There is nothing more that can ruin a man's night than a missed kiss. A kiss so close you lean for it and then her head just moves away like an infant who wanted nothing to do with food. It plagued my night and day and the following night and day again. I am clearly not meant for this task.
For what it is worth, it is high time for me to ruin my life further and detach and dissociate myself from the rest of the outside world for the third time, further destroying my faith and sanity on my own self and the entire humanity.
Regardless of what has been said, I do not condone this and I have yet to feel a dysfunction creep right through me.
Roxana found herself outside my doorsteps unexpectedly. I did not even have the time to react. It was the shittiest time she could shown herself there, and now I reap what I have sown. Of course, I wish it was under better circumstances that we found ourselves swimming over. When I opened the door, she had a fag in her gabber and I just stood there lifeless and gutted, feigning for a hug. Was I the one that influenced her the error of my ways?
She had always appeared tired whenever she graced herself in presence. Her face was slightly red, swollen by fatigue, the pores on her cheeks form tiny craters side by side. Her golden hair, ruined by the wind and rain's wicked howl, was missing a slight tint. She had centaur thighs after walking all day, and she had not a single penny for god knows why or how. But there I stood across her body that reeked of toxic air, seducing this woman with my lacklustre charm.
It was a shitshow, that one, clearly, but we were making the most out of the…
Much has been done
but very little in fact
Such is the state of the man
whose heart remains intact
When it should have leapt
the risk of being broken
When the night was whiskful
and both of us downtrodden
I was a foolish man
to think that it was fine
In fact it hurt a lot
It was such a selfish act
Please give me one more chance
I think it was the colour of her melon-shaped face that turned me completely off. She was so photogenic though. When she -- a stranger to me back then -- had asked me whether or not she could stay at my place for a few days or so, who was I to say no? She had captivated me fully with a photograph, and all I could do was to submit my faith fully. Just this one time, I remember whispering to myself. And then never again.
But I was obviously lying to myself. There was another thing already lined up even before this transaction with a stranger was finalised.
There she was, standing in a corner, waiting for me. The first thing that I had noticed was her hair. It was unkempt, sort of untidy, very unlike the one in her photograph. Did she deceive me? was my initial reaction. When I had glanced at her face for the first time, she seemed totally different than was expected and yet somehow still uncannily familiar.
She looked exactly like the woman that I had shared intimate time with exclusiv…
Little did she know that the moment she walked into the door she had submitted herself at the mercy of his manipulative ways. What remained of her freedom was outed as a mere illusion and her future rests in his inability to organise his own. She was as helpless as tofu is alternative to pork. She could not have foreseen the error of her ways so soon.
Well, she learned now and learned she did.
Whenever he used her body as if it was a tool of possession used only to be discarded again and again, she would always turn a blind eye. She had convinced herself that her soul was loosely detached from the physical aspect of her being, and that whatever cruelty and violence he inflicted upon her sexuality would only be but a scratch to the core of her humanity. He was not a thoroughly deplorable person, and she at times found herself at the other end of a blissful climax as well as falling into the disappointment of not being able to fully satisfy their own. The mechanics of the body is a cru…
Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before
It is always so fucking exhausting when the body anticipates waking up before the alarm is able to. Feels as if your entire physical will crumble on you at any time during the day without a moment's hesitation. Clearly I have had no rest. But that's hardly the truth. I do in reality had enough of rest. The problem is when the time of rest doesn't even abide by any schedule and you wake up late at night not knowing what to do afterwards.
My schedule was to head to Brighton. After all these fuckingly retarded years. Iceland instigated all of this, and I am yet in the same bind; cash was scarce and nobody was there to lift me back up to save me from myself. It is a sad state of affairs indeed; now I comtemplate whether the plan to visit Sabrina in Wien was a good idea. There is nothing here for me in London but an unlimited supply of restarts, after all.
I had arrived in Euston with enough time to roam about and gathe…
Some days you develop a nagging intuition that a particular day was destined to be epic, storied, and one to treasure to heart only to end up being just the total opposite. Saturday was one of these days.
A couple of days prior to this monumental disappointment, I had inquired of Iceland's condition through Facebook after he disappeared without a trace on our last night out to Shoreditch.
He responded with, "I was running for half an hour totalky [sic] drunk." He was trying to catch the last train to Watford.
To tell the truth, he was quite the troublesome sod that night. All the women in our group were bothered by his unkindly behaviour; Eva, Monica, Bruna, Erica, Susana, and another Brazilian whose name escapes me (probably rhymes with Ferefa or Fafala or Falala, whatever other common Portuguese-sounding name derivative it was), were somewhat livid. Me and Eva happen to be wiggling our twerkers (struggle as I might) when Iceland would for…