Storming paradise

"From this flesh my spirit longs to break away. 
Did you ever feel this cosmic circumstance was never enough? 
Wake me slowly if ever at all. 
Wake me slowly or watch me fall."

I do long to break free from my flesh tonight. Only I don't want to die.
Desire makes me weak, it makes me crawl, yet dignity wins every single time.
I still need to find the one who won't force me to choose.
I have to keep on fighting though I can barely stand.
It's OK though. I'm used to watching my world burn.
I am slowly regaining my hope, not because the situation is improving. Because it was mine and you took it away.
The rest will take care of itself, fuck you very much.
Desire will pass. It always passes.
Hey, even life will pass, let alone desire. 
I wish I could take a single drop of my longing and put it in a glass.
Then watch the unlucky person who drank it go mad.
You obviously knew what you did when you gave that much yearning to me.
You knew I could host it. 
Not sure who else can take it even by association, and not go insane.
Long ago, there was someone who could take it, and he used it to create worlds with me.
He is not here now, but watches over me.
And late at night I find myself imploring him.
"Show me the one who can take it.
Show me the one who'll manage not to be consumed and pushed into madness
but will use my love as a key to unlock paradise.
We'll take paradise by force, true Sons and Daughters of Lucifer
and our love will burn so brightly that angels will cover their eyes."
I do long to break free from my flesh tonight. Only I don't want to die.
Desire makes me weak, it makes me crawl, yet dignity wins every single time.
Until the night I won't have to choose.

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2019

Remembering my dead pets tonight. I wonder what kind of masochism urges us to adopt, when it only means we're going to have our heart broken repeatedly. I miss my little darlings and feel indebted for the way they enriched my life, even if it wasn't for long.

I am writing again. There are more than a few hiccups along the way, and I am not always certain if anything can be achieved, but my stories are important to me. I am not sure what can be achieved by writing here either and yet I am. I don't even know who's reading this or if anyone is reading this and what they think about it. It doesn't really matter.

I am walking with one foot here, one foot there. One foot in the world of reason and results, one foot in the world of the unconscious and inner understanding. Every now and then I stop and measure my progress. The progress I make becomes evident only through the increased feeling of well-being inside; it does not change my conditions much. Even that is good. I am in a better place than I used to be, and hopefully it will improve further.

I am learning to ask for things I want.

I am also learning to voice my displeasure.

There is someone I like. I am rather terrified by the fact. I am also pretty certain it will not take me to a better place; just disappoint and hurt me. It already looks that way. In the past I would have run away at maximum speed; right now I am trying to not kill it before it even starts. You see, I am exceptional at it killing them before they draw their first breath, before they hurt me. In the end, I don't know what's worse; a life of comfortable numbness or being consumed by your own feelings. So I am trying to break my patterns before they turn into my life, and will take it one step at a time.

2018 wasn't good. Here's to 2019.

Happy new year.

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Diversion

 

I need to post something for two reasons. One, both music and performance are fantastic. Secondly, I can't bear to see the photo of poor Louse every time I open my blog. It hurts me. So I'll post ballet, which is one of my vices, and stop seeing my dead kitten. Sounds like a plan?

For those of you who don't care about ballet, may I suggest looking at the arms of the female dancer? Just observe the grace and beauty of their movement and don't look at anything else if you don't want. Those fluid, seemingly effortless movements are the result of a few thousand hours of excruciatingly difficult practice. Just try the ballet posture for a minute and then tell me. Shoulders down and back, neck and body straight, tuck in your tummy, don't sag, don't stick your butt out. Keep breathing. Wow, that hurts, doesn't it? And you're not even moving! That's the basic posture, not practice. Ha! You simply have to keep that unnatural posture (which, by the way,  is actually the healthy posture your body should have, but due to smartphones and office jobs and what have you, no-one stands that way) and try simple exercises for beginners. Oh joy! Suddenly those effortless, graceful movements in the video reveal themselves for what they really are: torture methods for a particularly nasty elite in hell. I'd sure as fuck make politicians learn classical ballet after death. I'd love to see Hitler or Trump in a pair of pointe shoes. I'd probably use a whip for encouragement. 

Hm, I got carried away, didn't I? Well, I hope you'll enjoy the video. I found it less stiff and stylised than the average ballet performance. Beautiful acting too. And the damn French, oh the damn French, they should either be eradicated from existence, or placed in a harem and made to serve me exclusively. Evil, evil beings, beautiful and talented and expressive and... yes, God dammit, I am jealous. That's my excuse.
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How to protect your heart from breaking

Kill desire and you should be perfectly safe. And dead for that matter.

