As I sit naked in my chair chilled in for the night, I hear them. “Please go past our door.” I think, but they don’t. Silence starts at our threshold and then is stopped with the rampant knock of “Shave and a Haircut”. No, please anyone but him. It’s John, the neighbor that works at West and preys on men from craig’s list, and he’s here to unload his daily life on me as if I’m a diary.
The down side to living in a small complex of flats is that every fucking neighbor thinks they can come over whenever they damn well please. They seem to lack the understanding that I JUST WANT TO BE NAKED MOTHERFUCKERS!
One would think that after nineteen years I would have the skills required to breathe down pat.
For some reason I’ve just found myself scrolling through bulimia tags, and I want so badly to hug all those people that feel out of control of the control they’ve created within their lives. I want to tell them that I know it sucks, and food sucks, and self hatred sucks, and fat sucks, and that everything that the mirror an scale reflects sucks; but it’s not as bad as living with the heart issues and cavities that bulimia bestows upon you, or the denial you swim in for the cause. Trust me.
Have you ever eaten so many lettuce, mustard and grape roll ups that you get a tummy ache?
Teachers that don’t respect you enough to let you speak, shitty co-workers, being a minimum wage slave, not having time to spend with friends and loved ones, and this god damn rut that my life has fallen into.
I just challenged Paul to a game of Penis. I did the challenge eyebrow and all, but he refused acceptance.