A Collection of Spectacles

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This type of anger isn’t proper. A very specific type of human conundrum. The plight of being human is that romantically, I can’t be with everyone. I’m wrestling with monogamy, always. The idea, putting all feelings towards only one doesn’t come naturally. It seems to explode out of everything irrational. Who would ever put up with the alternative though? When some people are concerned, I hate anyone else they touch. Frustration’s something I’ve never dealt with before. In the middle, with the sounds pelting my ear  I thought, “I don’t have a job, I don’t have anything. Who cares if my lip bleeds?” I’ve become more careless there. Music has more meaning then. I’m employed now, happy, but soon I’ll feel an alternate form of discontent. A wine corkscrew costs seven dollars across the street. Now, my eyes are fluttering.

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Things are better. Getting better, still.

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Exercising my right to engage in shameless intellectual masturbation: Following up on the improper use of a colon.

I once told a boy (man? no, a boy. honestly)

I was going to edit it shamelessly. Instead, I’ll twist around naked for a while. Why not?

“Okay, sooo after thinking about it, not all of me buys the ‘nothing means anything’ mentality, because even if that is true, then isn’t every day that much more important? If we, as humans, walk through life without fear of higher consequence then why not do anything and everything possible, for one day we will die, and that will be that?

Oh yeah. And, I feel like I came off too strong. Sorry. I don’t genuinely like many people, so when I do, I tend to verge on inappropriate.

I don’t know the depth of your unhappiness, how far it runs. But, I wish that you felt better. You see, everything is part of one whole. Your birth would be nothing without a correlating death; Happiness and sorrow are two sides of the same face.

Think about life and its infinite vastness. You will meet so many people along the way, and not all will be carbon cutouts of the one(s) who hurt you.

You will not end up nowhere, because I do not think you are what nowhere is made up of.

That’s about it.”

This may be a repeat of some sort. Memory is always a distorted partial-truth anyway.

A man once told me, (and I won’t post the entire thing here. A small sense of privacy is still necessary)

“i agree with that, what i want is someone who wants me, that i actually want back. everyone wants to be wanted, too bad everyone’s too busy wanting to be wanted to want somebody.”

Which is cliché, all lowercase, both of ours together, but beautiful. I figure a rose is still gorgeous, even if its image has been horribly overused.

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