Water is my eye. Most faithful mirror. Fearless on my breath. Teardrop on the fire of a confession. Fearless on my breath.

It's absolute fucking genius.

The hook, the riff.

You really need to love this.

You shower me with lullabies, as you're walking away. Reminds me that it's killing time, on this fateful day.

The clue is in the song.

I've had two books, some Terry's Orange segments in a big tub, a bottle of Cava and lots of cards. It seems I've been tracked down again. I must up my roots sometime soon-ish.

Only one of my Manager's knew about today. And she kindly mouthed it to me at the beginning of the morning meeting. Sweet! The cakes and doughnuts might have given something away though, but I blamed another sales guy; who's birthday it was two days ago, saying he was on delayed timing. I think it might have worked.

I love my job, but I'm only earning enough money for my own bills and little else. This pisses me off big time. I have debts to pay back, dammit!
I want to earn enough money....to show them all.

My life has changed in such a huge way.
Maybe people change when it's their time to grow up?
Get eaten by the worms, and weird fishes.
Picked over by the worms, and weird fishes.

The keyboards are meandering....swaying....blurring and warping.
Then the piano comes in.
Up and down, up and down, up and down.
Then the voice.
His pitch perfect voice.
"Snot nosed little punk".
How could you not love it, or even just like it enough to give it a few more chances?

I have a sting in my tail, as far as the stars are concerned.
And that's all you need to remember.

And that I'm frustrated that I can't spread my wings on FaceFuck.

Brother of mine, don't run with those fuckers. When will my friend start singing again?

What sort of idiot wears a white top knowing that he's gonna be drinking red wine during the evening?!
Me.
C'est moi!

The chicken wasn't as nice as the duck, but then again, the dog was nowhere near as good as the pussy.
Meow!

You know....sometimes....sometimes a song just comes on, randomly, and it fits perfectly.

And as I listen to this, the plinky piano merges into cello and violin.

And suddenly, the smiles turn to tears.
Just like a loaded gun.

Today didn't end up how I expected....how I wanted.

*update*
I posted this 20 minutes ago, and I can't stop re-reading it and crying.
I
Feel
Pathetic.

Vulnerable.

What's so great about the great depression? Was it blast for you, cos’ it's blasphemy.

I'm not quite sure if Robbie has hit the nail on the head with that lyric, or if it's corny as fuck.
The jury....my jury is out.
But I do so love Robbie. I can't help it.

Still loving "Bodies".
Currently on my first listen of the album, but so far, it sounds really good. It's good to have the cheeky chap back, even though I loved Rudebox!

And I wonder....is "Blasphemy" about the Gallagher brothers?

And in other news; I think my Business Manager hates me, most of the Service team think I'm gay, the cleaner has, since the incident in the cupboard, been overly flirty with me, Cherry Bakewells are the best (except the cherry part, of course!), Tesco have a '2 bags of various filling doughnuts' for 99p!, a woman ahead of me in the queue at the tobacco kiosk in Tesco was giving us all a blow by blow account of when she won £450 on a scratch card, listening to Morrissey makes me feel good, my Nero burning program seems to have failed me tonight, there are dark chocolate Digestives that are calling my name and begging to be dunked in a coffee, I'm wondering about getting an iPhone and The Very Reverend has visited me tonight. Can you tell?

It's...The....Weekend.
It will be good.

This could be the saddest dusk I've ever seen. Turn to a miracle, high alive. My mind is racing, as it always will.

I have no idea where I'll be in five years' time.
Even in one years' time.
I just don't know.

But I do know that I wont be here anymore, living under my parent's roof, eating their Weetabix and sitting on their cushions.

I do look forward to the future, but I don't measure myself against what could or might be. The future is unknown, and in a way, the not knowing is the most exciting part about it. I guess that's why I've always found myself feeling more comfortable being bed-fellows with spontaneity than planning things out. And I know some people don't like that about me, but that's more their problem than mine.
I really, truly don't have a problem with myself.