If there's one thing I despise about desire, are its highs and lows. First you get kicked sky-high and then you fall. If desire isn't met, then you should prepare yourself for some really nasty withdrawal symptoms.

Whenever I truly desired someone and it wasn't reciprocated, I suffered. They never knew, of course. Only I knew how much it cost me. I've always been proud and unwilling to chase, even if I was going crazy. I never chase. I speak, and if the other person is not interested, it is what it is. In my case, it is heartache and suffering until desire subsides again and I go back to my routine, feeling as exhausted and disillusioned as a junkie going cold turkey. Life is what it is, and I am what I am. I don't hold it personally against anyone. I have enough feelings for ten people. Sometimes I also feel I have the bad luck of ten people. The mysteries of attraction are not for the sane or the weak-hearted. Thankfully I am neither. So I'll just eat some chocolate and sleep and not ponder further on what I can't solve or understand. Right? Right.

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Ants in my pants

It's one of those frustrating nights. I'm frantically looking for something, but it eludes me in the same frantic manner. I jump from one site to the next, looking, searching, desperately trying to get a glimpse, a faint idea of what I'm missing. And of course failing, because I don't have a clue what I'm looking for. I'm just restless and unfulfilled, and internet can't help me with that. No-one can help me with that.

I found this song that is a reward in itself. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Until then, enjoy.

Lyrics

Run from the light
Your eyes black like an animal
Deep in the water

I care for no one but the offspring of your mind
Run from the one who comes to find you
Wait for the night that comes to hide

Your eyes black like an animal
Black like an animal
Crossing the water
Lead them to die

We press for the water, press for the river, press for the rain
We press for the water, press for the river, press for the pain

We press for the water... 

Triggers

I recently read that grief isn't a process, but rather a new way of seeing things. It was one of the best ways I have seen grief described. I'm still mourning for my friend Virve and it has altered my entire perception. I will include the quote at the end of this paragraph. Some might find it helpful. I did find it helpful.

How do triggers work? They work due to the mind's ability to make associations and connections. You see something that for another person means nothing, or something positive. For you, however, it has a very different meaning and causes vastly different feelings. For example today I saw a bottle of soda water on my desk. I wanted to give you that bottle because you love soda. Then I remembered we're no longer together. That's a perfect example of a trigger. A soda bottle made me feel sadness and a sense of futility.

Don't get me wrong. I don't regret a thing I did for you, and I don't consider it futile because you didn't appreciate it. I am who I am. Nothing can change me. Only death can take my personality away. When my time comes, death will step in lightly and transmute my being into something bigger and brighter and literally larger than life. Death is the one place, the one condition that wipes the slate clean of everything. And guess what, the first thing to go are our lies. All the lies we told ourselves and other people are gone like morning mist under the blazing sun. For death is yet another sun; it shines black and negative and peaceful in its anti-existence. The doorway opens and you step through it naked as a baby. Everything you have been holding onto for comfort is gone.

When your comforting lies and possessions are gone, I hope each of you will hold onto the one thing no-one can take from you, not even death. Your dignity.

Good night. 

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Moff and Flickerlee

This is so cute it should be illegal and so sad it should be posted with a warning. It made me cry. Or maybe I am too sentimental and fragile right now, I don't know.

Taken from here: http://stressedjenny.deviantart.com/gallery/41817441/Moff-and-Flickerlee

On the matter of Sherlock...

I really needed to hear this, because in spite of my love for gay erotica, this unstoppable mania with the John/ Sherlock slash fiction is not something I truly comprehend. I also can't understand why anyone would think that Sherlock is cute and fluffy. I don't have a problem with people having fantasies, or writing fan-fiction, or creating fan-art. Art and fiction are a noble pursuit and a great way to improve your skills. What I do have a problem with are those who think that their fantasies are the one and only truth, and will attack anyone who doesn't think the same.  So, from the horse's mouth, Mr. Benedict Cumberbatch, on his Sherlock from the latest TV series...

“People keep coming up to me and saying, ‘Oh, he’s so sexy, do you think [Sherlock would be] interested in me?’ ” says Cumberbatch. “Do you not think he’d just look at you twice and tell you everything you hate about yourself and crumple you up like a little bit of paper and flick you away? He’s a machine and brutal and ruthless and has no time for the distractions of your fawning. Because, you know, they either want to make John [Watson] into a sort of cute little toy, or me into a cute toy, or we’re fucking in space on a bed, chained together.”

