Thursday, 27 November 2008
Fuck, I depressed me.
Beating a dead horse, I'd prefer to call my experience flogging an expired equine. I'm a fag like that. It only happens when I'm around her, and I cannot get away. This is why I'm on my fourth scotch with no end in sight. We were never really a couple, but we were together toward the end of my adolescence. I know I loved her, but my aversion to physical contact instilled by a religious toltolitarian of a mother drove us apart. It was my fault, and I took the responsibility, but now I'm going to beat a dead horse and call her. She lives two blocks away and we're still friends. We will never be together again, even now as I've sorted out my personal issues, I know this. Yet I still swing the stick into the horses' ribs over and over and over. Torture, it literally eats at me like necrotizing fasciitis of the 'heart'. Fuck, the horse is just mush now. But I'm still going to beat it.