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This is where you stick random tidbits of information about yourself.
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Friday, May 09, 2003
It all seems so futile sometimes. I mean, the game. Going to bars, picking up men, or vice versa. Being the seductress yet the innocent and naive young woman all at the same time, depending on the guy. It's so easy. Every night is full, my friends fight tooth and nail to get into my busy schedule of work and play. I am never alone.
My roommate complains of the men I bring home, as if they're stray dogs that followed me back. And they are dogs, yes. Ratty, dirty, and mundane. No one more exceptional than the last, although they would like to think it, and a few boast otherwise. Which always brings me to wrinkle up my nose, unintentionally. If that were true, I would want more than a one night stand, you would think. No. None of them are worth it.
Oh, I'm not saying I'm above them. Why would I be with them in the first place, then? Hell, maybe I'm less worthy of the pain and frustrations that go hand in hand with love. Maybe that's why I can't find my match. Maybe there isn't one.
But we all long for companionship. So I pretend. Pretend each night is my wedding night, and that he and I have our whole future together. A future to start a family, to be secure in each other, that soon we will have a home and steady jobs, that we will be happy. I pretend there's hope.
But then, when he has fallen asleep, I have to make it through the moment when I realize, staring up at my cracked ceiling, that it isn't true. He will be gone in the morning, and there will be another one in his place by nightfall. I die in that moment.
And then again, the next evening.
I can't stop.
10:21 AM
Sunday, March 23, 2003
The sunlight flowing in from her window makes bright squares on her purple sheets, overlapping her slumbering form. Her dark curls cascade in ringlets over her pillow, framing her narrow face. She sighs softly in her sleep, throwing one pale arm up above her head.
She is stunningly beautiful.
The blankets caress her figure, revealing little but the rise of her chest; the rest is left to the imagination. The fabric trembles with each breath that she takes, kissed by the warmth that she exhales from her full, crimson-colored lips. Sweet sinning pilgrims they are, slightly parted in her sleep.
Her eyelids flutter as the sunlight brushes across them and I am gasping at their startling green.
"I love you, Miranda," I confess when I regain my composure.
"... My name is Ilana."
... Oops.
1:23 PM
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