I am currently taking applications for a personal bodyguard. Oh, why? Because a CRAZY bitch is gonna try and butt rape me in a back alley! (Note: I would only be in a back alley if I was trying to hide from her, not because I am a prostitute. But I do need the money... Donate money to me NOW so I dont have to be a hooker! If I am forced to sell myself on the streets then its all YOUR FAULT!)
Full Story
-I have a Friend
-Friend wants to go out with Girl
-We try to tell Friend that Girl is CRAZY
-Friend does anyway (3 times)
-Friend no longer likes Girl
-Girl gets obssessed and texts and calls Friend like CRAZY
-Friend tells all this to us and how freaked out he is
-Friend tells Girl he doesnt like her, leave him alone
-Girl writes CRAZY blog about how much she misses "him"
-I see blog, print it, give it to Friend
-Friend shows it to
everyone we work with
-Girl finds out
-Girl goes CRAZY
-Girl begins to send CRAZY texts to both me and Friend
-Girl then writes another CRAZY blog
about me!Said blogs will be included below.
I still maintain that giving the blog to Friend was the right thing to do. Its about him. PERIOD. No matter what she tries to say/deflect. I would do it again. Even knowing that she wants to kill me. At least now if my brakes get cut then everyone knows who it was... because shes CRAZY!
Blog 1
I'm not entirely sure if it is the mix of my perfume, his cologne, and my friends glade-fresh-air-plug-ins which is making my head spin. Maybe it was the empty bottle of merlot and the trillions of candy wrappers, evidence of my sugar binge, that are now sticking to me. It could be that I had fallen asleep in an L shape on the sectional couch with all the lights on. Yet, it is probably the memories flying through my head as I try to distinguish reality from dream, intentions from fantasies, sober from alcohol-induced. My head feels like it is swimming through lava. Every nerve in my head is burning, and every movement I make intensifies the images I see. Me. My friends. Him. Wine. Laffy Taffy. A broken chair. Hot pink stillettos. Silver jewelry circled into a ball on the floor. A sweater. Sweatpants I'm wearing that aren't mine. Jose Cuervo. I shake my head so the flashes will collide into full memories.
My eyes begin searching for my keys as half coherent thoughts finally begin to collect in my mind. I touch my lips. Chapped. I lift myself up on my elbow and wince. Oh, I wasn't expecting a bruise. "Chapstick. Water. Keys? Toothbrush. Water. Jewelry. Purse. Water!" As memories start passing through my head in a continuous motion, I feel like I am watching a movie. I can feel each fingerprint on my skin again. A blush creeps up my face and sends a heatwave down my back. I continue watching, friends laughing hysterically at whatever we were last talking about, and I can feel each tear slip down my aching face from the smiles. I can hear my name each time he whispers it, and my nails dig into my hands and my fists clench open, closed, open, closed from the frustration of hearing his voice. I hate the way he says my name. Like it's some magical word. Like it's some spell. Nausea. But I replay it in my head again and again.
Blog 2
(FYI: Elphabala is the main character in Wicked (according to google, "how her descent to being "wicked" was a road paved with good intentions") )
I find myself staring down my secrets, just hoping they'll create a commotion for my ease. It's baffling to me how they move away, avoiding my gaze with no conviction. Cheeks are flushing at my words, and egos are running ramped. Elphabala's hands are connecting dots and creating disfigured truths, giggling at the child's play. Fires are spreading wild, and I can only admire the beauty in the glow. I'm holding tongues, holding secrets, holding back to protect one, while another is exploiting might-have-beens. Suddenly life has been twisted into a Carly Simon song; and to those few: I hope you think this is about you.
My nights can be categorized by the shoes I wore and the jewelry falling to the floor? My dates are listed as 1, 2, 3, and 4? My smiles are defined by cocktail intensity: relaxed, happy, silly and asleep? I can't recall Jose meeting you're acquaintance, but minute details don't hinder a jade view and crimson conceit. Don't be fooled to think I haven't taken a sip of the Bitch wine to step on a toe or two. Please, say what you think you know; I'll taunt you; I'll confuse what you do.
It's open for all to see, all to read because I feel no need to hide. Life is too short to go searching for stories of superiority. We've let that become a norm, and have surpassed key essentials of tact-- maybe that comes after humility. Open the pages to my book and admire the tattered edges, appraise the scribbled over words, judge it chapter by chapter. When the metaphors are too complex to dissect, take what you will. At the end, fill your thoughts with mine. Tiptoe up to it, snatch it, and wait for approval. The truth must be here-- or is it just another internet confession?-- best to beware of the facts from the fiction.
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