anonymouse

It's 1:46 am, and I am up because an evil mosquito snuck into my room and is making that high pitched buzzing sound by my ear. There isn't a more loathsome sound I can think of at the moment.

To be perfectly honest, I'm also awake because I can't stop thinking about M., my fucking ex. "Ex." I'm bitter. I'm ranting bitterly. I am, because I'm not an ex-girlfriend to her, I was never even a girlfriend to her. I was nothing more to her than a convenient fuck. I was there if she couldn't find someone more attractive to fuck or didn't feel like fucking herself, and it's so fucking clichd I could vomit. She finally called it quits with me because she found someone prettier than I am who was willing to put up with her shit. If she comes crawling back to, I think I could really kill her. But I wouldn't because I'm scared of prison, even though my favorite Charlie's Angels episode is when the angels are undercover in prison to overthrow an illicit sexy female prisoner forced prostitution ring. Oh my fuck, I can't even melodramatically act without tossing out a stupid pop culture reference.

I think I want a boyfriend. I would only compare another girl with M., and I can't stop thinking about her as it is. I still think I kind of love her, even though I want to rip out her heart. And that sounds like such a stupid adolescent thing to say. Why don't I get out my Trapper Keeper and write Mrs. M all over it? I hate it, and I hate her because I can't touch my fucking rib cage without thinking about the way she used to -- no, I can't write about sexual acts, not even on a fucking adult website. But she was the only girl who could find all of my erogenous zones, and I guess when you're fucking for nearly five years, you should know every spot.

And I hate myself again. Why didn't I tell her to fuck off before she told me to fuck off? I should've told her to fuck off and die years ago. Am I that scared that I'll never find someone willing to touch me again? That I'll wind up old and alone with no one but a house full of cats to comfort me? Am I that pathetic?

Yeah. Well. This journal entry is fucking pathetic. I'm putting a moratorium on M.

I'm serious about wanting a boyfriend. I've done everything there is to do with a girl except the stuff that really grosses me out, and that isn't reason enough to want to try out guys for once, but I've been thinking about it a lot lately. During a brief discussion on oral sex, my verbal response to the concept of fellatio was "ew." But it's not entirely unappealing. Not at all. At least it's not in my head. Oh god. That pun was completely unintentional. Anyhow, the other reason for visiting Boyland is because I'll only compare anything I do with another girl to M. At least for the time being.

I've been with only one boy. No, wait. Two. But I'm not counting that one. Technically three, but only two of those encounters were consensual. I've never even had a boyfriend, only a week with David, the pretty boy from NYC and a day with Chad, that asshole who drove a fucking black pick-up truck, and a scary encounter in the eighth grade with a knife and a drunk boy named Luis who was paid to fuck me.

But there was a boy who genuinely liked me, and we made out a couple of times, but I pushed him away because I was scared, I think. This was less than a year after Luis, and I didn't know what to do. And then there was this other kid, and he wanted to go out with me, but I knew he was gay before he even came out of the closet.

You know, I'm never going to get an S.O. of any sex or gender if I don't get my ass out there and try. Man, I need a crate of beta-blockers and some self-esteem and probably a nice dress and maybe some make-up and a Lady Gilette. Though you can't see my leg hair unless you put your face right next to my legs.

Okay. That's enough of this horseshit. The mosquito has stopped buzzing, and if it's buzzing? It can't sting you. It's the ones you can't hear that sting you. Eep.