Tuesday, March 14, 2006

stories of pink bits

I wanted to call this white C U Next Tuesday but I reckon it'll get censored.

I'm reluctant to broadcast the subject of this posting; latest news, latest goss.

Originally I had an idea of sending around a group email and massive text session to everyone on my list - with a link to a long and miserable post.

But I'm interested in networks and curiosuly enough my ego seems to have gone on strike. I'm feeding out the news bit by bits in dribs and drabs to epople I see and when I respond to emails. Slowly, sadly. Its veyr hard to say. I hope its not true. Im too scared to type it. Maybe it will make it true.

I started typing on anna's computer after listening to a couple of tangos. There's not even any point searching her hardrive, scouring her SMS inbox or hacking her email account. ONly another knife in the wound.

I know it. I sensed it before, while I was away. How the fuck does that happen?

Her dreams, fantasies, her ideas, her..... love is with someone else. Who I've met. We were amicable, because I didn't realise. I thought a lust a fling a crush. Not a big fat all consuming 7 year itch. Not only her desire, her whole being that makes the love thing happen. There's nothing I can do. I feel like alexis Karenin, or Dolly Oblonsky (Shcerbatskaya). Hell, why did I leave my tolstoy in france? Maybe I shouldn't have let her read Anna Karenina? She didn't make it to then end. I hope she keeps away from trains.


So hell is a white twat. My rival is a daughter of pied noirs. I'm not sure if my rival is her or her ex girlgfirend. the firench always do tings in threes. The head rivval is a 40 something ex-junkie teckie whiz butch bar dyke, daghter of a peid noir. The body is an aex anorexic femme vegan. am I bieng nasty? Judith butler has only jsut been translated into French. the parisian dyuke seen is like sydney in the 80's. I caught the tial end of that. Think of black jeans, short hair and lots of pool tables. The body complains that dykes don't think she's real coz she's a femme. Oh for fucks sake. She's no competition. Its the head that hurts, the head rival that punches me in the guts. SHe's brilliant, teckie and knows all the cool music and stuff on the net. How cool eh? she reckons her skin is so bald coz of her polyglot mixed racila ehritage. No she hasn't got a degree in genetics. Yes I do, and yes she's full of shit. She also rekcon french colonialism isn't so bad coz it brought civilisation and romanticism, and the roevolutionary spirit and human rights to north africa. Once a pied noir always a pied noir i say. The french hare hideously unreconstructed colonisals. French cannot admit they are wrong or made a mistae. the word for sorry means 'can you speak more clearly please?" Anna's family backgroudn is algerian. She's a romantic but the heads current girlfriend is kenyan. She seemed nice. She's going back at the end of the year. Anna wants head to come to australia. I'm applying to go to NYC and bakc into the arms of the british library.

the paradox is that We had a great time while I wa sin france. HArdly faught and anna's family were wonderful. As were her stupid fucking game playing friends. Can't al quaida drop a fucking bomb on Montmartre??? please????

Shit it's not about them its about her. She sees me as aher mother. Someone safe, secure, and boring. She wants someone skinny drunk, wild and dumb. Who won't aks questions. She knows if it goes pearshaped I'll take her back. She's right too.

Though right now I'm dreaming of some nice big boobed middle aged butch dyke. I wihs princess carming would come and sweep me off my feet. Unblock my closed sad twat and make me scream.

In reality, I'm planning my social life, catching up on firends, going to the beach, eating salads, and lining up the mercy fucks for when I estimate the serious physical ache is going to kick in (I give it 4-6 months).

I've invested in hair bleach and fake tan. I look like a fright. I want to forget myself. Lose myself, not look at the spurned flesh. hell hel helll.

I walked towards the computer because vitriol filled my fingers and made them itch. But all I can come up with is banal self pity. Where's my morrissey CD?

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