The Alice-ification Project With A Touch Of Wankerage
“I know what your favorite shape is.”
“Nobody has ever asked me what my favorite shape was. What is it?”
“The leg-tangle.”
Some scars are invisible.
Every morning there is that (oft-unspoken) question: “Is this what you really want?”
And then I look over his shoulder and see this

…and the slow but sure light illuminating his face answers it with the intensity of a thousand suns.
“Stir constantly as to prevent from becoming attached.”

Good mantra for new relationships, that.

This morning my heart is beating so loudly it shakes the hem of my skirts and makes the paper crane on my headboard flap its wings.
Is truth really beauty; beauty, truth?
Only I have been having extremely gorgeous un-truths, of late.
(Every morning I take tea, and the honey in the bottle has red ants in it. Fossilized sweetness.)
…since you’re reading this, you can RSVP to a little guil-Tea Party I shall be organizing. It starts as soon as remorse wakes you up in the morning. Oh, please do come. I shall be serving cookies and leftover cache. Oops. 
This music video is definitely made of pure cheese. So much so that it gives me gas.
So, yeah. Alan Rickman, rape me.
(Heartbreak tastes like brewed coffee without the strawberry milk, strangely)
Did I expect it to last? Did I expect to be making him pancakes ten years down the line? Whatever I expected or wanted has been slushed down the drain. The unmentionable has happened. That damn talk has gotten me in trouble. He doesn’t want to speak a different language anymore. The translations are getting tedious and often cruel, he says. All I ever wanted was for my devotion to be reciprocated, but, dammit, devotion and [ ] have done nothing to insulate me from his fear of the ogre of me. Shit, I forgot that the mushy stuff has to work both ways. Am I an ogre? Perhaps, but I’m a lovable ogre.
My friends tell me to let him go, that he was an arsehole to begin with. [ ] offers to run him over with a truck. My friends are protective, they tell me I deserve better, which is the most horrible thing to say to someone who has just been through a break-up instigated by the other. Anyone in similar circumstances would be ready to downgrade, to shop at the K Mart of Lovers, the factory outlet of desire.
I have chosen to pine. I want him back. I am not beyond grovelling. My friends shake their heads with pity. I sometimes think I should know better too. Instead I’m flinging my heart around on the windy moors like Catherine, desperately pining for my love, only to die of consumption. Yes, in France, I would be known as le jeune pathetique. As I’d wander the boulevards, I’d be ridiculed with a venom reserved only for American stand-up comedians.
My three sisters are sitting
on rocks of black obsidian.
For the first time, in this light, I can see who they are.
My first sister is sewing her costume for the procession.
She is going as the Transparent lady
and all her nerves will be visible.
My second sister is also sewing,
at the seam over her heart which has never healed entirely,
At last, she hopes, this tightness in her chest will ease.
My third sister is gazing
at a dark-red crust spreading westward far out on the sea.
Her stockings are torn but she is beautiful.

With absolutely no biases whatsoever. Hah.
5. Deadsy
4. Joy Zipper
3. Gold Finger
2. Dinosaur, Jr.
1. Bad Days for Mary
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Wekekeke. /wankerage
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