littlegirllost

I can get away with so much these days. I can say whatever I want at any time to anyone and they'll stroke my hair like an abused kitty cat that just destroyed the couch. "Poor thing. All it needs is love."
I don't drink much, but when I do I push and hit and growl and make people do things they promised themselves they'd never do again. So for their sake, I only come around every once in a while with whiskey in hand and bad, bad intentions in mind.
I got drunk the other night. I decided I was going to tell people exactly what I thoought of them, and it was going to help them. Only once I started talking to them, I realized we're all desperate and injured and unstable, but able to treat each other with humor and compassion, miracle of miracles. I stole that from Paul's journal. He wrote it after our first date. I'd rather be compassionate than brutally honest. I think it's possible to be both.
Also I can't listen. I try, but my mind is usually elsewhere. I'm trying to concentrate on all the psychic pain in the entire universe, and all I can feel is my own.
I want everyone to feel better. I want everyone to know how fantastic they are. And are. And are.
This woman said we choose all our struggles before they even start, and all the blueprints are written down in this huge, sparkling hall of records. On scrolls with gilded script. What a horrible lie.
I woke up on my friend John's porch, covered in a very soft blanket. Thank God I didn't wake up in his bed. Thank God.