Cumberbatch is referring to the rapacious slash fiction community that has turned his chilly, acerbic, and distinctly asexual Sherlock into a lustful cock monster. “It’s always, like, one of them is tired, one comes back from work, the other is horny, a lump appears in his trousers, and then they’re at it,” he says. “It’s usually me getting it — I’m biting Watson’s dog tags.” Perhaps, I suggest, making Holmes and Watson gay is a way to remove other women from the picture. “Yes, yes,” he replies enthusiastically. “I think it’s about burgeoning sexuality in adolescence, because you don’t necessarily know how to operate that. And I think it’s a way of neutralizing the threat, so this person is sort of removed from them as somebody who could break their heart.”

Interview excerpt taken from here: 

http://indigojester.tumblr.com/post/100032167631/out-magazine-interview-the-gospel-according-to

Love

What do you do to deal with the inadequacy of every day life?

What can you do to deal with the fact you are isolated inside a body and will be so for the rest of your life?

I thought I saved myself from danger and my own temperament that loves tragedy and impossible loves but in reality I opened the door and stepped out of life. I left everything behind, and as the piano pours out one melody after the next, I watch life from behind the window like a beggar outside a busy restaurant. I watch everyone else eat and have a good time. I cannot enter because I don't fit. I never did. Or so I used to think.

The line that 'killed' me came from an excellent TV series called True Detective. It was about how each of us considers ourselves to be something more than a collection of biological urges. Each of us considers ourselves to be more real than the rest, each of us thinks that our perception and life is more real than other people's. And we are all the same, a pitiful bundle of flesh and urges wanting to go on and condemned to die. We crave reproduction and power even when we claim that our causes are noble, even when we dress our desires with a higher meaning.

I crave the sky. I crave death. I crave freedom. I crave life. I crave godhood like the protagonist of 'Perfume'.

I am a bloody idiot.

I am no different than anyone else, just better at deceiving myself. Smarter than most, enough to muddle my thinking with my own mind games. I have exiled love from my life and feel comfortably numb, empty and safe, unfulfilled and manic. Yet I go on. I despise my own biology for condemning me to these urges because I have glimpsed something else, bigger, better, different. And at the same time I realise just how silly I am to despise something that is perfectly innocent, my body. And also because what I have glimpsed may be nothing else but Love. Love as in everlasting Love, that we try to bring down to our human size and try to live it as best as we could, reducing it and twisting it to something we can understand.

When the protagonist of True Detective briefly crossed over what he found was Love.

I am almost there. Almost at the point of understanding.

Almost at breaking point, where everything will make sense once more.

All I need is to take one more step, even if I have to crawl.

Open the door again, even if my hands are shaking and I am absolutely terrified.

Welcome back to the game.

Welcome back now that you know how everything is connected.

Breathe. You are safe.

Just breathe. The rest will follow.

Officially beat and writing fan-fiction.

 Australian flying foxes (species of bats) . All together now: AAAAAAAWWWWWWW!

Running around like mad today. I am glad I managed to get things done. But, presently I feel that awkward combination of tiredness, being hyper and restless and craving something I can't get my finger on.

Oh, I actually can get my finger on it just fine, I just can't have what I want, thank you very much.

I do wish I had the same unshakable resolve when it came to eating sweets. I wouldn't look the way I do.

This is a combination of all the wrong things creating a nice potent combination of melancholy, arousal, useless passion and low self-esteem. I do like myself, very much in fact. Enough to dislike most people I come across because their moral code is not as strict as mine. I do not judge them. I just do not like them and know I can expect very little from them. At the same time I am perfectly aware of my own faults and the cracks in my own mask of so-called perfection. I am an unlikely combination of a misanthrope joined at the hip with an altruist. Most of the time I want to rebuild this world, and then there are times I just want to destroy it all, crush it under my heel and let nature, gods or chance sort the mess out. I see right through most humans I come across, and I am bored, and sick of them, sick of life, bored of death, simultaneously uncaring and desperate, perpetually thirsty and locked up and unavailable like the goddamn frost maiden, sick of myself and clinging onto myself like a baby at its dead mother's tit.

I am just tired, and nothing will change unless I get off my ass and change it.

The trouble is that I am scared out of my wits, absolutely terrified of what will happen if I even try.

