Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Dianna Troy you ain't.
The I’s stand up like fractures, they splinter my text the way they splinter me when I talk about myself. Hand from hell, rise up and grasp me and pull me down to your depths… I don’t like talking. About myself. When I do, I’m my own wank stain. Me my me. I. I. I don’t like those words. They hurt my lungs when I talk and strangle my throat like a snake. Tighter, Sid. Make it hurt. I’m not obsessed with myself but what I feel is desperately unimportant. Really. Look at me and know who I am. It’s not that hard. If you wanted to be inside me I’d let you, don’t make me explain myself, it’s too fucking tiring.
¶ 5:13 pm 
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So, so good. The way you write is so easy to relate to. Like that old phrase, everyone gets the way she writes, but no one gets her in the way I do. Perfect!
# posted by 
: 9:46 am
: 9:46 am
Thank you lady.... Tho maybe we've had very similar experiences? I know some people who don't get it at all! Big kiss xxxxxxx I haven't heard that phrase before, where's it from? xxx
Really? I thought it was a oft used critical literary phrase. I've heard it with people talking about Eddie Izzard and Douglas Adams etc...
But how can someone not relate to that? Of course you're right. But they're silly.
xxxxx
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But how can someone not relate to that? Of course you're right. But they're silly.
xxxxx
# posted by : 10:08 am
: 10:08 am<< Home
