Love is a dog from hell.

“Truth is everybody is going to hurt you: you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.”
Bob Marley

Fact of the matter is I really fucking hate reggae music, it sounds like the same damn thing being played in a loop. I guess it’s not that much different from the dubstep that I listen to, but at the same time it’s totally different. Bob Marley, however, is one of the grooviest dudes ever. He had hope for a brighter future, he had courage to stand up for what he was passionate about, and well gee, that hair. How awesome what that medusa like tangle of dreads that always looked like a parrot was going to pop out at any time. Bob Marley is good in my book, I’m not going to listen to the reggae channel on Sirius though. I do remember a time that I used to binge listen to Legend in my years of high school angst and wonder what the world would be like if circumstances were different.

What would I be like if my aunt were really my mom and I was raised by them instead of my mom and dad. What would happen if I were born into a family with real problems. What if I were born a boy? All of these things would twirl through my brain as I would lay in bed listening to “Three Little Birds”. I remember carrying myself through the day singing that song to myself, the haunting words “every little thing, is gonna be alright”. Nowadays I think to myself, “how the hell does he know!”

Recently, I’ve been laying in bed at night thinking. In a vague way about something, someone, and everything revolving around those. I lay in bed and think about you, but I don’t know why. It’s haunting, it doesn’t go away and I toss and turn and curse the skies for the fact that my brain is so wrapped up around a circumstance that I have no control over. I never did, I think that’s what allures me to think about the topic so much. I feel compassion, I feel passion, I feel, well, feelings, and those suck.

So I lay in bed, thinking, night dreaming without sleeping really, and try to associate this sort of thought pattern with a sort of philosophy that can help me through the tough times.

“If we train our conscience, it kisses us while it hurts”

Friedrich Nietzsche

Speaking from a life of a girl that does nothing but ramble and get into adventures, the conscience is a four legged dog from hell that brays at you every chance I get. Maybe that’s why my insomnia haunts me, it’s actually that damn dog howling my colorful past and beckoning what the future may hold. Can I live my life with the dog of conscience howling, you’re damn straight I can, because I don’t regret a single thing that I’ve done in my life, and boy some of them were shitty. I can supply lists of people that I’ve screwed over in one way or another, but at the same time I was using my own sense of self preservation. Fuck those before they fuck you.

Sometimes all that happens at once, and it gets sort of messy, but in a fun sort of way.

I lay in bed at night, thinking about you (and don’t worry, “You” isn’t really a person, its a though wrapped in a person embodying a future that will never come true). “You” don’t exist, just like I don’t really exist. That person in the fabricated world of “every little thing is going to be alright” is a fallacy. I don’t really have plans for tomorrow, I just fear the night, knowing that the preslumber thought patterns will be full of hazy recollection of something that never was and what will never be.

-cue the Led Zepplin song-

…or just throw in a long vague poem about the “you” that doesn’t exist and the “me” that never will, and dissect it to my own liking and footnotes.

“The things about you I appreciate
May seem indelicate:
I’d like to find you in the shower
And chase the soap for half an hour.(and this is where I think of soap on a rope and this becoming some weird erotic movie)
I’d like to have you in my power
And see your eyes dilate. (I’m thinking this has something to do with the roofie that was slipped into the drink)
I’d like to have your back to scour
And other parts to lubricate.(Parts, like car parts, like a lube job)
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
To chase you screaming up a tower
Or make you cower
By asking you to differentiate
Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.(Um, can’t we work on Kant and Nietzsche first)
I’d like successfully to guess your weight(bad idea, bro, bad idea)
And win you at a fête.
I’d like to offer you a flower. (for the record, guy that doesn’t exist, my favorites are white daisies and liatris, I’m not a fan of carnations and I scoff at the thought of having some damn lily in a bouquet)

I like the hair upon your shoulders,
Falling like water over boulders.(Like an over the shoulder boulder holder? classy, dude)
I like the shoulders too: they are essential.
Your collar-bones have great potential (I have to say, I’ve always like my collar bones, they’re one of my favorite parts, besides my nose…)
(I’d like your particulars in folders
Marked Confidential). (I know where you can get some of those pictures….only a few people have them…)

I like your cheeks, I like your nose,
I like the way your lips disclose (Finally, my nose. I’m telling you, it’s awesome)
The neat arrangement of your teeth
(Half above and half beneath)
In rows.(if by in rows you mean slightly irregular but still good looking yes.)

