Two words:

Watch out.

It’s coming.

It’s women like these that make my brain ache with the overwhelming desire to reach across the table and slam that cast iron pan across their ridiculous skulls.

Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

Jealous tendencies occur when one is unable to afford said “sexist” gadget, and thus, it turns into this tell tale debate on whether Apple or the iPhone is “complying with societies childish rules,” just to pass the politically correct exam at the end of the year.

This post is dedicated to all the non bitchy women in the world, who like myself, appreciate the iPhone for what it is, and not want skanky need of yours it doesn’t “fulfill.”

Now imagine if none of that ever came to pass.

What would you feel like? Would life appear as nothing more than a cruel joke on instant replay? Would breathing be as natural, your heartbeat as strong, you mind as sharp? Would you even want to exist? Would ‘wasting time’ and ‘taking up space’ ring loud and reverberate through the hallowed out skull that creation has left you with?

Who can live like this? Why? Why would someone chose to muddle through another aimless day, a search that is never ending, for what you seek is blurry and at most, unobtainable. What if the road is too long for your unconditioned legs to travel? What happens to your vision when it becomes distorted with hateful glances from an inward angle. Who’s to blame?

I don’t understand, and perhaps I never shall be privy to such truths. What I do know, is that I am tired. I’m tired of feeling less than worthy to live a good life. To enjoy the simple pleasures of morning and the silence of the night. I’m disappointed in myself. I’ve let myself down. How does one rectify this grave mistake? Is a suggestion all it takes to find truth in the flesh and bones that carry me through existence?

How desperate for approval does one fight off, before it’s too late and you turn around and utter, “fuck it all,”? What if you could taste the sweet textures of what your future holds, but deceive the body’s sense as if it were a costumed madman waiting in the wings to have his way with you? When did believing become so taboo that it’s a sacred and misused concept as opposed to what it was meant for: the deliverance of hope and beauty to the mundane nature we as humans have grown to accept.

Oddly enough, BELIEVE happens to be my favorite word, written by the minds I so desire to become a part of. I’m at war with myself and without a doubt in my mind, my worst enemy to date.

I just wish there was a way to possess a clear and untainted feeling, if only once. No fear. No longing for better days. No believing in failure as a prone to ill guided genetics. Nothing. Just hope, belief, peace and serenity.

There are too many voices crying out to be heard, and I surely know mine is one that shouldn’t be taken above others. Trust me, I know it could be worse.

But this torture is beyond pain and discomfort. It’s breaking my spirit, and I need to know there’s a rope on its way down to me.

Imagine that.

Thus begins the journey of my truths.

Recently, I’ve taken steps and measures of prevention to disable a lot of bullshit that’s been sloshing up against my windows, and in order for me to do so properly, my fingers need to dance it out.

From the age of 15, I’ve come to know a sense of completion associated with having “best friends.” I’ve been through fights, disagreements, thrown fists, heartbreaks but what’s more important is surprisingly, none of those. I’ve lived through the survival of what comes if all is meant to be, and nothing in this world makes me stronger than seeing an investment earn a return.

To define “investment” and “return” in friend-speak, it’s simple. It’s clean. It’s easy. If I am willing to lay this body - blood and bone, flesh and organs, thoughts and certainly fears - down on the fast track of steel and devastating death, I need to know it’s not in vain. It’s not a difficult concept, nor is it a petty request.

Back tracking somewhat through the years of doubt and mud slinging, I’ve known betrayal and I’ve known it well enough to know that it just happened to me again, for the final time. I was “that girl” who “cared too much” or would “give you the shirt off her back” in a split second. Funny thing? I’m still that girl. But none with a faint heart can handle that, and my respect for your opinions is strong and I certainly understand where you may be coming from. Or, what you say to yourselves to make it easier. Either way, I’m not for everyone, and it becomes more and more clear with every rising sun meeting it’s set, that I don’t care.

I am exactly who I’ve always been. I love with a passion and fury few have or will ever know. I hold on too tight. I refuse to let go 90% of the time, and I never, never back down from a fight I know will lead to a clean win for both parties involved.

But I see a failing example of what could have been just as easy as a man slipping into a drunken oblivion may wonder, “Did I really do this to myself?” And yes, I did. I admit my shortcomings and my false accusations of what I had hoped too much for to be true. But you know what is the absolute hilarious part? I’m human.

