021. Friends you’re just friends with benefits, of course.
The kisses you both share don’t mean anything.
The little, tiny butterfly pecks you give to him in the corner of the mouth -- you know, those little quick ones you try to sneak when you believe no one’s watching in the corner of the hallway, where his cheeks turn pink and the look of surprise earns him another peck because you always him catch by surprise-- aren’t full of meaning or life. They don’t make his chest flutter with an abundance of butterflies or make his stomach twist and bend into knots. The ones he returns don’t mean anything to you either. They mean nothing to you and nothing to him.
Those feather-light kisses you share while you’re walking home mean nothing to you --you know, the ones where out of the blue he grabs your arm with a gentle force, tilts your face up to him and kisses you nice and slow and sometimes you’re far too shock to move, to even react to his kiss and you just stand there as he kisses you in the middle of the sidewalk. There is no affection (or even love, for that matter) in these meaningless moments you share, just lips on lips. There isn’t a hint of feeling, just the simple bond of friendship (and nothing more, nothing like love), in these kisses.
The dark, almost passionate (but not really because there’s nothing passionate about this) kisses you share behind the gym, where you’re crushing him against the brick wall, ruffling your hands through his hair, running them all sorts of places on his body, lips crashing together and your tongue just wanting (begging) entrance through the barriers of his teeth, and grinning when he gives it to you, mean nothing. It’s just hormones, you tell yourself; your teenage-self lusting for something (anything). The soft, tender moans he accidentally lets escapes mean nothing, the lighthearted almost bittersweet feeling in your stomach mean nothing because this means nothing. There isn’t anything magnificent or special about your kisses in the dark or the sickening slap of skin on skin as your hips collide together, nothing heartwarming about the way you look up and you stare into those glazed emerald eyes (that look nothing like yours, with an emotion that you’d rather not see, with a glint in there that you reassure yourself it’s another trick of the light), and there’s nothing, nothing, meaningful in those whispered words in your ear (because you know that it’s just the raging hormones onto the brink of unsuspended lust), in that gentle grip on your wrist as lips rage onto yours (because you know, he feels nothing for you; because you know, you feel nothing for him).
There’s nothing in those kisses. Nothing romantic, nothing special, nothing heartwarming, nothing meaningful. There’s nothing in those soft kisses, in those dark kisses, because you’re just friends (not partners, not lovers, not an item). You’re just friends with benefits.
There’s nothing in those kisses. There’s nothing in those whispered words in your ear (he’s just caught up in the moment, you tell yourself), nothing in those wandering hands (it’s dark, he has no clue what he’s touching). There’s nothing in that whispered I love you (friends say that to each other sometimes, right?), there’s nothing in that smile when he sees you (you’re his best friend, after all; why wouldn’t he be happy to see you?).
You’re just friends with benefits, after all.
You don’t mean the I love you that you whisper in his ear during class, you don’t mean the I missed you that you tell him after he comes back from visiting his grandparents, and you certainly don’t mean the Back off you bark when someone tries to intrude on the nothing you both share. You don’t love him, you don’t, and he doesn’t love you, he doesn’t, and you both know that.
You’re just friends with benefits, after all.
You’re not in love with him; he’s not in love with you. No matter how many times he tells you he does, and no matter how many times you accidentally blurt the words out. You’re just best friends (with benefits), after all. And you’re not in love, not in love, with him.
But sometimes, when he’s kissing you, lips pressed hard against yours, slamming you against the wall behind the gym, and you can’t seem to breathe when he looks at you underneath long bangs and through green eyes, you like to fool yourself and tell yourself (secretly, silently) that you’re more than just friends (with benefits), that its more than just hormones, than just lust, and that maybe, just maybe, you love him (and he loves you).
I’m finding it hard to keep a hopeful outlook on life. On love. But even more so, I am finding it difficult to abandon all hope. Hope for a world in which these fairy tale, Disney movie, Hallmark Card bullshit ideas are more than just ideas. Where maybe we are meant for someone, that even zeroes can become heroes, and prove everyone wrong, and then get the girl in the end and live happily ever after. Happy endings seem ever so typical in these stories. And that’s just it, they’re stories. The only thing we’ll ever have are crappy endings and that’s the fucking truth. Crappy endings seem ever so typical in this world. … This fucking world… Our hearts drive us, or at least what we mistake for our hearts. Love and lust, so different in meaning, are quite honestly quite the same. Love, I believe is a residual instinct. Though very evolved, we still carry so many of our ancestor’s characteristics. Instinct, the need to reproduce. It has evolved into “love”. As we have evolved, we have been made able to feel more than fear and aggression. The instinctual need to spread the seed has transformed. So much of this, the whore “love” thing, has been so very influenced by the bastards who write books and produce films. There must be some sort of conspiracy. Maybe they wanted people to focus on the sexual aspects of a relationship a bit less. Well, all they really achieved was a new lie to tell. Men will tell a girl they love her just to convince her to let him in her pants. And that’s just fucked! And aside from that these stupid little kids, they think they love each other. Oh, the stupidity.