I like your eyes, I like their fringes.
The way they focus on me gives me twinges. (I do have a way with giving, you know, that look)
Your upper arms drive me berserk.
I like the way your elbows work.
On hinges …(That’s a stretch, it’d look pretty freaking weird if they worked on levers or pullys)

I like your wrists, I like your glands,
I like the fingers on your hands. (you have no idea…)
I’d like to teach them how to count,
And certain things we might exchange,(spit, can we swap that? and you know)
Something familiar for something strange.(my ex had a cat named strange….)
I’d like to give you just the right amount
And get some change.

I like it when you tilt your cheek up.
I like the way you not and hold a teacup. (lets change that one to martini glass and rhyme something else)
I like your legs when you unwind them.
Even in trousers I don’t mind them.(I hate pants, like really hate them)
I like each softly-moulded kneecap.(and all the awesome scars that they possess)

I like the little crease behind them.
I’d always know, without a recap,
Where to find them.(and well, you’re sort of the bee’s knees too)

I like the sculpture of your ears.
I like the way your profile disappears
Whenever you decide to turn and face me.(that sounds sort of spooky, like perhaps I’m some sort of weird demon that has been stalking you in your sleep)
I’d like to cross two hemispheres
And have you chase me.(I’ve actually done that one before, it didn’t work out well, so let’s save our frequent flier miles and go someplace, I dunno, not ghetto?)
I’d like to smuggle you across frontiers
Or sail with you at night into Tangiers.
I’d like you to embrace me.

I’d like to see you ironing your skirt
And cancelling other dates.(Well, I suppose so, but I really like those other dates…what are you offering)
I’d like to button up your shirt.
I like the way your chest inflates.(Um, hopefully you mean when I breath, cause I mean, I don’t think there is any sort of breast pump that actually makes them bigger with a pump)
I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurt
Or frightened senseless by invertebrates. (Those are like, bugs, right?)

I’d like you even if you were malign
And had a yen for sudden homicide. (I haven’t thought about it, am I sort of against becoming a forensic file)
I’d let you put insecticide
Into my wine.(would you like spinozad or would you rather something more toxic)
I’d even like you if you were Bride
Of Frankenstein (I wouldn’t call him frankenstein…)
Or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’s
Jekyll and Hyde.
I’d even like you as my Julian
Or Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan.(we’re going to have to get back to talking about bugs and martinis, that’s a bit over my head)
How melodramatic
If you were something muttering in attics
Like Mrs Rochester or a student of Boolean
Mathematics. (I can rock some mathematics…show me your equation and we can make this work)

You are the end of self-abuse.
You are the eternal feminine.(Self-abuse no more, I’m moving on)
I’d like to find a good excuse
To call on you and find you in. (Yeah, stalkerish, I’m kinda into that thing…will you peep through my windows an…)
I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin,
And see you grin. (Smirk, I’d rather smirk)
I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,
I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin
I’d like to make you reproduce.(Good lord, no way, bucko, not in this lifetime.)

I’d like you in my confidence.
I’d like to be your second look. (well, I suppose you can be my first look, if you’re as good looking as some of the others)
I’d like to let you try the French Defence
And mate you with my rook. (That sounds dirty)
I’d like to be your preference
And hence
I’d like to be around when you unhook. (I already did that, it was messy)
I’d like to be your only audience,
The final name in your appointment book,
Your future tense.” (As in is gonna be…)
John Fuller

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