I have three tattoos, my navel is pierced, I smoke grass occasionally, I live for music, my kids are my life, and....well, that's about it.
It doesn't matter at all where I live, what I do for a job, what car I drive, what my garden looks like, what state my bank account is in or how much sleep I get.
I think when you've experienced a certain amount of what life has to offer, you find yourself more at peace with yourself. And you can forgive your mistakes, misguidance's and stupid decisions.
Everything about life is a learning curve.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with being scared. You just have to grow beyond it.
Grow beyond it.

" My hands tired, my heart aches. I'm half a world away and go."

Would you tell me I was wrong? Would you help understand? Are you looking down upon me? Are you proud of who I am?

My childhood was shit.
A lot of my younger years were filled with beatings, angry voices and very strict discipline. This, in turn led to lots of feelings of guilt, inadequacy and disappointment on my behalf. And I always measured myself against my older brother, who even now shines in my parents eyes when compared to me.
But in no way do I hold anything against him. In fact, I admire him. Envy him, his wife, his life.
The two of us couldn't have lived anymore different lives. We came from the same parents, we share the same blood, we endured the same upbringing....but we have completely different lives.
I'm sat here now wondering if he loves his life as much as I love mine.

I can't remember anytime when either of my parents told me that they love me. It's not an issue. It's not something I dwell upon. It's just something I accept. My mum and dad are not the sort of people who openly express their feelings. They get more passionate about the latest episodes of Eastenders or Holby. It doesn't bother me.

The three people in my family that I feel closest to is my Nan (my Dad's mum), my Grandad (my Dad's dad) and my Aunt (my Dad's sister). My Nan and Grandad have passed on to a better life now. My Aunt is still....as Simple Minds once sang...."Alive and kicking". She's an absolute gem.
My Nan used to get pissed at Christmas times, dress in crazy clothes, play the piano like Les Dawson and make the most amazing Ready Brek in the world. My Grandad used to dress up in my Nan's clothes at Christmas times, do really crap magic tricks in the style of Tommy Cooper, chain smoke, play chess with me and make the most amazing pickled onions. He stood six foot four, was a damned handsome devil as a young 'un and told the most amazing stories about his childhood.
At my Grandad's funeral, I felt naked....alone....lost....abandoned....
I've never cried so much in my life.

I always felt like the 'favourite', if that's the appropriate way to say it, of their grandchildren, maybe because I was the youngest. I don't know. I just know I felt....special in their eyes.

I can't wait to see them again.

My aunt spoilt me rotten. I used to stay with her over the school summer holidays and she would teach me how to perfect cake baking. And let me eat what I wanted, instead of what was good for me. And let me watch anything I wanted. And let me build a sleeping den out of blankets thrown over the chairs and tables in the dining room. And let me go to bed at whatever time I wanted, especially because it was the school summer holidays. And go for walks with me and their dogs to interesting places.
And she makes a wicked chocolate cake too!

I'm closer to my Aunt than I am to my own Mother. How awful is that to admit?! But, it's true. And I felt closer to my beloved Grandad than my own Father. Again, how awful is that?!

My parents....My own Mum and Dad....I don't think we ever connected properly when I was younger. It's much, much better now. They have really helped me out through thick and thin over the last few years, when I've really needed it. And I've never had to run back to them with my tail between my legs to ask or beg for help, they've just offered it.
My relationship with them now is the best it's ever been.
But again....they don't open up about their feelings or emotional perspective on me and my life. They've just....been there.
I just hope that despite everything else....everything that's happened in my life....despite the fact that my brother gives the two of them the perfect Son's Life....that they feel even just a little proud of me.

We think you're a joke, shove your hope where it don't shine.

A brief moment of silence passed between us; the cleaning lady and I.
A split second later, my facial expression changed to one of disbelief and I actually blurted out a "What The Fuck?" to her, this lady who has sixty years or so of life worn into the wrinkles on her face. This lady who comes into our place of work every weekday at five thirty, on the dot. This completely lovable lady who reminds me so much of a character who's been edited out of a Catherine Tate sketch.

