25/05/12
Hi, BLOG,
I'm not sure if it's worthwhile or even not-hurtful to write this, but I got feelings too, ya know? With helicopters buzzing overhead and my uncertainty concerning my place in this whole burgeoning outside conflict, it's hard to keep getting repeated hug*sike*punches from you on the inside. Your desperation is the same as my own, with the difference that I don't keep changing the definition of what we want from or should or could give each other.
What do you want from me? It's a valid question, don't you think? Futile, too, perhaps.
I guess in some polyamourous polymorphous-perverse perfectiverse it's irreproachably sensible and not emotionally confusing to sleep with someone repeatedly, but only occasionally regard or be allowed to regard it as a sexual relationship. Actually, no, even that's fucked up: in the perfectiverse we would both have authorship in this.
I should never have slept with you. If you or anyone else can feel that sleeping in the naked intimacy of each others' arms is purely an act of celibate friendship after such a sexualized and asymmetrical history, I wholeheartedly endorse it. I don't think I can do that. Maybe I'm part of the old guard and need to die, I dunno. And, trust me, I am losing sleep over the glaring fact that this is, at least in someone's interpretation, some patriarchal bullshit where I'm trying to manipulate you into fucking me.
I am. Duh. Or at least partly; more accurately I think we just need one or the other, but not both. Sleeping with our crotches together between two layers of underwear is neither nonsexual nor platonic: it's a fucking emotional mess.
I know you are in a tough time right now. I want to reach out to you. I want to pluck you off the bad ride you're on and just show you that it can be OK. That getting a taste for bitterness and other acquired tastes does not entail BECOMING bitter. Don't do it. You keep reaching out to me and then retracting; I guess you can't decide where I stand for you. I'm standing right fucking here. Don't tread on me.
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I'm not sure if it's worthwhile or even not-hurtful to write this, but I got feelings too, ya know? With helicopters buzzing overhead and my uncertainty concerning my place in this whole burgeoning outside conflict, it's hard to keep getting repeated hug*sike*punches from you on the inside. Your desperation is the same as my own, with the difference that I don't keep changing the definition of what we want from or should or could give each other.
What do you want from me? It's a valid question, don't you think? Futile, too, perhaps.
I guess in some polyamourous polymorphous-perverse perfectiverse it's irreproachably sensible and not emotionally confusing to sleep with someone repeatedly, but only occasionally regard or be allowed to regard it as a sexual relationship. Actually, no, even that's fucked up: in the perfectiverse we would both have authorship in this.
I should never have slept with you. If you or anyone else can feel that sleeping in the naked intimacy of each others' arms is purely an act of celibate friendship after such a sexualized and asymmetrical history, I wholeheartedly endorse it. I don't think I can do that. Maybe I'm part of the old guard and need to die, I dunno. And, trust me, I am losing sleep over the glaring fact that this is, at least in someone's interpretation, some patriarchal bullshit where I'm trying to manipulate you into fucking me.
I am. Duh. Or at least partly; more accurately I think we just need one or the other, but not both. Sleeping with our crotches together between two layers of underwear is neither nonsexual nor platonic: it's a fucking emotional mess.
I know you are in a tough time right now. I want to reach out to you. I want to pluck you off the bad ride you're on and just show you that it can be OK. That getting a taste for bitterness and other acquired tastes does not entail BECOMING bitter. Don't do it. You keep reaching out to me and then retracting; I guess you can't decide where I stand for you. I'm standing right fucking here. Don't tread on me.
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