That was written earlier. I was fucking pissssssssssed. Regardless of anything, I think tomorrow will be a grand day. I'm not even trying to be cynical.
Well, I've been having better days lately. I made a wonderful new friend in Spanish last week. Her name is Stephanie and she has red hair. I like her alot. I suppose we're labeled the 'freaks' 'cause 87%of Spanish 4 is inhabited by the whole 'OMG HOLISTER/AMBERCROMBIE/FITCH/ANCERBLUE/edhfarfv4qertweqa' people. Friday for example, we spent most of the period just laughing and talking. oh that's exciting And the boy behind of Stephanie looks like Mr. Spock. I'm not even exagerating, he does look like him. She even agreed with me the day before that and we just burst into laughter. To jolt your memory of Mr. Spock....
And so...I asked him, "Do you know tha you look like Mr. Spock. I mean, you look like him alot." At first, he gave that whole Wtf are you talking about look and then he relaxed and was all, "Why do you say that." Me: "You haven't noticed? You're like, the spawn of Spock. Please don't get offended." Him: "Nah, Mr Spock was cool. Best guy out there." Stephanie couldn't breathe from her suffocation of laughter. It was worth it. Except now, I think he's gonna look at me even funnier than he did before.
Oh before I forget, Twilight by Stephenie Meyer is a great book. It's a shame I loathe the main character. Reading New Moon; the sequel. I think I hate it even moreso than the former. http://www.stepheniemeyer.com/twilight.html Check it out mahn.
I feel ridiculously sick. Really, terribly, throw-uppy sick. My nose is congested and my throat won't anything to be swallowed. I've also been coughing up flem the size of Kansas. The brown, bloody kind too. Yuck. That made even me cringe. Nothing Acid Rock won't fix.
I need to find amigos on here. Amigos from school. XD Oh wait...they're over at MySpace. The Devil. That's yuckier than my throat.
In responce to Chelsea's post, I've decided to make a list of why I am going to Hell. [I know I am]
General I'm an asshole Hypocrite Cruel Fucked up I watch too much porn I watch WAY too much porn I have too much pride I want to be the next Hitler I stalked a boy Shoplift I steal things from my parents I stole cigerettes I squish bugs Kick dogs Some things I don't want to mention
Specifics I've burried a cat in the sandbox so only its head was sticking out I pushed my sister down the stairs I tried my sister shoving out of a window I swear a bit too much I wrote let jesus fuck you on a window at church I like to watch male gay porn on my computer screen while pretending I'm there. XD I think death is hillarious I like to fuck with people's heads and blame them for things. Some more stuff that I can't say.
YES! Now it's time to abuse making everything centered! Yippie. This is going to get old. Really bad. Mah. Meh. HmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmUHAHSUdhdhudeshdihpifeweifyuowfqpi I think it looks dashing when its centered. Like James Bond. I wanna see that movie CASION ROYALE Oh yea. Mmmmmmm Orgy. Ha. I just had three cokes. Like... Fifteen minutes ago.. Ha. I feel hyper. Meh. Now I'm over it. System terminating. Meh. I hate cokes now.
I’m like a doll. A lifeless, little fucking doll. My fingers twitch, my pupils are dilating, back slouched against the chair. “Oh don’t worry,” you say to me as you walk away, “it’s only your body getting used to the medication. You should be feeling better in a couple days.”
I’d laugh at that if I could. You see me, don’t you? Palms facing up; feet spread apart. Shudder at my eyes. White rimming the hazel. Walk near me and my eyelashes flutter. Oh how beautiful they are, wouldn’t you agree? Tell me something. Anything. Watch my eyes try to focus. Watch the digits twitch when I try to see your face. I think I try too hard. Maybe everything is little imitations; blocking the real thing. Yes, that’s what you think is wrong with me, isn’t it?