I do try. Baby steps, tiny little baby steps, little by little. Better than no steps at all.

I get discouraged every two to three steps. I think I will never make it, never go anywhere, never reach any safe place. Just remain stuck here.

I write fan fiction to quench my thirst for the unattainable. I have no other solution. I write my own version of marriages made in hell and my insolent fingers play the chords of the wrong characters like they are harps. I toy with them from a safe distance and pretty much write like there are demons on my heels. Twelve thousand words in just three days and I am not done yet. You see, there are indeed demons on my heels. They are called CV, job finding, and the rest of that unhappy lot. Give me villains, serial killers, the cream of lunatics. None of them terrifies me as much as the word 'resume'. Give me man-eating men and monsters, give me sadists, pedophiles, the lowest of the low. Anything you want. I will write it for you and make it rock your world, or even better, write it and rock my world till my titties are salsa-dancing. Just keep the job search and the CV editing away from me. I am absolutely terrified. 

I head back to my fan-fiction. I am writing this for myself, I say, and yet I can't help not share with my best friend. She is the only one who will not call me weak and stupid, will ignore my improvisations and not judge me.

Even monsters need a friend. Even gods of death need a home. Everyone needs to belong somewhere, to a person, place, or the memory of one.

By the way, I have not forgotten you. I still expect a letter from you. Then I remember you are gone. And the God of Death comes and gives to that knife stuck in my gut that charming extra twist.

I have so very, very few friends. The tiniest portion of humans manage to pass the threshold into my heart and every single one of them is not treated as a friend, but as a small miracle.

In your case, someone decided to take the miracle back.

I am patient. I will dig that little bastard out and sooner or later I'll be the one holding the knife.

The pen is mightier than the sword indeed. 

Aristocratic

 

Would you look at that. Those fingers, those nails.

And I presently look like a homeless woman who's trying to give birth to the Antichrist through a zit on her forehead. Or maybe I am on my way to becoming a unicorn. The possibilities are endless.

Wah.

:-/

Go away, 2013. Just go away.

You suck.
[Sherlock]

Fuck me

Art by Xiao Bai

Fuck me. Fuck me standing, sitting, lying, in any position possible, fuck me like you mean it, like we won't live to see another day. Fuck me hard, fuck me gently, fuck my brain for weeks before you seduce me out of my clothes. Fuck me by the way you touch your glass, fuck me by the way you play with your cufflinks while talking about your life. Fuck me with my clothes on because you smile that evil smile of yours and I melt to see it addressed to me only. Fuck me by getting up and moving into my space, asking me to dance with you, while your clean body’s scent makes my knees turn into jelly. Fuck me anywhere you want. Fuck me till I beg, fuck me till neither of us can move, fuck me until even fetching a glass of water means one of us crawling on all fours because walking is impossible. Fuck me until reality breaks down into pixels and colours explode inside our heads and when we try to talk we speak in tongues and all we can do is cry in each other's arms. Bite me, suck me, lick me, kiss me, eat me, tell me how good I taste, look at me with irrational wanting, like I’m the only person left on earth. Let me worship every square inch of your body with my mouth and my fingers. Let me hear you yell until the neighbours jump out of their beds in fright. Let me feel your fingers in my hair, hear your sharp gasp as you orgasm. Let me hear your breath catch in your throat as I lower your zipper with my eyes full of murder, feel your pulse race under my fingertips. Fuck me raw. Fuck me on all fours while strangling me and biting my back, fuck me slowly as I lower myself on you again and again, taking you in, keeping you my willing prisoner. Fuck me in bed, in the kitchen, in a public library, in the bar's toilet, in a back alley. Fuck me because you can second-guess me accurately enough to be frightening. Fuck me and let me drink from your sweet blood and seed and saliva like I am having communion from the living body of my personal Christ and saviour.

Be mine, be mine, be mine. 
STID:K

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Chemicals

 

Art taken from here

I am sad tonight.

It is silly to be sad about what doesn't matter.

It's silly to be sad about movies, books, music.

Those three things make me sad more than anything else.

Sadness is nothing but chemicals. The brains experiences a stimulus, gives the order to the appropriate glands, they saturate your blood in chemicals. Our very own tailor-made, fit to perfection drugs.

There you go, dear. Have a cuppa. All yours, choke on it.

Drink it down to the last drop.

I have no protection against art.

People I have protection against.

Art, I don't.

Solstice.

