Mr. Holly

I need to get this out of my system before he brings down his mallet & crushes my heart.

We slow danced outside in the rain while I sang in his ear.

We kissed for hours. The kind of kissing that made him say things like, “I want my mouth on every inch of your body,” and “I am going to cum inside you again and again; we’re going to make ten babies.” 

We sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor. He held both my hands in his lap. With our heads pressed together, we talked about things that made him cry & things that made my soul stretch thin. I held his face (rather, his giant beard) in my hands as I placed kisses beneath each eye, on his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. I told him I don’t want him to hurt me. I confessed to falling in love with him the day we met & to comparing everyone to him because he is everything I want in a man. He promised never to hurt menever wanted to do to me what was done to him. He said I love you and kissed me. I didn’t have time to ask or respond, but I’m sure it was an accident. He won’t remember. We agreed to go outside for a smoke.

I sat on the wooden stairs behind his apartment; he stood at the bottom.

He said,”Kathryn, I’ll be yours if you’ll have me.”

I was in shock. I said, “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

“No, I mean it. If you’ll take me, I’ll be yours.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Reallllllly? You’re drunk, Matthew.”

“Kathryn, When I’m drunk is when some of the most true stuff comes out of my mouth.”

We kissed, then I whispered in his ear, “I want you to be mine, Matthew.” To which he replied, “Ok. I’m yours.”

We had sex a hundred times. Afterword, he held me. He asked could he fall asleep inside me. And of course, I let him.

Allie, he has my heart, but he is so far away. I love the strands of gray hair above his right ear, his conspiracy theories, his shower song and his naked jig: booty shaking, dick flopping. I love that he said grace when we sat down for the breakfast that he cooked.

Every opportunity for him to hurt me is a chance at happiness.

Embarrassing confessions about my alone time

I seem to think it’s okay to eat startling amounts of cookie dough
Or bond with my snake via a yoga session of him zenning it up with me, wrapped around my neck as I try to focus on downward facing dog and he tries to steal my titty warmth.
I’m actually still a child stuck in a neurotic adult’s body
Complete with a collection of high heels I don’t wear,
red lipstick I’ll never put on,
and lingerie that makes me look like a fucking slutty ballerina
Only to be worn in moments of childlike bliss
When I’m prancing around the house, belting out “If you waaant to destrooooy my sweeaaateeeeeer” or some shit, just because it’s what I felt like doing.

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*Obligatory slutty ballerina lingerie shot*

Just 10 am on a Thursday, you know how it goes.

Nostalgia. (And that’s when I realized how much I can love another person’s offspring)

Nothing will ever make you sad quite like sharing a favorite book or movie or song from your childhood with a child you love… And having them absolutely hate it.
It’s certainly not the sort of sadness that keeps you up late, crying or pouring your sadness into glasses or journals, but the kind that hits the soft part in anyone who’s managed to maintain any sense of wonder about the world.
Slowly, but surely, life’s cruelties keep sinking in with age and life will never be as wonderful or as magical as it was from my younger, more optimistic eyes.
It’s weird to long for childhood, all of  the spirit and hope and excitement for the world at large that came with it.
He’s so sweet and pure, full of life, creativity, and fantastical musings.
I can’t help hoping he never lets life turn him into the rest of us.

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Bout of Depression

I’m accustomed to waking up to a beautiful world full of fun & amazing people.

Lately, I hate all the shit. Fuck it alllllllllll.

Chocolate? Hate it.

Coffee? Fuck you.

Sex? Can’t remember.

I’m assuming nothing sucks any more than usual, which means the problem is within… unless the Creative Circus is the thorn festering under my skin. Not sure what that would mean for me.

They know where we’re going. And it’s not far.

It’s strange how simultaneously frustrating and comforting it feels when you’re quite sure you’ve had the final straw.

Katie, darling, let me try to piece together all of the threads in this shit blanket that is today

Per usual, it’s cold and gloomy and miserable outside. I made the mistake of wearing a dress and what must surely be the thinnest tights I own, because I feel sort of pretty in them, and I’m still pretty convinced that I’ll get more shit done if I force myself to get the Hell out of my yoga pants in the morning.

Per usual, the parking on campus was atrocious. When faced with the decision to park at the library and trek all the way to Self Hall within ten minutes or say fuck it and and park in “Ladiga Trail Parking Only,” I chose the latter, because that’s what any sane adult with shit to do chooses, am I right?

Self Hall is perfectly warm and cozy, on one positive note. Going to class puts me in a rather meditative state these days, despite the sub-par education I’m receiving. It’s pleasant to sit and listen and daydream for a while in contrast to how hurried everything can be outside the classroom.

It was my only class today, this public relations course. I’m not terribly keen on PR due to being a generally neurotic little person who has a deal of trouble relating with the general public, but the professor’s a nice guy. So here I am, all warm and cozy, when he calls me out by name at the beginning of class. First, middle, last name and all. That’s how you know you’re in deep shit.

As it turned out, he’d just received an email this morning informing him that he needs to dismiss me from his class, effective January 15, 2015 to [no end date posted]. What in the ever loving fuck? He was kind enough to let me stay for class anyway, and even kinder to overlook me whipping my phone out to frantically check my email. The only email about the issue was dated from this morning, January 15th. “Due to a balance on your account, your registration has been dropped.” Ouch. No warning prior to it. You’d think someone would have the courtesy to be like “yo, you’ve already forked out a lot of nonrefundable dough for this ish right hurr and you got a little left, boo. Just sayin’.”

I can’t say I remember anything about class beyond worrying. When the hour and a half was up, I was still so upset and so ready to just get shit done. What could I have possibly overlooked? Why can I not seem to get my shit together?

It was sleeting when I got outside, of course, so I patted myself on the back for my good call about parking. Then lo and behold, as I neared my car, something that wasn’t there before looming at me.
Fucking. Booted.

Whip out my phone again and call UPD. I explain that I don’t have any fees for tickets due, which they confirm, and that they couldn’t really prove that I wasn’t using the Ladiga Trail anyway. To which I’m told I’ll have to go directly to the Police Department if I want any chance at a case of getting the fee for the boot dropped. Nothing I had to say seemed to make it clear enough that getting there was difficult with a fucking boot on my car, please come take the fucking boot off my car.

So I waited at the nearest campus bus stop for a ride to the PD. And waited. 10 minutes. Still sleeting. 15 minutes. Still sleeting. 20 minutes. Decided it was past the time to start walking. Finally get to the police department. Make a huge ass of myself, but they take the boot off and tell me I might have a good case against the boot fee. Great, now it’s time to get shit done.

Finally get to the financial aid office and I’m already so frustrated that I’m crying. Just little streams of tears and rage that I can’t control because I’m livid, my clothes are soaked, and freezing. As it seems (and I must note here, when it’s this person’s job to relay information to me and help sort things out, it’s crucial to “know” and not just guess that it “seems”), I had an unpaid student fee in the range of fifty to seventy-five dollars, roughly. Thus, because of this itsy bitsy fee and misunderstanding, all of my classes were dropped. I can be reinstated, but the estimated cost of fees for what has transpired today alone is around $700.

Needless to say, I think I’ve finally had enough shit this time.