Sir Pent

Curly Sue's wounds are healing. 

Her eyes are bright. The vet said that I did the best I could with what I had. Perhaps the same thing could be said for my parents. 

I have so much pent up rage! I can only slam my car doors and furiously go the speed limit and obey all traffic laws (but angrily) so much before I do something truly stupid. This morning, my head was full of killing thoughts. Of me. Of the worst of human kind. I want to kill those that want to kill others, I want to justify my murderousness. How many others try to justify their murderousness? I have a few outlets for this wrath: friends. chosen family. a meeting of strangers. punching things. drawing something covered in blood or dying. masturbating. Maybe that last one is a weird coping mechanism but I do get some release. I've never truly hate fucked someone, but I have beaten a few of my lovers (they begged for it dw). It's so easy to hate, it's much harder to love. But somehow I am overflowing with both, the waves of hate and love tumble into each other and crash against my brain's shore, dousing me with thoughts I don't know if I can swim through. I learned to swim early, I can find any body of water and think to myself, 'yeah, I can take that.' Years of butt tubing in the mountains prepared me for a rocky ride into serenity. I'm still tumbling down those rapids, hitting every flippin rock on the way down. 

Somehow I still manage to laugh it off, kiss the bruises left behind, patch up the scars from a slicing stone, and keep swimming.