Dear Ms. Leading,

I regret to inform you I've fallen out of lust.
It must be so hard to understand.
Did you really think me a fool enough to play along?
And make believing everything you said was true
Push your pouting lips on other unsuspecting lovers

The Dear Hunter


I'm starting to think that the Universe is out to get me.
The unfortunate coincidences (U.C.'s) continue and I still can't do anything but laugh.

The other night, I explained some of my life and the U.C.'s that just seem to "happen" to me over and over again to a new friend.
She had no response other than, "I've heard some coincidental stories from people, but you have the worst... 'luck' if that's what you want to call it."

I could probably write a novella based on the past four years alone, connecting all of the main characters and even ending with an arch nemesis that unfortunately slept with two out of the three boys I have selectively fell in love with. (Yes, I say "selectively" because when I fall in love it's like a Broadway production.)

Hmmm... my love as a Broadway production seems pretty accurate; along with a description of my life in the form of choking on (and almost dying) Cheetos and water as I watched the most recent episode of Grey's Anatomy.

I think Broadway and Cheetos go hand in hand. Don't you?


Apologies that come years after the fact are self-fulfilling.
No exceptions.
They never make anything better.


Green Triceratops into a Pink Tiger

Good thing the new episode of "United States of Tara" was already uploaded to the internet tonight.
It's working as a satisfying distraction.

She's not aware of one of her alter identities.
Watching this Showtime original television series makes me long for amnesia after I turn into the routine drunk.
I also become a different person that I wish had more self control. And overall control over her droopy, drunk eyes. Pictures of her are not flattering.
Although she is confident and aggressive, she isn't very tactful and falls all over her wobbly legs and slurring lips.

If only I could have amnesia every time she came around. If only.

Some of us aren't meant to be alone. Some of us aren't meant for this dating game.
I'm not meant for any of this. Any of the games, the looks, the rules... I want no part of it.
When I date, I am ruthless and I watch others be just as unforgiving or worse.
I play the games, use the looks and bend the rules to fit my liking.
I've hurt people before. I've been hurt.
Dating around gives a black eye to the people that trust and believe in true love and the swelling will never go down, the frozen peas won't work their magic. It'll forever be black and blue and pulsing uncomfortably.

Happy belated Valentine's Day.


What is it about being lonely that desperation finds it so easy to follow closely behind?

I personally hate myself when I reach out to people that I've closed doors with and I usually do this when I am too wasted for dignity.

Dignity seems to hide when I am this drunk.

Look at me typing in a blog while I'm drunk. How fun.
I'm sorry, Pierce. I called you and woke you up. That was ridiculous.

I need to sleep off these feelings of desperation and heart burn.
It's just making me want to call him up and confess my love for him.
And according to my past patterns of unrequited love, I know how that will turn out. . .


It's the chapstick conspiracy.
Used on chapped lips and then there's addiction. The thought that the chapped lips will return unless you keep using it.

But little does the consumer know that the chapstick is actually drying out their lips so that they need more. They buy more at the check out counter thinking that it will remedy their dry, cracked lips. Poor blokes.

Sex, drugs, alcohol... it's all chapstick.


Is there even a point to writing other than self indulgence?

I'd like to think so at almost four in the morning as I procrastinate until the last possible second.

I have a creative writing assignment to finish but I'm typing all of my creative juices into this blog that only I read instead.


More like self indulgent.

I'm not sure I'll ever be good at making myself do things that I don't want to do.
It might be part of my self destructive nature.
For some reason, self sabotage is my biggest enemy.
I can succeed to a certain point and then for some unknown reason I will just stop.
I will fail on purpose.

A psychologist will have a field day diagnosing me with several social disorders and self deprecating thinking patterns.
Luckily, I know I'm not alone in this.

I know several other people my age and younger that have the same destructive tendencies.
It's quite sad how we can take a life full of opportunity and throw it away because we are afraid of success. Of what we'd have to be with that success.

I often wonder if I make any sense.


