No more.

Well, until this ends.


Then I'll run out and find the cutest (hopefully!) guy around and boink their ever-living heads off! Awwwww yeah.

It does hurt that many, many people would consider me a whore if they knew the truth. But I know myself, and I know that so many teachings they cling to are bullshit, are worse than no social upbringing, because society taught them wrong.
I know the times I'd take back still served their purpose.
And I know the times I wouldn't take back were more wonderful than anything they'll ever know.

That word was screamed at me once.

She crossed the line; read my journals.

I'm a whore to her, now.

Because her husband couldn't give me the attention I needed growing up, I thought I could get it by fucking guys while I was out of my mind with rum.

I'm a whore, because I was so sheltered growing up.
I wasn't an angel. I had rebellious streaks. She should have realized that stifling my soul could mean a big backlash in the future.

In a way, it's their fault entirely.

In another way, I take full responsibility for trying to find love through sex.

I used to count the times I had sex with guys. It was up to fifteen. they were mostly all one-night stands.

I lied to my boyfriend about it though.

I failed to mention how I fucked my brother's friend just two months before I finally moved in with my boyfriend. I failed to mention I fucked some hispanic dude named Paco. In broad daylight.

The last guy I was with, before my boyfriend, had been bragging about all the girls he "pleasured." How much they were begging for it. He is tiny. He is too rough. He's really disappointing! He wasn't worth it...and yet I still fantasize about all the crazy things we did. Until the sun came up, and the school bus rounded the corner.

Am I a whore? I don't know. It hurt when she told me I was. I think it's because I know deep down, it's true....

What self-respecting girl would fuck her brother's friend? Well, try to anyway.

But being the goody-two-shoes wasn't as fun as being the whore god damn it.

amphetamines

you are my favorite drug. you are my fairy godmother, and i am your bleach blonde cinderella. cinders ella, cinderella, who doesn't want to be a scullery maid, who wants to be pretty and thin and sociable at the ball. Who wants to dance with the prince. Who says such wonderful things. Who wants to get all her homework done. but the spell ends at midnight. it ends and i am dirty again with no way to get home. my golden carriage is a pumpkin, my white stallions are mice, my coachman is a lizard. But where does the glass slipper fit in? What is left behind besides a trail littered with exhaustion and tears and bitterness and grief and bruises and cuts and screams for god-only-knows-what? Besides poetry? Besides bad metaphors? Beides some completed assignments and small chunks of euphoria? and what prince charming would follow that? but this isn't even about men.

we call it "amphetamine" with an A, because that's what we cinderellas want. we want A+es. we want amplitude and assurance and ambition and assertiveness and artistry and animation and airiness, because those are the things amphetamines give us. But the clock strikes midnight and there are no more balls. There is no prince. And going back to scrubbing the floor is drearier than it was before, because now we know that the dirt is all around and no matter how clean we are it'll just keep coming back.

Have you ever seen the movie Elf? Buddy the elf answers the phone "Hello, this is Buddy the elf. whats your favorite color?"

i do too. i'm a follower.

"Hello, what's your favorite color?"

uncomfortable silence "uh. blue? This is Mr. **** the Dean of Admissions at WNEC Law. Could i speak to *****?"

"One moment please" and i pretend to get myself.

So, i'm in the 3+3 program. Law school next year. I don't have to grow up.