Mundane

I've realized, like my heart and soul, my blogs are random, they veer from the extremes of insanity to the mundane of life. I chitter about boys and then dream of technicolour death in the same day. I talk about roses and puppies and blood leaking from my skin. OK, I don't really talk about roses and puppies, usually just bad sex and random experiences that plague my soul.

It's the theatre of the macabre, Sex in the City amalgamated with the Rocky Horror Picture Show bundled up into an inocous package that is me. It's unfair that I look so inocous, like the librarian that by dark is the sexed up tart, I look ordinary, you would never know that I surf porn and dream of oral sex, that if could, I would kick every single pretentious school mum in the ass, that yes, I do want to run you over in my car, and have meaningless affairs with your husbands to occupy my mind. I hate smiling at you over de rigeur conversation over the weather and nodding pleasantly about your lauded volunteer work to turn our children into model citizens driving SUVs and coveting lake houses and second homes. I am sure your husband is having an affair but as long as you have your million dollar home, your daily trainer and Botox you should be fine. I think you're pathetic and myself pathetic for living in your world.

Truth is, I should have been a man. I have commitment issues, neediness makes my skin crawl. No, I don't feel the need to call you when I am away and I don't care what you're doing unless it's titillating. I like to be alone, and I'm selfish, I want you when I do, and when I do you better be on, and if I don't, be gone. I don't crave and covet, unless it's food or a great dress. I like fun and games, I don't want to pontificate on marriage. The big white dress and the Cinderella fairytale (unless he's a sugar daddy) nauseating. Give me a bikini, a beach, tequila, a party and an airplane to an unknown locale where I can find culture and life outside of marketed perfection.

I wonder as I walk down the street whether people can hear the ruminations of my mind, that i feel like a deer in headlights constantly in heat of some form. That I shop savagely for release, that I mingle amongst them for escape, that I'm scared to go home, that work is impossible, and life strangling.

I have a perfect Christmas tree, in my perfect house, on my perfect couch, with my perfect cat, and my perfect car outside. I also have the perfect tan, the perfect look and the perfect job. I am perfectly filled with shit.

I have to go to my perfect life now, so i bid you adieu till later.