kept why am i not mad?
perhaps i know that, for you, guilt doesn't exist.

you hurt me so.
so much that i can't fathom the pain.
i had a secret.
you told it.
it was my secret.
it made me happy to think about all the possibilities.
it gave me a reason to dream when the day refused to turn into night.
you took it away, though.
didn't you realize what you were doing?
or were you too busy laughing at me to even care?
or were you too busy lying to me about what you knew?
just once i'd like for you to feel the way as i do about the world, sensitive and drowned by attachments.
maybe you could then understand the sickness i feel.
mental turmoil turning in to physical pain, stabbing each dream i had in the heart.
but i know that you are incapable of realizing what you really did to me.
you seem to live life without dreams and secrets and sacred attachments.
the very elements of what my world is made up of.

so i still run to you like a child with a skinned knee.
but you don't have any bandaids.
just a solution of lies and deceit and coldness and mockery and fallacies and emptiness.
you like to pour it on the wound you just inflicted upon me.

you think it is water.
i know it is not.
miniver I have always been up-front with new boys.

I tell them: I disguise my emotions; I am cynical, and sarcastic, and skeptical -- and I make fun of things, and people, and I do a good job of what it is I do; I am smart; I am clever and I like games; I delete things; I quit, I start again somewhere else; I go decidedly missing. I tell them that there are surely your typical, analyzable psychological reasons for why I do the things I do -- self-esteem issues, bitterness, neuroticism, whatever else people blame their personalities on these days -- and I accept that many people might have many better, more productive, nicer, greater, prettier, more interesting ways of doing things, but I like my ways for what they are and are not. Or I keep my ways, whether or not I like them. And whether or not other people like them, or even notice the effort that I may or may not put into them.

I tell them that I like boys, and I like finding new boys to impress. I tell them to think about that for a while, though I can't be held accountable for whether or not they take my advice.

And I am not so arrogant that I assume all boys would care enough about me that they'd need to know this. I just enjoy telling it -- and I'll tell them that much, too. Maybe it's a phase, right? I'm silly, now,...but, why not? Change me, if you think I ought to change. I need adventure, and I could use a good push.
miniver "More mature" and "less annoying" should also probably be added to the list of other-ways-of-doing-things. 000822
sleepless I've inflicted me upon myself.
That's quite a challenge for both of us.
I'm hoping that we can get along
Fairly amicably, without arguing.
But if not, I get the CDs
And he gets the pot plants.
kept Well, well, what do we have here miniver? 000905
unhinged i'm inflicted with happiness and it feels like a disease. i've even bought into the image thing concerning myself. nicole is not supposed to be happy. she is supposed to be dark and brooding and depressed. she is supposed to leave scars. and i feel myself pushing him away because i don't have enough self-worth to believe that i deserve to be happy. i don't want to be the stupid girl. i want to be independent of all these damn emotions already. if apathy was a drug i would take it. 010503
what's it to you?
who go