Im here to watch you die

Facetious

Scandal. Who doesn’t love a good one?

There’s something incredibly scandelous about dating your boss. Particulary one 10 years your senior. If anyone found out this dirty secret, he would be immediatly terminated. He writes your review, assigns you tasks, and reprimands you when neccesary.

Then at the end of the day you go home and fall into his arms. Things between you just click; the past 8 hours of pretending to be subserviant are forgotten. The good see-saw’s with the bad. Waking up the next morning knowing the guilt and paranoia you’ll feel at work that day.

Is it all worth it? We’ll see.

The game.

I seem to find the most disenchanted, hopeless guys. The ones who are reserved, who seem to hate the world and everyone around them. The guys who put on a tough face and criticize others. Usually very sarcastic. I view them as a challenge. Someone to break and mold.

I catch their attention. Show them I can take what they throw at me and give them hell back. This always throws them off. And I guess that’s exactly what attracts them. Then I ease my way into their life and find what makes them tick. Somehow they always open up and spill things I know they’ve only ever told very few people, if anyone. Strategy. Show them that I care, because I know under it all they’re lonely. And that’s part of it. I really do feel bad for them.

They’ll tell me they’ve never met anyone like me. Develop an obsession, and persue me. I’ll brush it off. They’ll fall “madly” in love with me. In some cases I’ll give it a chance, find that it doesn’t work. Because once what I want becomes attainable, I suddenly don’t want it anymore. They’re crushed.

And it’s all a game to me, apparently. That’s the only explaination I can come up with as to why I do the things I do. I just want to get under their skin and see that deep down these cold guys are sweet and caring, love their families, like to have a good time, are ridiculously funny and maybe a bit charming. Not that they’d let anyone know these things.

Maybe it’s that I want to give them a glimmer of hope. Show them that not everything is doom and gloom. And then I yank it all back because I find that you can’t really “fix” people.

Pathetic

isntlifejuicy:

You think you’ve found him.  Mr. Right.  Okay, okay, maybe not Mr. Right… but he’s definitely Mr. Right-up-there with Johnny Knoxville, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Captain Jack Sparrow.  You find yourself thinking about him between classes, or wanting to call him on some idle Tuesday.  You start formulating ways to approach him, or impress him: bake cookies, wear something sexy, ask him to go on an adventure, slip a note in his pocket.  And yet, even your most creative approach seems mediocre and inadequate.  But you can’t get him out of your head.  He’s everywhere and  it’s ridiculous.  So you pick up a pen.  You decide to write him.  After all, its what you do.  Problem is, no matter how desperately your hand strangles that pen, how many times your fingers dance across the keyboard, or how many sentences your cerebral cortex configures, you simply can’t convey how ideal you think you are for him.  You want to tell him you think he’s brilliant.  You want to tell him he’s perfect.  Not in the sense he has no flaws.  In fact, you see all his imperfections perfectly.  It doesn’t matter though, because there is something more.  Something real and substantial and ineffable, something different.  Maybe what he lacks, you have.  You want to tell him this is everything you want, that he is your silver lining.  You want to tell him you have so much to give, so much to offer.  You know you could entice him.  You want to ask him why not.  You’re aching inside because you want to tell him so much.  But you don’t.  You’re crazy about him and you won’t even hint at that fact.  Your fear of rejection has deeper roots than a sycamore tree.  So instead of taking a leap, you find youself here: recording another vague composite of words about something that will never happen.  And you pretend those feelings aren’t really there.  And you continue to settle.

friend of mine

I was hoping J was there. It wasn’t him it was you. For someone who always has so much to say to me you were awkwardly silent. I think skinny jeans and high heels do that to you. You lingered for a minute too long and all I wanted was to get out of there as quick as possible. Hopefully you wont be asking me where I went or what I did that night.

___________________________________________________________________

“It’s your hit”. I accept. After two I’m thrown back. Three weeks out of commission will do that to you. Time to stargaze, you say. I was hoping out on the dock, but instead out in the open.

I’m back in Michigan with a fur-lined coat and a hoodie underneath, still freezing. Walking through the field chain-smoking and staring at the sky. I can’t stand straight, can’t see straight. You with your pipe and self-assurance. Oh and him, I forgot he was there. A sickness I’ve been trying to shake for months.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you inside, I wonder if he could tell. It doesn’t matter because it will all be over soon.

Just checking

How close am I