Stare at me and wonder. Wonder what’s going through my crazy head. Guess. Murder maybe? Suicide? Oh God just try. I bet you can’t guess. I know you can’t guess. He’ll come to my rescue. Oh I promise. I promise, promise, promise. And I’ll laugh. I’ll laugh so damn hard when he slaughters you. Oh I will. That I promise with my whole bloody heart.
“I’ll check up on you tomorrow, see how you’ve adapted to the medication.”
little while round pills, 400 milligrams a day-
I hate you, you know. I hate you with every ounce of life that is yet to be wasted on these pills. You’re the doctor and I’m your patient. Lock me up like one of your guinea pigs. Let me stare into the white abyss. You don’t know what the room is like. Oh no. All day I’m stuck here, in this little white chair. Put me back in my restraints and stick me in the dark room. You don’t bother me there. Stick me in my little cubby-hole, the tiny little box you call a womb. I love the little black shelf. Tie me up and knock me out with the rusty needles. I’ll take all the drugs you want. Please, please, please. I need it. Oh your back now, how long has it been? Three hours, twelve minutes, and forty-three seconds. You’re very early. My head can only loll to the side. My mucky, dirty hair cascades across my face. Feel bad for me. “How are you feeling?” Well doctor, on the account that I am your test subject and you dope me up on many unheard of drugs; I’m just peachy. Now, give me a couple more shots with that dirty needle. Stick it in my veins, doctor. I’ve done it plenty of times in the part. Oh but you know what’s the best thing to do after lovely killing spree? Oh no no no. You’re a doctor. You don’t know what I go through; what I believe in. The other lady is for that. No but, taking something, anything, find a pressure point and gash at it. It doesn’t matter what you use. Razors, scissors, pens, penknives, even paperclips! It a wondrous feeling, it really is. Watching the blood drip from your veins. My blood. My veins. Drip. Drip. Drip and I pass out. God. I need something. Oh wait, I’m not allowed to even feed myself. No plastic in here. I forgot. Oh well. I can be like a coyote, chew my wrist. Make it terribly red and swollen. Oh yes! Oh no. You’re strapping me in again. Yes, yes, yes! I’m being strapped in! I’m going back into the cupboard and off to dreamland. Thank you Doctor, thank you!
contact your healthcare professional for dosage reassessment—
I’m in my haven right now. I see stars and rainbows and I feel the rain. Oh how I miss the rain. I can even stick my tongue out and taste the water. Cold droplets. Yummy. I see him again. He promises me I’ll be safe and he’ll be coming to save me soon. Oh so very soon. I love the cupboard. Keep in here. Let me dehydrate and die happy in my own little paradise. Please, won’t you just answer me that?
side effects are likely to patients taking other medication—
I’m back in the white room again. Fun fun. I feel hungry. Oh, I had lunch only a few seconds ago: my fifth dosage of test medication. I hate swallowing pills. Especially dry swallowing. The dumb bitch won’t even give me a drop of water in fear of me biting her fingers off. She should be the one stuck in the jacket, not me. She should be the one being put on mediocre medications. She should be charged with rape, murder, sodomy, abuse, and countless other things. Not me. Dumb bitch. The doctor is here. I don’t feel like cooperating today. I know I can get back into the box if I try. The tongue depressor hurts. Oh I have a wonderful idea of what I can do to get back into the box. I black out when I hear her scream. I guess the box is my favorite place to go now. But he’s coming. Oh God. They’re all dead. Fucked over bastards. Maybe I can do something to speed up the process. Stick me in the cubby-hole again. Please.
take all your pills and divide them by number and size—
Holy fuck, 12:12 AM baby! I'm greatly facinated by the human mind. This was writen last weekend, I was pissed at my mother, had a bad day, etc. It was a stress reliever; I'm just happy that I didn't end up mutilating my keyboard. The style is yucky. I didn't want to work my ass off on something people wouldn't understand. I feel like writing a companion piece to this. I also feel that I'm talking to myself again. Oh well.
Chelsea, I'm sorry. For every fucking thing I've ever done to you. It's been on my mind for the past couple of days and honestly, I feel sheepish for even bothering. The things I said and did; I have not a clue why I would do such things to a person who was my best friend. I don't. It's out the blue. I know, but I feel like I should try. I understand if you don't care. I really do. Thanks for reading. -Melissa
PS- Please reply to this in any shape or form; I just want to know you got this.
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mentallyerotic's journal
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