Excerpts from Ms. Leading's personal journal

"This is journal #5. I've been writing since 2003/4. One for junior year of high school, one for senior year, one for a college freshman, one as a sophomore-junior and now this one. A journal for a fucked up 21 year old with no motivation to live. People like depressing things. People would read this. It's terribly depressing. This will have no ending. I don't think people realize that most stories don't really have an ending. I feel like most stories that are told are stories about the beginnings of somethings. The start. New life. The year zero. Fuck this. I hate not being able to sleep."

"I hate that the fear of being alone outweighs being in a relationship that is just terrible. I don't get it. Or even in my case, it outweighs being mistreated in a "this-is-not-a-relationship" relationship.

I'm not sure I'll ever know about love truly. I'm not even sure I'll ever be loved back. Which is frustrating but what can you do but carry on? I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I won't be disappointed if it never happens for me. Because I will be disappointed. The reason I will be so disappointed won't be because I want marriage and a conventional family. It's because it's what seems to be the meaning of all of this- what makes waking up worth it. It's what's been communicated to all of us as truly living. If you never get that fairy tale love, you're just a shell of a person. How sad for you. Why is this the ultimate happiness? Why does this have to be what we're meant here for? If I never get that I'm just sure I'll be looked at as a leper or a TB victim. 'What's wrong with her?'

I'll tell you. Everyone blows. No one was able to handle my libido, my humor, my honesty and my refusal to settle for a half-assed relationship. I'm not the girl who will sit there and laugh at you if you're not funny. I'll tell you if you're an asshole. I'll tell you that I've cheated before. I'll tell you that I don't want to be a mother. I'll tell you that I hate PDA. I can't cook or bake and I only like sewing if it's making a purse or tote bag. I won't call you 'my man.' I won't have dinner ready for you when you come home because I'll also be coming home from an 8 hour day. I won't move for your job/career- only for my own. I'm assertive. I only love fully.

I guess love isn't meant for people like me.

Fuck everyone who made me and millions of others think that love is the meaning of all this. WE are the meaning of all of this; who we choose to be in this life. Not who we choose to share it with if we're lucky. I refuse to believe that life is for something as few and far between as mutual love. I refuse."

"My eagerness to serve others, to do good unto others, is just a guilty conscience covering up my selfishness and the bratty-ness I feel when I think I'm entitled to something. I had a break through tonight, as I whined and clicked and copy and pasted lyrics into my Livejournal account. How self involved I am. How incredibly vain I can be when I have the balls to make such a bold statement; to assume that I am so much better.

'He should've chosen me.'

How could I click and type and E-whine such an awfully narcissistic idea? No one in their right mind should ever keep themselves up at night with thoughts of what could've been, let alone thoughts that wreek (oh god spelling @ 4AM) vanity. I'm still such a child in so many ways.

- I feel I am owed something from everyone- when no one in this world owes anyone a damn thing.
- I want to kill myself at age 21. My prime. My equivalent to quality, primetime Emmy-winning dark comedy is turning into daytime drama- no offense All My Children. I still love you dearly when I care enough to catch up on who's sleeping with whose wife with amnesia and an evil twin that's actually a ghost.

Look at how 'indie' I am listening to Elliot Smith and writing in a journal I bought at a discount store. I'm trendy. Where's my chai latte and plaid scarf?

... I feel myself growing up a bit lately. Just these past several days. I feel like things are becoming a bit clearer. Almost as if the wet towel I've been wrapped and tangled in is loosening its grip. My handwriting is getting progressively worse."

Sometimes when I write I picture myself smoking a cigarette.

I wish I could fully describe how music makes me feel.
It's almost impossible for me to put it into words.
It's not like a roller coaster adrenaline rush.
It's not like sex.
It's not like getting high or drunk.

It's almost like when falling in love.
A smile just because.
That weird, fluttering feeling happens in the torso, right above the diaphragm.
Feeling as if breath will never be caught if it goes on for any longer.
But it doesn't matter because music is air.
Music is satisfying.

That's what good music does to me.
That's what I hope it does to everyone.


No man will ever be better than several hits, poptarts and Emarosa on a Monday night.