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REPOST: I'm sorry you don't have an ex of your own -- take mine, PLEASE. - The highs and lows of KuteLuvr

About REPOST: I'm sorry you don't have an ex of your own -- take mine, PLEASE.

Previous Entry REPOST: I'm sorry you don't have an ex of your own -- take mine, PLEASE. May. 9th, 2004 @ 01:00 pm Next Entry
I would say that it's normally not a good idea to go off on your own little personal vendettas in someone else's journal. It's not your space. However, someone did it to mine, and despite my opinion, I'm happy they did. I'm happy they felt they could share themselves in my little world. I'm honored that I was chosen, either by coincidence or by intent, for this little diatribe. I'm awed by the power of emotion that lives within it. I'm reposting it because of the power behind it... such an inspiration is commonly done in the heat of a moment, and later very often is retracted. Well, Whoever, I'm not going to let that happen. You shared to the world, and now the world is going to keep it... because someone in the world thinks it's worth keeping.

Originally posted by itsawndrfullife in response to this post
I'm sorry you don't have an ex of your own -- take mine, PLEASE. May 9th, 2004 - 02:25 am
Most of the people I've parted ways with in my life, by chance, or by choice, are still among my closest friends. Still, you're bound to date a genuine butthead once or twice. Hopefully it's short-lived and causes appropriate angst: somewhere between "broken nail" and "change flat tire" angst as you drop him off in the Tenderloin.

If, however, misfortune hangs over you like bored, slightly annoyed buzzards, you're probably one of the chosen few doomed to reach for the Brass Ring of boyfriends on your laps 'round life's sickening little carousel.

Like pretty things? Shiny? Unique? Aloof? Smooth? Cold….? Lean waaaay out there. Alllmost.....lean waaaaay out…. WAY the fuck out there, stupid! You listening, or are ya still stuck on "shiny?" *snap* *snap* Pay attention!

Go straight ahead until you run out of common sense, then take a left and drive six miles past stupidity, THEN grab with them little desperate gibbon arms of yours.

Pass on the Brass Ring. It's actually brass-plated pot metal: porous, brittle, colder than a witch's tit, and so lacking in integrity you'd be nuts to use it as a doorstop, much less running around with it like you've got special-needs and a new pair of scissors. The Brass Ring isn't about to go anywhere with you anyway. It's tack-welded in place -- to keep idiots like you and I from hurting ourselves in the giddy seizure that would surely follow an accidental success. You'll just get your arm ripped out of the socket.

No worries. The Carnival of Love has a team of cracked-out carnies ready to shuffle to your aid at a moment's notice. "That's a Union Moment, college boy... so quit yer screamin'. We just need to hose you and the sidewalk down with a little Kerosene so's that blood don't set. We'll cut ya offa there soon enough."

If you like pain, do yourself a favor and fuck an oven-fresh Calzone. You need the Brass Ring like you need a pineapple up your ass. No, there is not enough G in the world to make that fun. *snap* *snap* Could you press hold on that Dole porno in your head for a moment? The pineapple will still be here when we're finished.

There's a good reason Brass Rings are the stuff of legend and bad metaphor. They're rare (thank God), and you aren't meant to have one. You're meant to want one. You're meant to reach for it.

You're meant to look at it instead of fixating on the rickety equine death trap you voluntarily mounted for this hunt. Pine for it, but keep your fucking hands on the reins and your feet in the stirrups. Oh, and quit whining.

You think that cold, cheaply plated chunk of reworked slag cares about you? You think it's been sitting there, ass welded to it's perch, just *waiting* for you to pull it free? Fuck no, bucko. It cares for you just as much as you care for this long-winded and disjointed analogy. You don't like analogies, do you?

Go. Just go away. We don't hire romantics. See the guy over there with the prosthetic arm cleaning out the toilet with his claw? Nice stainless claw, I might add... but my point *snap* *snap* you listenin'? My point is that if you're too set on getting The Ring you'll wind up a claw-handed toilet scrubber with a bit part in a crappy analogy told to an imaginary listener by a schmuck who is going to type it all up to paste on a web site to scare guys like you away from wanting to have a shithead for an (ex)boyfriend.

It's ugly, man. Thankfully, I didn't get the Brass Ring. I just got a selfish, lying, cheating, whore that amazingly managed to not starve to death during the years we were together. That's quite a trick when you've got one hand in someone else's pants and the other typing "Hi hoty ME cock yoU. Calll cell spaNk you good DIScrete!" on a lube-slicked keyboard the entire time.

Be happy loving someone that loves you back -- you're a lucky SOB. Oh yeah, almost forgot... if you haven't met Mister Good Enough yet, don't let your cock, your boredom, you unhappiness, or your impatience turn you into a poacher. You aren't going to find happiness by letting someone's philandering boyfriend use your mouth as a cock-holster. There are lots of boys. You don't want to court one that's obviously already busted.
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