As lovely as she is; imagine the warmest and friendliest Grandmother who looks like she would never say "Boo" to a goose.
As thorough at her cleaning job she might be, (and trust me, she's bloody good), there's something very strange, slightly 'wrong' and worryingly sinister about being told by her that last night her son showed her a film clip on his mobile phone, showing a naked man 'bearing down' on a jam-jar. And if that's not enough information to make your jaw drop, she ended her 'blow-by-blow' description by telling us this guy then clenched his cheeks, resulting in the jar (and subsequent jam) making a rather big, and presumably painful mess.

So, yeah. There was a brief moment of silence.
Once I'd realized that she did just actually tell us that story; delivered in much the same manner and matter-of-fact way as if she were telling us that last night she'd had her hair 'done', made supper for her husband and fallen asleep in front of the tv, I had to break the silence....

bedshaped, "I'm not sure which is more worrying, (insert lovely cleaning lady's name here)....the fact that you've just told us about watching a movie clip of a naked guy inserting a jar of jam in his arse and making it 'explode' in such a matter of fact, yet descriptive way....or that your son actually wanted to show you such a thing on his mobile phone, and let's not forget that you agreed to watch it."

She shrugged her shoulders and carried on polishing the desk.

So, yeah.
That's our cleaning lady.
Lovely woman, she is.
Just be warned that asking, "what did you get up to last night then?" may result in something completely unexpected.
I'm not sure I can look her in the eye anymore. And I'm also not sure if it's giggling material or quite disturbing.
One thing's for sure, I won't be asking her that question again anytime soon.

As far as what 'activity' people get up to behind closed doors, each to their own, I say. Even though I fail to understand certain, let's say, sexual practices. How a guy can get any kind of enjoyment or thrill out of 'jam-jar exploding' is beyond me, but hey, doesn't harm anybody else, does it!

Boy, it's been so long since I held you, I nearly gave you up for dead. I nearly gave you up for dead.

For some reason, I feel like blogging again.

Let me get something straight right now....
I love my life.

Ok, so things might be a little up in the air with certain aspects, but I feel a certain calm. A certain....equal level. I feel like an equal level has been reached, somehow.
And if takes a little longer to feel like we're on the same level, then that's ok. Otis will guide me.

Just remember, there's nothing wrong with the definition of 'different'. It's just a word, and a state of mind. Move forward from that and you will be ok. You will be chilled out in the bath, with an abundance of bubbles, the scent of candles and some Bach, or maybe some Mendelssohn, or maybe, maybe even some Elbow....the choice is yours. But the hands rubbing your tension away are mine.

I can't even begin to describe, so don't ask me.

Call me a fake, Sir. You can call me a fraud. You can spit on my french knickers. You can call me a whore.

I ventured out last night for a meet up with work colleagues.
Initially, it began as an idea for a small and humble gathering and excuse for a drink together, specifically because one of the girls at work is leaving at the end of next week. Either she is far more popular than I ever realized, or somebody at our place ignited the 'piss up on Saturday' fuse because there were about forty people who came out.

It took me a while to get around, but I made sure that I circulated as much as I could, taking some time to speak to pretty much everybody there, because, well, I'm the 'new guy'. I wanted to make the effort to speak to people, put a face to a name and generally have a nice, relaxing evening speaking with other people who work for the same Company.

I came away having learnt two things from last night.
Firstly; everybody, bar a small minority said that it's a really good Company to work for. This made me feel pretty good.
Secondly; everybody who I spoke with last night fell into either the 'gorgeous', 'lovely', 'beautiful' or 'enviably handsome' category. This made me feel....unworthy....out of my league.

