This MiserY. Palpable. Almost tangible. Perched at the very edge of 20, liable to fall into 21 anytime now, she’s the girl she prayed and hoped and prayed and hoped she’d be when she was thirteen.
She’s always thought herself a goth if anything I mean blood tastes good to her, she’s at home in black, pain gives her all sorts of rushes, her soul leans towards thrashy blackness, she doesn’t scare easily and last but not least, she’s got a high threshold for the scarily unexplainable. Things that go bump in the night intrigue her..
But her taste in music? She just can’t leave Paramore alone. My Chemical Romance makes her sway. Papa Roach, disgusts her (thank goodness) but she’ll be the first to die for Ingrid Michealson.
Is she a closet romantic? Closet Emo?
This post is supposed to be about her misery, because Godhelpher it’s all she can write about. Too bad Cupid and his cronies have nearly everything to do with the various shades of black that her soul is turning (she thought she was above all that. Haha!)
” Twas a love doomed by all the forces that were; ochestrated more by Loki the trickster than anybody else”
“A love doomed to such failure as to reduce Aphrodite, Cupid and the rest of the team to hot tears of shame for a job so badly done”
…are the sorts of things that she’s been reduced to penning.
Will she, at 50 when she’s comfortable with her wrinkles and saggy skin, when every thing that can possibly happen has happened, when the world holds no more surprises for her; will she envy this 21 year old her misery? Will she wish to feel as deeply as her younger self? Will she still be able to pen blog-posts in taxis? Will she be brave enough to break her own heart (via some blackguard)?
Will she still rock her piercings (14) and her tattoos (none yet) proudly?
Will she still yearn for the sorts of activities that promise regret?
Every minute he doesn’t call is drunk, saturated with despair. She could explode and inebriate the world with bitter misery, like an evil parody of the Ribena berry.
She doesn’t want to disappear down the chute that leads to the dark hole in which his EXES are archived.
Her tears refuse to flow until she’s around him-then they gush like badly behaved shower nozzles, happily wounding and guilting and gouging rifts and gulleys in his conscience.
How honest is a 21 year old’s promise that she’s married to her career when the minute she’s given an assignment procrastination, ennui and laziness start to rape her left right and centre?
She’d like very much to curl up into a ball and die. She’d like to explode in flambouyant colors. She wants to be a bigger version of the ribena berry. She wants to be Marilyn Manson going clean- COLD TURKEY.
She wants to thrash. No partY. No, Wail. No dammit! She wants to laugh and laugh and laugh…
She wants to feature in a Douglas Adams book.
She has a crush on Princess.
She wants this Misery, this Goliath-size dejection to be Frozen in time forever.
She swears that her next post will be more cheerful.