On our first date, I told you I was flighty. Impatient. Easily bored.
I don’t paint my nails because I can never sit still long enough
for even one coat to dry. I don’t fold my laundry because I hate the routine. I would rather buy new cutlery than wash my old ones.
Maybe I’m lazy. Maybe I have no motivation. Maybe I’m just looking for somebody to grab my shoulders and give me a shake and explain what normal is and why I should do it. But sometimes I brush my teeth for seven minutes straight because it just feels right. Some nights
I put my pillow on the opposite end of the bed because I’m still hopeful that I’ll wake up differently if I sleep differently. I never do.
Sometimes I forget that I’m reading in the middle of flipping a page,
instead struck by the thought we would rather make paper than oxygen, would rather have one less life-source than one less novel. I wonder about priorities. I wonder about people who think it’s necessary to match their socks when they leave the house every morning as if that’s what determines their character. I wonder about people who carry around purses that contain nothing but gum. I wonder about people who spend all their hours at a desk and then return to their house to pass the night alone in a cold bed with a frozen dinner. I wonder if they think that money will make them happier than other humans. I don’t like kissing when I have lipstick on, because I’m afraid of leaving a stain on a cheek, as if I’m marking my territory somewhere I don’t belong, as if I’m trespassing on camera. I stay up for twenty hours a day and spend the other fours hours knowing that the longest a person can stay alive without sleep is ten days. I wonder if my nervous system has begun to break down, leaving me nervous and broken along with it. I don’t understand the pills the doctors prescribed me even though they told me I was just upset over being broken up with. I told them I wasn’t upset, I was morose. I was downtrodden. I was a leaky ship; still afloat but getting lower under the weight of the water every second. I didn’t want to sink. I wanted to sail. But they didn’t tell me that the happy little green and white pills would make me plateau. On our first date, I said I felt flat. Not the kind of flat of calm water on a windless day, but the kind of flat that you associate with deflated balloons. All out of air or out of breath or struggling to find any words left. I felt like the kind of flat that musicians hate. That I hate and I can’t play a single instrument. On our first date, I think I told you I would understand if you didn’t stay. Nobody did and I never blamed them. I was too busy wondering about people who believed in numbers and the healing power of yoga on 3 a.m mornings and tying their shoes without kneeling down to notice when they left. I am stuck inside of a world that I don’t quite understand, with people I never seem to connect with.

FIRST DATE CONVERSATION (K.P.K)

(Source: towritepoems)

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NOT ALL MEN RAPE

NOT ALL WOMEN ARE RAPE VICTIMS

OKAY THATS IT

I’VE FILLED MY BINGO CARD

CONVERSATION OVER

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Apparently EVERYONE has access to guns because it’s a constitutional right. I mean small had guns are ONLY $300 so why not shell out for a small hand gun to prevent rape instead of putting food on the table or paying bills? C’mon. It’s easy.

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now he says that if you don’t carry a gun you’re a victim.

he’s saying that if you’re without a gun and get raped you deserve it.

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so-cal mans answer to rape: give everyone a gun!

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Anonymous: Wait why do we hate Nadine what did I miss

Nadine I’d my biological mom.

Honestly having her as a mom was hell from start to finish.

She was/is a habitual drug addict. Like I will forever have to deal with how she fucked me up because she couldn’t stop using meth for five flippin seconds while she was pregnant with me.

Not to mention her habits landed both my youngest brother and I in two separate abusive foster homes for about five years.

While we were in foster care she tried to kill herself and then got pregnant with my little sister who became her replacement child and she stopped caring about my brother and I.

And then, after 20 years of putting up with her psycho babe bullshit, she left.

And she didn’t leave with dignity. Oooohhh no. She left in such a way that threw my entire family into a tail spin.

She not only robbed by dad of all his money but stole their only working car. And then tried to have my dad arrested on 2 separate occasions telling the world that he was abusive and tried to kill her even though my dad doesn’t have a rap sheet whatsoever.

now she sits up in Oregon telling people that she has suffered 25 years of abuse from my dad and that it’s his fault that her children don’t love her and yeah. She’s a drug riddled sociopath for sure.

her newest bit is that she “cursed the land” at my dad’s house with some ~evil wiccan spell~ and that because of it my dad’s going to die.

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I might even color my hair. It’s getting cold so that means the red should be coming back. No doubt my dad will roll his eyes though, along with Corys family. Sometimes the baby boomers just can’t handle my eccentric personality.

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Hoping to sell Cory’s old car tonight. I have someone coming to look at it and hopefully buy it for $800. If we get the full $800 I’m gonna see if Cory will let me take $100 of it and get some new clothes considering I’ve basically been living in pajamas because I no longer own a pair of wearable pants. With the remainder we’ll get caught up on all the bills that we’re back on and hopefully set some aside for Christmas. Seriously if we sell this car it’ll be a game changer that we need, for sure.

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Since Connor has older friends I’m often asked questions all. the. time.

I mean, these kids think I’m like this all knowing being. The little girls admire me because I went to college and so they’re always probing me for information, it’s crazy.

Like, the other day the oldest girl was asking me questions about things that I hadn’t even thought about since 4th grade and lets face it, that was… 14? years ago.

So I answer them to the best of my ability and then fact check only to find out that the dusty old archives in my brain DO hold something other than scars!

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