Regrets

I don’t tend to regret my actions. Not because I don’t make mistakes, or reflect on my deeds, but rather because before I do anything of any significance I consider it and decide what it might mean if it turns out to be a bad choice, or what the worst thing that could happen would be. So in the end, if something goes wrong I will have imagined, if not prepared myself for it. In the past when I have not considered the worst case or have found the repercussion to be worse than my worst prediction, what I have learned from that has been comparable to the pain it has caused me. I would not say worth it, but a valuable lesson nonetheless. I try to mark what I learn, whether it happens to be just a simple fact or a misstep of mine, or the issues of some one else pressed upon me. I try me best to see the reason and source of my troubles, I am quick to assign them to myself. For it is often my own inability to interact with people and understand them that puts me in the path of another’s issues or pain. Whether it’s my introversion or my lack of instinct that cuts me down, I am my own worst problem.

Face

Last night I had a restless night and woke incredibly refreshed. I rose a few minutes after my alarm went off ready to face the day. I had gotten into bed at half past two and had tossed and turned long after the rise of the sun. I sobbed, I had not done so in a while. Either four years or two, I’m not sure which is more accurate. It was one lone sob, an odd feeling to leave it hang in the night but I had no others to follow it. I thought about my feelings and events of my life. Not the overly traumatic ones really, just the ones I have not previously admitted to myself to be just what they were. I admitted anger, fear, affection, and self-hatred. I confessed that I had been treated in ways I never should have tolerated, that worse things had happened to me than I was willing to face at the time. I realized that I had made my fears come true for fear that they were not the worst that could happen. I acknowledged that I am the one person I can’t seem to forgive, I only forget my faults for long enough to find some new reason to beat myself down with them. I have not been loved as I should be by many people in my life. I have been forgotten, betrayed, left, and neglected enough that I do these things to others to prevent them from happening to me again. When people like me even after they get to know me a little I either do what I can to change their minds or remain silent to avoid doing so. I admitted my anger at many people in my life, including many I love. And confessed that I have no reason to despise myself as I do, quietly but firmly in the corners of my mind. I feel like it’s okay to take care of myself, to look myself in the eye. I am not someone so terrible, and what is wrong with me is up to me to face and change.

In an Ideal World, an Ideal Life.

I think common society would think be a bad person for the things I dream. Some of them at least. The future I dream for myself could almost be normal, almost. I envision the company I will run from my home, doing a few different things, perhaps employing a few people to help me. I imagine the house I will live in as having a big yard and filling with sunlight for a few hours before dusk. Enough room for me to cook wonderful meals for a house full of people, and have animals a children running amuck. I picture myself living alone, or with a few lovers and a child. I find myself imagining a daughter, though I would be pleased to have a son or daughter equally. I feel that a child of mine should be raised to honor all love, platonic, heterosexual, or homosexual. And to see all people by their actions more than their faces. I want to have the animals I've dreamed of having room and time for at last. I want to help people, teach them, and create things for them to use and admire. I want to have a yard with a big garden of fruits and vegetables and room to spare for open space and climbing trees.
I want so much, I fear not having the focus and ambition to create this life for myself.
M.

If I Were Not a Coward.

If I were not a coward I would have said every word I thought to him, no matter if it didn't come out exactly how I had thought it. I would call him when I'm not sure if he has the time or inclination to speak to me. I would ask him any little thing that entered my head just to hear the answer. If I were brave, I would know for certain if I like or love him. I would know if he and I can really, ultimately, get along.
But I am a coward, so I can only hope my intentions will out and he'll have patience with me in the interim. I can only hope his affection is enough to put up with me.
I have too much love in me and too little idea of what to do with it.
M.

Longing.

I've been reflecting on all of the best sex I've had lately. It's not good for my libido I must say. When I was still a virgin I masturbated a lot, now that those fantasies have some basis in reality I'm much worse. I have certain moments on loop in my head, just wishing I could relive exactly that feeling, that sensation, that intensity. I want to have sex on my couch and make him come three times and almost pass out myself, and just colapse trembling from that pleasure. I want to pin him down and fuck him until I orgasm for two minutes straight, and fall back in exhausted triumph. I want to yield myself with complete trust to having him inside my ass, and gasp til I can barely breathe and am unable to move for the intensity of that feeling. When I want someone I want them all the time, every waking moment. And when I have them I absorb everything of that moment with the knowledge that as fantastic as it is, the next can only be even more amazing. My body aches to be touched, my senses cry out for the feel and taste and smell of my lover. Alas, longing is so sharp a dull pain.
M.

How Odd.

I got home from my vacation late in the morning on Monday. Upon returning home to my apartment I greeted all my animals and they greeted me. My betta fish flared up his fins and gills and danced about to welcome me. Later that afternoon when I was checking on my rats in the same room I found him on the counter. He had been out of the bowl too long to rescue, he had already begun to dry up. It was a gallon bowl, with a good two inches between the water and the lip of it. For all the time I had spent watching him swim about and build his bubble nest I had never seen him jump out of the water even when riled. My poor fishy. Rest in peace, Bootsy you nutty fish.
M.

You Know I'm No Good.

The only person who believes me when I say I'm evil is my best friend, she knows it, she and I are of the same mind, she's seen it, and I trained her in my ways. The rest laugh at me when I tell then, wide eyed, that I'm trouble. They'll call me cute, dismiss my warning. But I'm a heartbreaker, not that I intend to be. I'm too easy to love, too willing to love back. I will hurt them without planning to, and shed not a tear. No matter how my heart writhes in my chest. Maybe it's just my own unique damage, for often it seems my fault is loving too much, caring too much. I'd rather break someone's heart outright then stab them in the back a little more each day down the line, at least this way I can stay up all night and fix it a little. I have too many men swooning over me, and countless more who simply want me, it's a dangerous thing.
It's not a good thing, they can't tell I'm a bad woman, and I only go for good men.
M.