I'm home alone once more, and I'm sick to my stomach with love!
I've seen too many movies where love of the impossible kind is produced between two beautiful people, and think to myself it's possible? Wrong! scream
I look, first, at my mother. Beautiful and intelligent. Unmarried and lonely. Did I miss something? I see her trudging around everyday, sometimes finding a man to date, but they always turn out to be assholes!
Filthy cheating LYING assholes.
Then I look at myself. Simple, plain and average. I'm not a whore or a b***h, but boys, although boys aren't what my main focus should be at this point, avoid me like I was some toad squished on the side of the road.
Maybe I'm just asking too much of what this world nowadays can give me, but a little passion is all I ask! What about in Jane Austen's days? Courting men in suits were gentlemanly and passionate.
Even Poe and Van Gogh had passion!
Now all I see everywhere is a lust to get in each other's knickers without meaning.
Maybe it's because I'm a young, hopeless romantic that will forever end up in boredom of no relationship, so I'll become crusted over with seriousness and uninteresting traits and I'll be focused on work and careers and jobs and money and I'll be just another gas-guzzling, democrat-loving old woman with ten thousand cats. . .
More later. I have to go vomit blood now stare
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Hetrosexual Cross-Dresser
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Bob Dylan Knows His Junk. heart