The pen with which I write has been
serving these mediocre purposes for many years. As for other attempts at
connecting past to present, I fail. I should know better. I’m supposed to know
better after all these years and heartbreaks.
There is a boy I like so much, he makes
me laugh…twice he made me cry, but blaming him for those would be a lie. I am
making myself cry. Making myself crazy with expectations which contribute to my
sadness or insanity.
Since I can remember liking boys I can
remember feeling disappointment. And I now know that 90% of it was
self-induced. So instead of some kind of Rosie the Riveter-esque ‘I don’t need
him to be happy— fuck men’, it’s more accurate to say ‘fuck me’ since I’m the
one breaking my own heart.
This one is busy all the time with his
music career. As a consequence of dating musicians, I have come to judge this
‘career’ as more of a hobby…an incredibly emasculating and unfair perspective
to have with this one.