Biggest night of the year. Darkness knows no end tonight.

I am not afraid of darkness. It is a caress, a luxury, a friend.

There's a kitten in a box near my feet.

I don't know if he'll survive the night.

Let's hope it does.

[Sherlock]

Birthdays and namedays and keepsakes

So many people have lost me and they haven't realised I am not there anymore.

They 've lost me because they are petty and jealous and ungrateful. They are worse than ungrateful actually; they try to harm me while I have only done them good. But that's humans for you.

Most of the time that I press on I have no idea why.

I've settled in a life of quiet desperation and all I do is count my blessings.

I still love. I still care. Or I pretend I do. When I caress my cats, half of the time I do it because I know they need it and I don't want to let them down.

But I am so tired.

Tired to my bones. Tired to my very soul.

Tiredness is combined with bouts of mania and desire, where I do one million things to avoid thinking. Or I download pictures from the internet and look at the things, places, people I cannot have and get more depressed.

There are days I can see the world in all its ugliness, destruction and decomposition.

I see me for the disgusting sack of meat that I am, for the death waiting to happen, for the old age setting in, for wasted chances and potential and absolute lack of anything noteworthy. I think that if I was to die tomorrow, on my tombstone would be written, "she tried".  

Of course, we live in a society that success is not measured by effort, but achievement.

And there are days I look inside and it's so beautiful. Everything makes much more sense in there. Just next to the tower of abyss where my dark side is having one of her usual parties, there is so much beauty. I feel like a person deprived of speech that hosts paradise, and so I write, and write, and write, and pretty much nothing changes.

I just write. And then I read what I've written. And it's good, or I think it's good. And I pat myself on the back for it. Well done.

And I go back to my life of quiet desperation.

I wish I wasn't as strong and I had given up already.

I wish I was already dead.

And then my friend's words come to my mind, and she said to me, in one of her letters, we've crawled through every road in hell, and we never gave up.

And she said to me that all she has stayed back for are her rabbits, because she doesn't trust a single soul to take care of them. Don't laugh, that's as valid a reason as any.

I just wish I had given up already.

That's all.

But there are so many out there with less than I have.

And so I count my blessings and press on.

A change of plans

We’re such a silly race. We cling onto our plans and carefully designed routes with single-minded ferociousness.

We fear change and anything that threatens to throw us off course. At least off the course we had thought as ideal. We’re so silly and scared. I am so silly and scared. Going with the flow is supposedly the easiest thing to do, yet how unwilling I am to do that. How scared I am of any kind of commitment on any level and for any reason. 

A friend wrote to me in one of her letters, “I always had an escape route handy in case something went wrong.” I know exactly what she means, and this is how I usually plan my life too. Making sure I need to rely on no-one except myself, and if relying on someone cannot be avoided, I certainly don't choose to rely on someone I am evolved with in an erotic manner. Depending on my lover is my greatest nightmare. I want to be free. I want no power games or need involved. I want to be myself, and approach someone because I feel the need for companionship. Not their help. Feeling helpless drives me nuts, being in need for something only another person can provide makes me beside myself with distaste and annoyance. It’s actually better than what it was; in the past I got sick with self-loathing whenever I even thought about such a possibility. I probably am the most deluded fool of all, wanting to exist alone in a perfect void, where desire and need cannot take root. This cannot happen, such a state of being cannot be achieved. Not while I am still human. Perhaps at some other point. Oh no, you will not capture me again, I say to desire, I will never again be your prisoner, as if desire is the executor, or the bad guy. And this coming from a person who’s nothing but desire in its purest form. I have the ability to bridge and understand and download and merge and shape, using desire as my guide, and the one thing I do understand to a frightening degree is desire. Yet I struggle against it tooth and claw. At least the erotic type of it, because I splurge in every other type. They’re safe. They cannot make me depend, or humiliate me. I have avoided drugs and alcohol and every single option of desire that can make me lose control. The rest, yeah right, bring it on. I’ll dive head into it. Music, any kind of art, food, pets, even friends have been safe choices. Never sex or love. They are the dangerous choices. And even with friends, I make sure to choose the ones I can guide and help to my advantage and therefore control most of the time. Sad freaks, those choosing not to play the game. Sad addicts, those choosing to play it. And I pretend to be standing in the middle ground. Yeah, right. Jesusing my way on the angry sea. You go, girl.