Last I checked, I was born to make mistakes. To choose darkened paths so I fall, scrape my knees and fight my way back up. I wasn’t born perfect, nor do I have any grand illusions that I am indeed, infallible. I hate pedestals, rewards and useless credit for things I deserve, because it’s my nature. In this most recent blow to my pride and my reasoning for being “overly emotional” (remember, human) I was blinded by a choice I made a while back that I was gravely mistaken. I’m not sorry I give a shit. I’m not sorry I piss people off. I’m not sorry that I lead myself down a dead end road with blinders on. I’m not sorry for a fucking thing. I did all a good person could possibly do, and my return was less than graceful.

And I am not okay. I’m hurt. I’m hurt because I was betrayed with words behind my back. Words I never expected to hear from lips I trusted would always tell me the truth. I will give the benefit of the doubt, or I would have. But my logical conclusions and substantiated opinions fell on deaf ears.

I would have cared. Honestly, I would have. But words cut me open like a Thanksgiving turkey awaiting it’s untimely demise, and this will never change. If you know me, you should know this. But seeing is believing, and my eyes were burned open to a truth that makes me sick. After this truth, I found I was misguided in my thoughts that one had in fact, known what kind of person I am. And that is okay. I can live with myself even if you can’t accept that.

What pains me the most is how it doesn’t affect the object of my fleeting fingers tonight. Nor has it ever. It’s a wound that is growing larger with each and every passing word that my hands type faster than thoughts can offer. I cared. Fiercely, and unconditionally.

But that’s over now, and as time passes I’m sure I’ll get over it, just like I have the innumerable amount of times this has happened to me in the past. Perhaps this may sounds full of conceit and unfounded opinions, but they are mine, and they are true to a life I’ve experienced.

Remember me if not for anything other than my ability to be the single most honest and genuine person that any of you will ever meet.

Do I care too much? Who gives a fuck. How about we ask why one might care too little.

[as a side note, I'd like to thank Andrew, for without him, I'd have never met my match in life]

Stick around - it’s coming, Cloverfield style.

And I’m in love. Because it’s incredible, and everyone should own one.

I came across a recent “opinion” in the Northeast Times Newspaper, and couldn’t resist the immediate need to rip this guy, “Anthony Porta, Sebring, FL” a new one. Follow the cut for more info on douche nozzle of the week:

Umm. F*CKHEAD. This is just one more unimportant reason for me wanting to become a Philly Cop. Call it a small fire burning to explore the professional need to kick monkey asses with jerk off opinions like these. Hey, Mr. Porta - how about you enjoy retirement down in the USofA’s graveyard, mmkay? Sure, I’ve put off my Cop dream in the past, but was it based on my height or the fear of “calling for back up,” [on account of my being small?], no it wasn’t. Truthfully, all 5′2″ of me never considered the probability of any discrimination from ol’ folk like you in regards to why I want a job where saving lives counts. Might I suggest that you keep those words of unwisdom to yourself, or perhaps you may find my “ill equipped” figure standing on your doorstep, and I will prove my point.

Amazingly enough, it’s the sexist populous like yourself that severely limited women’s occupations [to the kitchen] in the past, and its that thinking that makes this country ignorant to whats truly important. Having a civil service job is nothing more than volunteering your life to save others, in any capacity. I can be a cop. I can be a lawyer. I can be an FBI agent. And hey, if I want to do some light cooking for my future kiddies, I can do that too. It just blows my mind when men like Anthony Porta speak their piece and expect it to be met with open arms. Perhaps it was, but most likely it wasn’t [case in point: this blog]. The only thing I am certain of is that you’re an asshole with too much time on your raggedy old hands. You’ve officially offended this [female] Philadelphia resident with your small write-in thoughts, and I’d like to send a warm fuck you out across the digital wires of non voice speak.

Ya never know Mr. P, it might be your life I’m saving one day.

PS. I am not a cop, yet.

PSS. My future hubby is 6′3″, I’m guessing he should be none other than one of Philly’s finest, huh?

PSSS. If you were a cop, sir, I truly hope your time was spent taking care of your partners and the city you swore to protect. This city is in dire straights, so opinions squashing potential crime stoppers on account of height? Yea, that’s what it needs; more discrimination and negativity. Go you.

PSSSS. I’m not the only one who thinks you’re a dick.

Vent/

Real post coming soon.