“The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clearing, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in the abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation. The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.”—
put the leash on Oliver, then yanked his ass out of the house. stupid fucking dog doesn’t listen to anyone. then he wants to yank me all across the creation. i’m sure my neighbors enjoyed my loud ranting outside. bitch thinks it has ME on the leash.
keep in mind i already had to rush to the bank, take out cash that won’t even be MINE and rush home in the fucking car with no fucking A.C. when it’s fucking 90 degrees. what the fuck.
my dog is a stupid cunt.
in my room. STILL hot as shit, took off all my clothes, now eating a bowl of cereal trying to get rid of this headache. my stomachache, i suppose will have to stay. geez… migraines are such bitches.
threw my phone against the wall and my purse on the bed. set fire to my bookbag… no not really though i feel like it.
anyways. my bitchfit is over. i’m sorry if you’re all like “Um Nicole shut up no one gives a shit.” I realize this… but who else can I tell this to?
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones, When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them; Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one: The shapes a bright container can contain! Of her choice virtues only gods should speak, Or English poets who grew up on Greek (I’d have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin, She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand; She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin: I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand; She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake, Coming behind her for her pretty sake (But what prodigious mowing did we make.)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose: Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize; She played it quick, she played it light and loose; My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees; Her several parts could keep a pure repose, Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose (She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay: I’m martyr to a motion not my own; What’s freedom for? To know eternity. I swear she cast a shadow white as stone. But who would count eternity in days? These old bones live to learn her wanton ways: (I measure time by how a body sways.)