If only there was a way to re-acquaint myself with erotic desire in a safe way, with no strings attached and no stupid power games. With respect, responsibility and an open mind. Then again, if pigs could fly… (I would make swarms of them circle the houses of those I hate, and shit on them non-stop. Ha ha!) Yet, strangely, my best friend has managed the balance. Maybe I can do it too.

Sometimes the cure to a very unusual problem is an equally unusual solution.

The solution in my case, strangely enough, involves death in an indirect manner.

Not my death, and not through my hands. I did my part seven years ago. It nearly killed me, yet I did my part. I tagged you and I wait.

Let me hear good news from that front. Please.

In the mean time, I’m ovulating. Pretty boys, cover your rear. The butt chasing menace is out there, salivating and making gurgling noises. Need I tell you how dangerous she is for the sanctity of your butt? No sir.

Yahoo, relationships, and the hermit's point of view.

It's  been five days that I have no access to my primary email account, the one I have registered for almost all social sites I use. Facebook, this blog, bookmooch, thealterium, twitter, tumblr, vistaprint and youtube are connected to it (to name the majority). If I permanently lose access to that account I have a lot of work ahead of me. It's not going to be fun. Let's hope the technicians will be able to fix whatever is wrong with it because I am not the only one who has a problem from what they say.

Sometimes I wonder why we do what we hate being done to us, like judging.

And sometimes I don't think. Judging is so tightly woven into human nature that it's impossible to avoid.

I've been in a void of partly my own choice. Away from erotic relationships. I don't want to change that.

It resembles unlearning to eat candy. If you unlearn it, you no longer feel the craving for it from a point onward.

It's not like I feel no craving.I just don't want to bother with all that ensue a relationship and intimacy with another person. It's not worth it. I am tired of the trial and error process relationships are. I want to keep my quiet, for the rest of my life if possible.  Not bother what this and that and the other means.

I look around me. I am not blind. Erotic relationships have an expiration date. Those that stay with the other person even after the interest has died out are pretty much buried alive. They stay because they have a child, or joined bank accounts, or they are afraid, or whatever really. Is any of that a valid reason to stay with a person for the rest of your life? Or is it better to stay with one person and cheat on them because you still want to have interesting sex?

We never really get to know anyone. People are like moons, with a hidden side.

We always think we know others and ourselves.

In reality we know shit.

We make relationships with strangers that remain strangers throughout and even after the end of the relationship.

And how surprised we are when we find out we knew nothing about them and never found out anything, even after years.

All this makes me sick.

There must be a way I can play by different rules, or failing that, not play at all.

I am seeing strange dreams.

I always see strange dreams.

I don't want to do what any of the rest of you do.

I want to play with your perception of reality.

I want to fuck with you and fuck off.

And I am outta here.

High maintenance boyfriends

You know, I keep wondering about it. Not that it changes anything, no matter how many times I preoccupy my brain cells in wrestling marathons with it. But I can't help but wonder.

Why very beautiful men are the way they are? Which means immature. Or stupid. Or too vain. Or too gay. Or whatever. My purpose isn't to make a list. Why? As soon as I see a truly breathtaking man, I almost immediately realise he's not relationship material, end of story. I have no delusions about changing them, saving them, or discovering a hidden, different self if I dig deep enough. There is nothing different no matter how deep and how long I may search. They are just unsuitable. Period. If he's very beautiful, there is something fundamentally flawed about him in some other part of his being.

But why is that? I don't understand it one bit. 

I do have a life long regret that I'll never find the kind of man I dream about. Because the kind of man I dream about is the high maintenance kind of boyfriend. And that kind of boyfriend never falls for my type. They fall for the equally problematic type of high maintenance woman. Or the kind of woman they can relate to whatever issues they have with their mom or dad. And I am neither. I am too straightforward for such. And a part of mine is very, very disappointed and regretful because I know time passes and I must get my act together and look for the kind of companion that will be suitable for me, and not the kind of man I dream about. 

If that isn't a contradiction in terms I honestly don't know what is. And I don't want that.

This is the basic reason I don't do relationships. I don't want any more half-hearted relationships with 'good guys'. No matter how lonely I feel, I refuse to do that again. Been there too many times in the past. Not again. Never again.

It's also one of the reasons I write. My longing for things I cannot have.

Well FUCK THIS. 

There must be at least ONE person that is attractive enough, smart enough and kind enough to be my match.

Just one. Billions of people on this sorry planet. Just one? Pretty please? 

Two would be even better but let's not get greedy now... :P