The lovely girl who spent most of the night on her mobile, texting and calling her 'boyfriend'. I felt like she was unhappy. The girl who slipped down onto the floor under the influence of drink, flashing her knickers at everyone....I felt she was....a little worse for wear. The guy who looked like he was coked out of his face, taking another girl's digital camera and trying to take pictures 'up girl's skirts' and being all huggy and kissy. The guy who wasn't drinking and offered to take the camera guy home so he didn't make a complete fool of himself. The girl who had changed her career and became a tennis coach, something she'd always wanted to do. The girl who spent twenty minutes or so telling me about her father's recent funeral. The guy who's married to the girl who seems like she's way, way, way out of his league, and yet, they are ultimately happy. The girl who normally comes into our place of work dressed in scruffy dungarees, hair pulled back and face full of paint marks who becomes....well....stunning looking. Like a scene from Flashdance. Trust me, the list goes on and on....
And....oh yes, there appears to be a lot of 'inter department' touchy-feely-how's yer father things going on. It all feels a little....incestous.

It's the second time in a couple of weeks that I've felt like certain people are out of my league. Almost like, it doesn't matter how much like 'me' I am, it's never going to be enough. Even if it were a fairytale situation, where I swept a girl off her feet, rescued her from despair, and then took her hand in mine and led her away from all the stresses of life, even just for a moment. Even kissing her lips, because it felt like the most natural thing in the world, swept her away....stopped the world spinning even just for a split second.
I still felt completely out of my league. And that's only scratching the surface.

I've been distracted with tonight's post by Damien Rice and thoughts of Hannah Montana pyjamas. Yes, it's a tough life sometimes. But when the hair is up, the glasses are on and the tiny t-shirt is worn....everything seems ok.

Good girl's gone bad. The city's filled with them.

If you are in love with somebody, just how much tolerance can you hold for them?
I mean....of course, nobody is perfect, but how forgiving can a person be?

Ok, so 'love' is the important factor here, whether a person 'loves' another person, or is in love with them, which to me is two very different things, but surely there must a be a line, possibly a blurry one that once crossed, taints the feelings, even if just a little.

I watched a couple walking down the street earlier today. They were holding hands, strolling in sync, chatting to each other with each stride. And then the guy spat, several times on the ground. Now, I understand that everybody has different tolerance levels, but really! Can a girl really turn a blind eye, or find this sort of thing tolerable? It just looks so....well, so bloody horrible. And it wasn't just a 'spit'. It was a 'flob'. He made that horrible, internal grinding noise as he sucked in through his throat, then flobbed the spit out, with a certain degree of aim and accuracy I might add. Now, how can a girl....any girl find this sort of thing acceptable? Not only that, but how can she not be a little disgusted at such an act.
Maybe it's me.
Maybe I'm just some kind of prude when it comes to personal acts like this. But whatever I am, I still find the whole thing a disgusting act. Ok, for some reason, the guy may have had to get rid of excess saliva, but to do it several times and to make such an 'act' of it....? It's almost like he was doing it to make a positive impression.
Oh, I don't know. Perhaps I'm just very out of touch with people nowadays?! Maybe behind closed doors, the girl likes him to spit all over her when they are being intimate. After all, stranger things happen, don't they?

If you really love somebody, is this the sort of thing that you are able to turn a blind eye to? Or perhaps it's just not an issue with most couples nowadays. Like, it's the norm. Guy's flob their spit out on the pavements. No biggy.

All I know, is that I'd never dream of spitting in front of anybody else. I never have any reason or urge to spit when I'm on my own, never mind in front of other people.

And it's laughter that I hear when I close my eyes. And it's one more punchline I forgot to learn.

Closing my eyes, I can quite simply drift away to a place of wonderment. Mr and Mrs Judgy McJudge don't live anywhere near this place. They are so far away, even if they blew smoke signals, I wouldn't be able to see them.
Is it such a catalyst of people's lives that they can't simply accept people for what they are, without sounding out their unwanted and unwelcome opinions.

