Diary 31.

31.  
Thirty one stories -    
   
   
   
   
   
   
I like him a lot. Without word of a lie, at the moment no matter what he does, I think alot of him, I want to see the best in him. I'm not in love with him, which is good but whatever he needs to hear to boost his ego sometimes helps. He's not always a kind man, he's spiteful and he thinks using his dick the majority of the time. He doesn't feel ashamed for what he did with her. He's smug, yet he's confused that I'm upset. What did he expect? He's a slut though, you know? He's one of those observant human beings, who watches you, a little like a spider and tests his luck. You never really think since he's testing his luck with you, he's testing it with everyone else but as I said, his ego is all he's got here. He can't be soft any more. When he speaks to me he always suggests that he's soft, he never shows it. Does he see himself at all in a correct light? His body is beautiful, no denying that but he's a rake and second to that his face is a strange shape, and I don't like his nose. I hate the fact none of that bothers me. He makes me smile, above all else. I have to get out of this web. See, what bothers me is his delusion that he is more than he is. There's a terrible thing with people and delusions of grandeur, they never get things done. They stumble about like they're wasting time. I know fucking as many women as possible is an important pass-time. I hurt inside, he actually hurts me with how cold he is. I keep expecting to find something gentle but everything I read, everything I see, everything I hear, he forgot what affection was a long time ago. He doesn't seem care as long as he has his end in, to be honest, and bless him, he still thinks he's the most attractive thing in the world. His sex face is peculiar.  
   
If he wants a pretty faced kid whom he can drive to school, that is fine, that is absolutely fine by me. I fancy fresh meat, something younger, a little more get up and go. He'll realise he's getting old soon because a lot of the girls my age wouldn't do "nap time" and early "sleep time" and they'd cheat on him. I mean I sit here busting my arse, thinking it's something, something special, you know? It's funny how you can see these things happening all the time and yet you miss the signs. He liked Jo, and he played Alison, it didn't matter who I was when we met, he needed something to show him consistent affection, boost his confidence for the Summer but I don't think I'm anything more than that. I think I was just a warmer, he never intended to keep me.  
   
I wish I didn't know that he's the trickster, if she knew she's wrong but she's young, he takes every sleazy opportunity to boost the only personality he has. He likes the attention, the security from me but he wants it all. I wish I loathed him, I wish he made my skin itch like heat, I wish I could take a pill and everytime I went near him I'd be sick on my old boots. I wish I didn't want him. The bastard, the fucktard, the heartless branch on a poisoned apple tree.  
   
I just want to get high.  
I get caught up in his stories, I buy into his words. I've never felt more worthless, or stupid or objectified or screwed up and toyed with. All I do is try, I try so hard to fix something that isn't real, like it actually matters, like he actually cares. What failure am I for loving again? I knew last time, and the time before. What did this heartless prick intend to teach me, the infamy of my unattractive being and what it means to him? I keep thinking it over: I am insignificant to everyone, I do not matter.    
   
What useless pieces of flesh are these? A dimple in my chin, a round face unlike that beautiful, little kid. How am I supposed to stay open-minded? Go on empty ambition lying on this page as if by writing I can find the answer to anything. I want destroy what little's left of me, what little's left of the helpful, hearty girl he knew and reinvent. I've got the fucking blues, man, such fucking blues. His dick is not worth this. I happen to like security, the affection, the attention, the trust but he's a player. He's nothing but a slut. I could have bought into the ideal that he wouldn't do it again if he wasn't so fucking proud he did it now. He's a brilliant actor, I do give him that.  
   
I look him in the eyes sometimes, and I do try, I promise, I try to find something there that's genuine, that he feels beyond the macho-masochist-bullshit but he's not built like me. There's no compassion here. He's a modern man, who wants to wake up at Fourty, still drunk from the night before, in his own sweat and vomit, alone; and down pocket to someone who's pretty with a price-tag. The cheap thrills in life, the easy thrills. Where are the guts, Alpha?  
   
Rub salt in my eyes please, I can't look at her any more and I have given him every opportunity to present something honest. I have tried. I put my all in and came out with nothing. Why am I still crying? All I ever do now is cry. How could he? How could he do use me like a ball-point pen? I was boss before him, I've only let myself down. I gave him me wrapped in a bow. I set up the play date between he and my thighs.

He finds it all so terribly comical now. You can see the family dynamic. He was the young one so he's the baby, and he is, believe me, he is the baby. He needs to constantly be told he's the best, is he attractive? Does he do everything right? He makes me sad and he drains my energy...    
I feel safe here right now.    
   
   
   
   
What the fuck am I doing?