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I'm absolutely horrid at relationships... - The Tried and True Story of a Red Bull Prostitute.
May 2013
 
 
 
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anfguy8877
anfguy8877
Miguel Anjel Perez
Sat, Oct. 2nd, 2010 12:09 am
I'm absolutely horrid at relationships...

...the second I get in one, I want to run away screaming. That's how I feel like right now. I'm not a jealous person, at least not when it comes to relationships. I provide a long leash and observe from afar and I feel perfectly safe in that regard. For it is never the other guy hurting me, it's always the other way around. I'm the destructive one. And lately the self-destructive one. I couldn't bear being out tonight. The gay scene in San Diego is getting so blasé. I'm turning into this person I swore I'd never be. I can't believe I'm in on a Friday night typing my little heart out on in an online journal, but the process is oddly therapeutic. I've been in southern California for about a month and I don't know many people here. That's the glory of being in the military: the bouncing from locale to locale is both exhilarating and depressing at the same time - with every new location I have to start over. New friends, new lovers...building my reputation and home from scratch. I'm honestly exhausted of going out and meeting people I honestly won't remember the next day. Drinking myself into obllivion and dancing on stages with people I don't fucking know. It's depressing. When I was younger I looked up to the slutty chicks and ripped guys I saw dancing at the clubs on television, except now they rather bore me. For it's those same hardcore clubbers who do that every weekend, go work at their shitty ass jobs to make the money that will buy the drinks that coming weekend, and have nothing left over. In California, status is everything. Got the flash and bling and Beemer, but no cash in the bank account. The credit cards maxed out. 

I'm watching some roller derby thing tomorrow...so I'm expecting dykes on roller skates. There'll be alcohol on the premises and that's all I really care about.

Where the fuck is my pizza? It's midnight and I'm not even hungry anymore, been waiting so long. I'm getting...very sleepy. It'd be an asshole move to pop some Benadryl and risk missing the pizza guy. I already took cash out of the ATM so I can overtip him for driving so far at this late of an hour for pizza I hardly even want. But it felt right to order. I'm watching some Angelina Jolia movie and she's so gorgeous it's depressing and stuffing my face seems like the right to do. I'm reading her biography at the moment... or rather I was reading her biography. The first have was essentially all about her family and it put into a slumber: I'm over it. It can sit on the shelf until the library folk start e-mailing me to return it. 

Where the fuck is my pizza?

Hopefully the boyfriend isn't getting too drunk in Disneyland which would end up getting him raped by the guy that took him up there. The one he's currently entangled with. The shit I get myself into.

Committing myself to this relationship was either one of the brightest decisions I've ever made or one of the most retarded.

Pizza guy's here. That doorbell scared the absolute shit out of me. 

2CommentReplyShare

joehabs
joehabs
Joe Habs
Thu, Oct. 14th, 2010 01:47 pm (UTC)

i just love reading your entries :) keep me entertained.


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drudununa
drudununa
Wed, Nov. 2nd, 2011 07:01 am (UTC)

Great post! I wish you could follow up on this topic!


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