My place of wonder isn't full of hopes and dreams, lingering thoughts of peace and tranquility, wishes of happiness and contentment.
No.
No hopes or dreams. No thoughts. No wishes. No striving, driving or desires for a better surrounding, a better quality, a better me. Because my place of wonder, when I close my eyes, is a future me that is perfectly possible to become. And when I get there, I shall want for nothing else in my wishes, my hopes and dreams, because I'll already be there as myself.

For yourself, for your own personal inner happiness....nothing is impossible and no journey could ever been so perilous that it becomes impossible. You just have to believe in yourself.

I'll make sure I let everybody know when I get there.

Meet me on the road. Meet me where I said. Blame it all upon a rush of blood to the head .

I was just myself.
Whatever happens, nobody can take that away from me.

It's not Shakespeare. Although to some degree, he's been a relevant dude today. And so was opening the door. Because courtesy and manners cost absolutely nothing.

Money isn't everything. In fact, it's nothing when compared to true happiness.

Allocate your sentiment and stick it in a box. I've never been an extrovert, but I'm still breathing.

Family get-togethers.
*sigh*
Always the same.
I spent last night with my folks, my brother and his wife, my niece and her boyfriend, and an amalgamation of 'friends' for a wedding reception. Amalgamation may be the wrong word, but it's late and my brain is sketchy.

Dear friends and family,
It's very sweet of you to think of me. It's oh so kind of you to spare a thought for me in your own busy lives. It's lovely and warming to see how much you care about me. But seriously....I'm not 'with' anybody at the moment, but please....try not to see that as such a negative thing. I'm just fine how I am. My life is good. Everything is cool. I don't 'need' to be with somebody just because you see it as the 'norm'. I don't need a partner because in your eyes I must get lonely or sex-starved or will be seen as an 'odd' person. I don't feel abnormal or weird or out-of-place just because I don't have somebody on my arm. I know you think I need to be with somebody....anybody....but seriously, I don't. So please, please stop trying to push me in the direction of other single people. Please stop suggesting potential partners. And please, please stop showing me pity in your eyes. I'm just fine the way I am.

If you only think and remember one thing about me, it's that I'd rather be alone for the right reasons, than with somebody for the wrong ones.

Much love and respect,

bedshaped x

I've recently been asked when the last time it was that I cried.
How about while listening to this....

Polly.

I want to recognise your beauty's not just a mask.

So....
Why do I sneeze when I'm plucking my eyebrows?

And then she said "Darling, you don't understand. It was the black sambucas and it got out of hand."

Last Saturday night, I was reminded several times why I hate going out to pubs and clubs. Especially in this crappy town where I've found myself, once again.
Apart from the brief moment my friend and I were told off like a pair of naughty schoolboys for dancing on the furniture in the club, the later parts of the night, where the trouble usually kicks off, never happened. Although our group of thirteen or fourteen guys out celebrating a 'stag night' for a friend who's getting married this coming Saturday, all dressed in Hawaiian shirts were probably an easy target, nothing else much happened. But then again, the fight that broke out between two guys over a girl and a pool table in the 'quiet pub' that we'd all met up in at 7.30 was enough to set all the bad reminders off in my head at such an early stage. I guess that had already tainted the night for me.

It's probably been almost ten years since I've been out for a proper night on the tiles in this crappy town that I'm currently calling home. The fashions have changed, with the girls, anyway. Most of them seem to dress like they are auditioning for the next position to become free in The Pussycat Dolls. It's tragic and a little pathetic. It makes you feel like you can't even strike up a conversation with any of them, without them thinking that the only reason you're talking to them is because they are dressed like a hooker and you want to get into their knickers! Well, actually, no. I just wanted to enjoy the night....see if you were enjoying the music....ask if it's always a packed night in this club....have some small talk and chit chat. But of course, you're a Pussycat Doll wannabe, strutting your stuff around like you own the place, bumping and grinding like an extra in an R Kelly music video....so of course my only intentions are sexual!
How on earth can you just go out an enjoy yourself in that kind of atmosphere?

