Helping
It's so wierd, while trying to help my friend, searching and locating, I'm constantly reminded of my own situation.
It doesn't go away, like when you scratch an itch it will die down. It keeps hanging in there because there are constant reminders. Because it keeps coming back.
Sigh. Well I'll continue to help, but I'll look out for myself too. Sometimes I wonder if I neglect my own, for I've been yet again constantly reminded so many, many times these few weeks.
Constitutionals
Some people just can't decide what they want, eh?
You want a someone that is actually somewhat sensitive enough, somewhat nice enough, somewhat smart enough, but not very 'manly' or someone that is not very bright, macho-shitty, smells, but super super strong, super super 'manly'. As in the muscles in the arms, am not talking about his will or anything. So, is it the former or the latter? Why can't people decide? They want the best of both worlds. But sadly, the truth is, the best doesn't exist.
This is an androgynous world. Live with it. Or become gay/lesbian. Whichever turns you on. Or turn gothic. Hmm... bi... (Ben? When are you buying that kilt thing?) Or, stick with MCPs. They are your best bets.
And no, it's not a rejection lambasting or anything. Just my brain taking its daily consitutionals yet again.
Sic.
The ice cold water jolted him. Face dripping wet, he placed his hands on the sink, hunched. He shifted his gaze upon the figure in front of him.
The figure stared at him, with torpid eyes. Dark rings circumvented the little slits. The figure's rubicund lips were taking on a ugly swollen, slightly purplish hue. He wondered if the illness were recrudescent, which was on his mind all the while. He shifted his glance on his left arm. Myriad patterns of bright red lines dashed across each other angrily. Everytime he moved it he could feel the nettlesome pain pricking him. But the perverse pleasure of it all kept him happy about it.
He shifted his glance up at the figure again. So did the figure, shifting his gaze at him. The lackadiasical look of the figure irked him, even much more aggravated by the horrific skeletal body it had.
He felt sick again. Fluttering his hands with much celerity to the bottle of pills in the cabinet, he downed them. The quivering of his hands stopped after a while. He felt terribly lachrymose all of a sudden. Inexplicably, he felt rage. Against the figure standing in front of him. He could remember what he was before like it was yesterday. But the anathema that was standing in front of him right now was...... his hatred for it was ineffable. He just couldn't explain it all.
What overcame him in the few seconds, he too can't explain them. But all he saw of it was the little shards of the figure still peeking at him in front of him, and his bloodied right fist. He washed his hands, staring at the reddish water going into a swirl with bits of silver glinting and floating in it.
With the cleaning done, he turned and walked away.
Stay [sic].