love

What the fuck is love?

I don’t understand people, and that’s not good at all. Why? Because I’m supposed to be a goddam writer, that’s why. Now who can tell me how the fuck am I to describe the human condition and create new worlds if I can’t get shit in this one? Now why the fuck am I so pissed about this now?

It’s all about a girl, fucking right as usual.

Ok, just let me start over. Well of course I have no fucking idea what love is, I’ve never been in love, and at least I think I was? Ok, see that’s where the problem lies, I have no idea if I was ever in love with this one girl. We hung out, we talked, we shared, we laughed, and well we also fucked. But ultimately she had to leave. There’s that old idea of a summer romance, you know? 1 or 2 months of pretend relationship and then everyone goes home. I hate shit like that, it feels like fucking movies, like we can pretend to feel something and just, poof, it’s fucking gone. That’s bullshit, it’s crap. But ok, let’s imagine she was acting it all for my benefit, now this would be even more fucked up. Come on! 

I know what I felt, I can’t presume to know what she felt, but you can tell stuff. There are details, attitude, and just subtle things. But sometimes one person has to have the brains, when the other one is all heart and cock, right? It’s hard to keep in touch when you’ve been asked to tone it down, but what can you do? Sometimes it’s just about having someone you can tell some of the shit the festers deep down, and they’ll understand. And it’s even worse when that person also doubles as something of a muse. 

Like Becca said, once you get laid, your life turns to shit. 12 or 13 and she already knew much more than a 30 year old man-boy. Sex can fuck up things, maybe I think too much about it, but why shouldn’t I? It’s fun, it can be so intimate and yet so impersonal, but it should never be boring.  I can’t pretend sex isn’t important, but I’m not sure if it was good for her. That’s where my insecurities fuck me up, I have serious issues and sex is a big one. 

This shit, writing, it’s hard, it’s like unpaid work. And sometimes just anyone noticing is so much for me. Maybe I’m just needy, it’s probably why I want to write. I crave the attention. Fuck it, that’s not it, if I wanted attention I could do a bunch of other shit that’s easier. I just need to throw so much shit in my head. And it needs to go somewhere.

Fuck, why can’t we just not grow up, why do we have to forget how to be childish? Ok I know sometimes you do have to be an adult, get a job, have obnoxious kids and all, but why can’t we still be kids with all of that?  But that’s a whole different story.