The guys are just as bad. Ok, they aren't so provocatively dressed, but most of them look like they are auditioning for the next Twilight movie. Emotionless faces. Holding onto their pints like their lives depended on it. Occasionally changing their weight to the other leg, allowing them to strike yet another pose that's taken straight from Zoolander.

I left on Saturday night feeling completely disappointed in the so called clubbing scene in this town. My only solace and 'fun' were the times I dragged my brother up to dance to Chaka Khan and Prince, amongst others. Oh, and taking a liking to having several attempts at 'pole dancing'.

I walked with my brother back to his house, where his wife was still up, waiting for us to get back. I was kind of expecting to find her behind the front door, rolling pin in hand, anger and frustration in her face. Especially after the text messages she repeatedly sent to his and my phones asking the same thing; "Are you intending on coming back anytime soon!!!!".
The three of us sat together in the dining room, his iPod docked between two tinny sounding woofers and playing random, while we talked about our evenings. By this time it was fast approaching 3am. Shortly after, my brother stood up and announced he was too tired and was hitting the sack. I was torn between ringing for a taxi or sleeping over. I did neither. My sister-in-law and I stayed up all night talking, putting the world to rights and listening to my brother's music choices on his iPod. Everything was going ok until Scooter came on! I really need to speak to him about that!
The stupid o'clock conversations would have been nice, lovely even, had they not been broken on several occasions with outrageous flirting and quite frankly uncomfortable conversations from my sister-in-law....my own brother's wife....bordering on sexual suggestions that were just wrong, wrong, wrong!
I laughed them off.

I've since had a text message from her apologising, saying she feels embarrassed and ashamed and blaming the drink. Such an easy thing to blame, huh?
Why do some people never learn about the shitty effects of alcohol?!

I've not replied to her.

You think there may be something wrong with you, to make you doubt your love like this.

On Tuesday, I found out that the Stag Party I'm attending on Saturday night is themed. Hawaiian shirts for all to be exact.
My day off on Wednesday was mostly spent going around the shops, asking the shop assistants if they could help me out with such attire. I was met with either blank, shocked or dismayed looks. The result being that I was left with no Hawaiian shirt for the Stag Party and further instructions that if I couldn't find one at short notice, then anything bright, colourful, cheerful and out of the ordinary would suffice.
I found a place online late Wednesday night, placed an order and got a bright pink Hawaiian shirt, with "Hawaii" lettering, islands and palm trees printed all over it delivered to my work-place this morning.
Saved by the bell!

As an advanced warning, anything that's posted here on Saturday night/early Sunday morning is done so 'under the influence' and is not to be taken seriously. And of course such a post will be removed when I rise from the dead on Sunday, anyway.

Breathe me, everytime you close your eyes. Taste me, everytime you cry.

Ask most guys what their favourite part of a girls' body is, and if they're honest, they will answer with either a girls' tits or arse. Whilst I can appreciate both of these, as any guy can, neither of these would be my choice of favourite part. In fact, I don't think they would even come in the top five, even if such a list existed. Which, for the record, doesn't.

For me, my favourite part of a girl's body is, and always has been the same. For as long as I can remember, anyway. It's probably got a proper name, but I'm buggered if I know what it is, and can't be arsed to find out. Besides, knowing the proper, medical name for it would probably taint it for me a little, and I don't want that. I like it just the way it is.

Humour me just for a moment. Imagine a girl standing naked before you, facing away from you. I know, it's a a tall order, but....
Where her back ends and her bum begins....well, that's the place. I know that technically there isn't anything between the base of a girl's back and her bum, they just....merge together. But, it's at the point where they merge.
Ok, so I've maybe failed miserably with my written description, so here's where my research and pictorial guides come in.
Oh, by the way, even though I've ensured that nothing 'naughty' is shown, these may be NSFW. Ok?










And yes, I kept the long hair in for a reason.

Don't ask me why it's my favourite place. I don't know. But it's a place that, for me, just wants to be kissed, caressed, stroked, loved, have circles drawn upon it, brushed against, breathed on, licked, rubbed, massaged, touched....

