Monthly Archives: February 2010

Mademoiselle K – Sexy Bitch.

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Smoldering Temptress.

I’m really tired of being held back by fear, and by my self-inflicted restrictions.
So I’m going to do a little experiment.

For the end of this month, and for the month of March, I’m going to be flirtatious as hell and gain the confidence I’ve been needing.
How will I do this?
In the wise words of Dragonette,
“Fake it. It will come naturally after that.”
Apparently I already exude sexuality. I’ve just got to recognize it and feel comfortable in my own skin.

Why not, right?

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Spice ain’t always nice.

After my last relationship I asked the universe to spice up my dating life:

What did I get in the past two months?

  • A ginger with a beard (I’m not hating – I’m a ginger lady.)
  • A guy who was into peeing on faces, didn’t have a problem with indirect bestiality, and had his own personal flog.
  • A girl who I want in my bed, but she moved 3,000 miles away.
  • A presumptuous asshole that pretended we were in an intense/serious relationship after a week.

Thanks, world. At least you spiced it up.

Tatuaje does not have a ring on his finger. I’m thoroughly confused.

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I’m a Hypochondriac.

 

Me: i’m dying!
Avalon: cos you cant find your ketchup or something else?
Avalon: because, we can get you more ketchup

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And another one bites the dust.

I hate pretentious assholes. 

The Poet is a pretentious asshole of grandiose proportions. 
My life is not a source of inspiration for your desperate attempt at a poetic life.
I am completely shocked at his obliviousness and deplorable inter-personal skills. He has known me for a week. That hardly qualifies as knowing me. And he most definitely does not know my father, the antagonist of his offensive poem. Nor does he know about my mother’s death, my childhood, my sisters, or myself. 

This weekend was awful. I only like music made by men with beards, I do not want to date a beard. 
No, you cannot oddly rub my head,
No, you cannot hold my hand,
No, I do not want to kiss you and your awkwardly bearded face,
No, I do not want you to try and comfort me. I have dealt with a lot, and I’ve held my own hand. Your presence in my life does not make me want to run to you for saving. 
Yes, women are infinitely better.
No, I will not exclusively not date you while I figure my life out. 
And NO, I don’t want you to write about my life as you pretend to know the inner workings of my being.  

He actually asked me if I only feel protected by men. Or if women could also provide that male role.
He was only funny and nice to talk to during the first 12 hours of knowing him. 

I am over it.

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Tumultuous!

Epic, epic fail. 
Tatuaje is married. I should look at hands more often. {and he is married to the hottest of wives – duh}
The Poet has made my life a tad more confusing. I adore his company, but to what extent? 
Dragonette makes me wonder about the past. What if, the summer after my freshman year, we’d actually started dating? Would I have left school that semester? Would my headspace have been any better? 
Driade has too many confines and boundaries. And makes me feel like an idiot, on occasion. I think I have maintained a state of confusion regarding said individual since before I was born.

 

And I am painfully, irrevocably in love with the one person I cannot have. Three years. Fucking fuck. Shit cunting balls. 

Never eat at Jake’s Diner on I-40. Their hash-browns taste like fried bits of butter, and their pancakes are lathered in whipped cream and candied strawberries. 

In conclusion:
I am a whiny bitch.

I CAN’T FUCKING BELIEVE HE IS MARRIED.

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Name Change.

And Cry-Baby is no longer Cry-Baby. I didn’t like how we related when she was Johnny Depp and I was a pirate. Instead, she will now be referred to as Dragonette. Mmm. 

Hey, look! It’s me!

~Hannah Morgan

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