Lonely

I feel incredibly lonely tonight. I don’t know why. This doesn’t happen often. I’m used to being alone, but I’m rarely lonely. What the fuck.

I should go out to a bar and try to pick up a girl.

I think my love of flirting and flings are two of the reasons why I can’t be in a relationship…duh. I’m a novelty whore. I hate things being the same–even good things. God, that’s fucked up and stupid. I can’t be saved. The meds can balance my chemicals, but I have to learn how to control my impulses.

Is it worth it?

I don’t think so.

I know my lover will say she doesn’t care, but I think she might.

Shortly after we first started playing with each other, she told me that she wanted to have a threesome, maybe a foursome, but now she says, “I just want to fuck you.”

I know what that means, and I can’t allow it. I’m such a piece of shit.

She keeps buying me things; girls always seem to, and I hate it.

My mom told me one of my exes was trying to buy my love. She was right. That ex spent a thousand dollars on my birthday, then got offended when I told her that I would’ve been happy with a handpicked rose and a smile. I thought it was cute…maybe not, I don’t know.

My sis in law’s cousin is pansexual—a term that I hate, but I hate most labels—and she told me that I should get into a polyamorous relationship. But I don’t want that either. I don’t want a label. As Oscar Wilde said, “From a label, there’s no escape”. I’ve probably already used that quote in a post. It’s one of my favorites, along with, “People know the cost of everything but the value of nothing.” The Picture of Dorian Grey is a goddamn quote mine. It’s easily one of my ten deserted island books. I think Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at Noon is another one, and the bible is another, though I’m not religious, and the rest would probably be collections of short stories; from Gorge Luis Borges, for one, but I’m too drunk to think of the others.

So, sex, polyamory, fucktoys, spitting in mouths, choking, all night fucking—none of it matters if you’re still lonely.

Me, again, complaining about having shit that most people want. God, I’m fucked in the head.

Prepare for more stupid posts tonight since I can’t finish a story. I started three drafts while writing this so some of them might be redundant.

Sorry.

I hope you’re not lonely. If you are, find someone to cuddle or fuck or sext.

I’m not spellchecking or revising tonight—apologies for any errors.

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Capsules of Concentrated Sacrifices

I sacrificed my dreams to not have nightmares.

I sacrificed my body to not hate the way I look.

I sacrificed my favorite feature, my changeling eyes, to pills that permanently dilate them, making them appear brown and drab, to not have them half-covered by sleepless eyelids.

I sacrificed my limitless highs to not have crushing lows.

Maybe I should build a pyre of prescription pill bottles and sacrifice my sanity, again, to elevate my psyche back to my pantheon of personality extremes.

Maybe I could find happiness in being Zeus for a few weeks or months, Hades for a few years, Apollo and Athena for a few moments, here and there, all rolled into my primary personality, Dionysus, who drinks wine, takes ecstasy and eats lotus flowers, and live a perpetual life of ritual madness.

Maybe I should just sacrifice myself, and ask to be buried somewhere pretty, with a rose bush growing on top of my grave, not bouquets laying on it to wilt and decay and be blown away.

Maybe sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe I’m stupid for thinking sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe life is a series of protracted sacrifices.

Maybe sacrifices are natural and necessary to advance our lives.

Maybe I don’t like that sacrifices are natural.

Maybe I should burden myself with the sins and sacrifices of others–then sacrifice myself like the scapegoat in the bible.

Yea, maybe I’ll sacrifice myself, my soul, my entire being.

One last sacrifice.

Maybe.