People have completely different preferences and tastes when it comes to what they find physically attractive in their partners.....lovers...whatever. And I'm just the same. But I have to say that everything else about the person makes such a huge impact and compliment to their physical being that I've come to the conclusion that I don't have a 'type', as it were. There's certain things I really like, yes. Like long hair, nice eyes, nice eye make up, a girl who takes pride in her appearance, skirts, strappy tops, silver jewellery, the occasional well thought out and well placed tattoo, glasses....then there's a girl who has an open mind, a sense of humour, is spiritual in her thinking, loyal, sensitive, emotional, ambitious and driven, artistic, loves music, likes discovering new things, has a good heart and soul, is trusting and trustworthy....
And without wanting to sound horribly shallow, there are certain things I've mentioned there that I just wouldn't give up. But, I've realized that a girl can be unbelievably attractive to me without fitting into all or even most of my preferred things. It's very, very difficult to explain. If you were sat next to me and I was talking with you, then I'd probably be able to explain it better. But you're not. So maybe we should just leave it there.

There's one thing that I will never forget to understand, cherish and live by. And that's that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Nothing else in this life will or can ever change that for me.

I love the feeling when we lift off. Watching the world so small below. I love the dreaming when I think of... the safety in the clouds out my window.

I've only been working just over a week, and already I'm tiring of the banter between the guys when they talk about girls. It doesn't seem to matter where you work, what your social life is, who is in your circle of friends....there are always those sort of guys who seem to think that it's ok to talk about girls like they are pieces of meat.
It internally annoys me.
It gets to me.
It makes me feel embarrassed.
It makes me feel like walking away, and I often do.

We have six girls working at our place. None of them....not one of them can understand my brand of humour. Mind you, none of the other guys there can either. Maybe it's too early. Or maybe they will never get me. I hope in time they do, because the only people who think of me as the odd one out....the black sheep, as it were, is my family. And nothing I do will ever change that. I'm just....accepted, the way I am.

Sometimes, I wonder if anybody outside of my family will get me. Perhaps I'm just always gonna be misunderstood, to a certain degree. Looked upon with a frown, a squint, a pair of eyes full to the brim with suspicion and disbelief.

I've never pretended for one minute that I'm anything other than a little 'different'. Where it came from, I don't know. My childhood maybe? My up-bringing? My life that's been repeatedly shit upon?
To me, it doesn't matter so much where it came from. I am what I am. And if other people don't, wont, or can't accept me for who I am, then it's their problem, not mine.
I'm really proud to be me.
Mental breakdown aside. I know I am a good person. And if the world was filled with more good people, it would, without doubt, be a much, much better place.

This girl I know, needs some shelter. She don't believe anyone can help her. She's doing so much harm, doing so much damage.

So put the snoring and slight dribbling aside.
Start breathing.

Maybe it will take a while before you realize. But when you do, it will hit you like hammer.
I hope you're prepared.

I'll stop turning away from you, if you stop reading erotica and fucking yourself with your toys.
I'll start being more open with your friends when you stop fantasizing about fucking them.

I am the Sean Connery to your Roger Moore.
I am the Han Solo to your chewbaca.
I am the Duckie boy to your Watts.

Think about it.

Maybe you will never know the full potential. And that's just a shame. Such a shame.

Nothing will ever change it, not even if you spunk over my my hair, my chest....whatever. Nothing. Some things will never, ever change.

It's just your outlook that you needs to change.
And maybe one day it will come.
Or maybe you will never change your outlook, because that's how you feel.
It doesn't matter how many facts and figures you need, just ask.

Our minds pressed and guarded, while our flesh disregarded the lack of space for the light-hearted, in the boom that beats our drum.

I was gonna post tonight.
In fact, I'm almost finished with what I have to say. But....I was researching some pictures to go along with it, and well....I kinda got sidetracked.
*ahem*

Good job I have the house to myself this weekend!




Sometimes I am far too cryptic for my own good.