Making a Racket in Hell

Am I wrong in thinking that all American men who watch women's tennis are perverts? I mean, here are these atheltic women, in short skirts, sweating. When they hit they ball, they're all, "ooohh! Uuugh! Aaaah!" How many female tennis players have posed for Playboy now? I'm willing to bet that it's 5 or more.

No disrespect to the players themselves. They must obviously love the sport and they've put forth the hard work and training that it takes to get to the Australian Open, or Wimbelton. No easy task, I'm sure. And if they want to make some extra cash by gettin' nude in front of camera, then why the Hell not? Shit, more power to 'em! If I had a body like Maria Sharapova, you bet I'd take it all off for a solid chunk of cash. (Heck, I'd do it now, but people are more likely to pay me to leave my clothes on.)

In the two week lull prior to the Super Bowl, it seems like there's not much on TV sports-wise. My dad's been watching the Australian Open (men's and women's). I couldn't help but get the impression that he was getting aroused by the female matches. Shudder. I was so disgusted! Granted, I haven't been terribly fond of men in general since my breakup with Mr. Assface. It just seems like anything with a penis is scum. Rotten bastards...maybe it's a self-defense mechanism. Like, I'm on a man-hating rampage because subconciously I'm repelling anything I'm afraid might hurt me?

Well.....this isn't bad.....isn't bad at all...

My Body Has Gone to Hell

I have a fat ass.
I've got panty-lines.
I need my hair trimmed.
and my roots dyed.
My grey hairs are starting to show again.
My big, fat belly sticks out from under my shirt like the spawn of Satan is growing inside me.
It's not.
Maybe then I'd have an excuse.
The dark circles under my eyes are getting wrinkled.
I have zits.
I can't see far enough down to paint my toenails accurately.
Did I mention the gross belly fat? Effin disgusting.
My tits are barely detectable.
My fingernails are broken and split.
Some guy jumped out of an alley this morning and beat me savagely with The Ugly Stick (tm).
My elbows are boney.
My thighs have expanded.
My teeth are yellow.
My breath smells like coffee and cigarettes.
I have excessive ear wax.
My feet smell worse than my breath.
Is it any wonder I haven't gotten laid in forever?

Neko Visits Hell Again

I knew better. I'd be a lot happier now if I hadn't. Instead, I feel like taking a kitchen knife to my chest and digging out this cursed heart. I fucking hate this shit. I fell in love, like an idiot. And it was, briefly, returned. However, he decided that his wife and kids took priority after all. I agreed with him, despite my selfish desires. I realized how much I liked him, and realized that I don't want him to fuck up his life because of me. So, what could have happened almost happened, but didn't. And I feel like I need to see my own blood again. I need to cut something open, watch it spill out, feel physically what I'm feeling emotionally. I'm at work right now, but there are tears...little, quiet ones. And there's an intense loathing for life and love and I just don't want to feel anymore.

Hell Is Forbidden

The internet filter at work has decided that the Blogger Beta site where I log in to make my posts at little tragedies has something to do with "sex" and so, I have been blocked from accessing it. That, my friends, is the reason behind the sudden lack of output on my part. I've had loads of bloggable ideas that have been strangled by this lack of available release. I'm feeling ill. Not sick like, "oh, my stomach" sick. Sick like, "I don't know how much more I can stand" sick. A toxicity of negative thoughts poisoning my habits as of late. Writhing inside myself and eating away at the layers of stability and sanity like so many maggots feast on rotten flesh.

I don't mean to be so melodramatic. It's just that I can't seem to bring myself to do much more than drink lately. Fuck. I need to do things, important things, but I'm self-medicating to escape this choking feeling and it's a vicious cycle.