Tag Archives: rant

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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Filed under Love line