also been shown to play a major role in the sex drive of women. These hormones as Helen Fisher says "get you out looking for anything".

Stage 2: ATTRACTION
This is the truly love-struck phase. When people fall in ‘love’ they can think of nothing else. They might even lose their appetite and need less sleep, preferring to spend hours at a time daydreaming about their new lover.
In the attraction stage, a group of neuro-transmitters called 'monoamines' play an important role:
Dopamine - Also activated by cocaine and nicotine
Norepinephrine - Otherwise known as adrenalin. Starts us sweating and gets the heart racing.
Serotonin - One of ‘love's’ most important chemicals and one that may actually send us temporarily insane.

Stage 3: ATTACHMENT
This is what takes over after the attraction stage, if a relationship is going to last. People couldn't possibly stay in the attraction stage forever, otherwise they'd never get any work done!
Attachment is a longer lasting commitment and is the bond that keeps couples together when they go on to have children. Important in this stage are two hormones released by the nervous system, which are thought to play a role in social attachments:
Oxytocin - This is released by the hypothalamus gland during child birth and also helps the breast express milk. It helps cement the strong bond between mother and child. It is also released by both sexes during orgasm and it is thought that it promotes bonding when adults are intimate. The theory goes that the more sex a couple has, the deeper their bond becomes.
Vasopressin - Another important chemical in the long-term commitment stage. It is an important controller of the kidney and its role in long-term relationships was discovered when scientists looked at the prairie vole

The frisky prairie vole
In prairie vole society, sex is the prelude to a long-term pair bonding of a male and female. Prairie voles indulge in far more sex than is strictly necessary for the purposes of reproduction.

It was thought that the two hormones, vasopressin and oxytocin, released after mating, could forge this bond. In an experiment, male prairie voles were given a drug that suppresses the effect of vasopressin. The bond with their partner deteriorated immediately as they lost their devotion and failed to protect their partner from new suitors.

With thanks to the BBC Science & Nature page for the …magic.

Wedding Song Faux Pas

2006-04-13T15:27:00.000+01:00

Total Eclipse of the Heart (Bonnie Tyler)...

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... is about an unrequited lover's wish to kill her beloved, hold their still-warm corpse, shoot herself through the face and then fall spinning and locked in dead embrace into the setting foundation of a skyscraper.

Fact.

According to Mr. Allen

2006-04-08T02:05:00.000+01:00

To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering, one must not love. But, then one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer, not to love is to suffer, to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love, to be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy, therefore, to be unhappy one must love, or love to suffer, or suffer from too much happiness -- I hope you're getting this down.

--Woody Allen

...so, what he's saying is, love is a cunt that destroys all happiness and causes excessive suffering in the process. I think he might be onto something.