Ice cream and cookies. I’m being a fatty tonight. Eating a ton of sugar in one sitting. I am self-destructive and I wallow in every minute of it.
I wonder if knitting burns calories, I should Google that! I know that sex burns calories. After I dusted the vibrator off and charged it up, the calories felt like they were melting away. I’ve always kept it pretty clean. Remember me, the one who claimed to avoid two fingers…I am a practicing homophobic lesbian after all. Well, that was sort of a lie. The two fingers part, not the practicing homophobe scenario! Currently I am drowning my blues in food and clonazepam so I don’t think about it, the homophobia.
Hopefully I can convince my Mum and Daddy tonight that since I’ve sworn off married women, not been notified by the NHCLU, had charges in court dropped, that maybe I can go out and play with one of my straight friends.
Perhaps, Josie! Mother Theresa believes her to below ‘our status’ but I enjoy her sexually deviant ways. Even if the chatter revolves around her and her boyfriend and different positions they’ve tried. Positions and visuals I prefer not to have grace my empty mind but they do anyway.
While I await the commander and chief’s decision I find myself dicking around with papers and notes. Love letters. Love messages. Shit that don’t mean a thing.
“I love you so much. I dream about the day I get to marry you, live with you and spend the rest of my life with you every day I wake up thinking about you. Hoping I get to see you”
Useless little hook, line and sinker message that I had sent my married Kate. The psycho-bitch girlfriend. Gee, as I scratch the dander out of my hair; I wonder how badly I ruined that marriage. Could I possible woo another unsuspecting woman with that on my romantic resume?
Something like, hey, you’re pretty cute for a girl. I’m not gay but I did do a cougar last summer. Did her marriage in pretty good while I was at it too! Two strikes for Ambien, one strike for Kate. Tru dat’.
Shit, there goes the Sainted Mother Theresa. One thing about the two of the parental bookends being professors, their free weekends fill my family life with dysfunction and they are always up in my business.
Heading down the wooden stairs and passing by the off white painted doorway, I enter into the dreaded kitchen area.
“Ambien Grace, we, your father and I, don’t mind you going out but can you at least find some different kids to play with? Knives, sluts and white trash seem to be all you’re interested in. What if I introduced you to some of the boys in my speech pathology class? The one’s on dean’s list. UNH wasn’t that bad. Maybe you could just come and sit in my office and we can pick some boys from the yearbook.”
Shit, fuck, twenty-something and now I am being groomed for heterosexuality. I wonder if any of Mum’s boys would be interested in the nude self-portraits I have.
