-

There�s a slight winter drizzle outside and it smells so good. It smells the kind of good that makes you electric all over, the kind of good smell you imagine when forced to picture yourself in a beautiful novel.

I�m writing a story. It�s a story about sex and romance in Clemmons library. Only, I named �Clemmons� �Kent� because I was feeling particularly crafty. The story is wonderfully, magically, deliciously bad. I love its badness, I love its terrible, awful, cliched essence � I love the cringe it gives me to read over what I�ve written. This may be one of my favorite pieces of terribleness yet.

I wear my vulnerability like a badge, I want others to marvel at it, really. I pretend to like hiding it, and maybe there was a time when I really did try to have a tough exterior. But there is no denying that I am most horrified at my own actions when said actions were out of cold, calculated reason rather than passion. My ability to be rational in situations where I should be weepy and hysteric is usually beautiful at the time, but terrible to look back on.


Previous | Next