The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

[sweepthefloor]

I said no. He put his fingers in my pussy hours drunk. I humped his leg like it was my pillow. I started to fall asleep satisfied. He pulled my hair. I said no because I like him. This doesn't make any sense at all. I didn't make up these rules. I gave him nothing. I gave him some other thing that I don't know about.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I should have sucked him balls deep into my throat. I don't know what is wrong with me. He is my playground match. I knew that in the 7th grade, when he beat up that boy the same week I beat up that girl. I want to fight with him.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Who will sweep my heart off the floor if I let him break it? I kinda want him to break it. It goes back to that bee sting theory, and the wooden bat. There is a nest in my chest and I am about to start swinging.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I am back on the black stuff to dull the senseless me. All letters will be read from the bottom of an extra stout pint glass from this day forward. It’s a wet useless read. The numbers 2:10 used to mean blowjob, from now on they mean drink it bitch.

I am the pigswill, the nastiest drop, and it tastes so fucking good to me. I won’t crack a bottle open onto my head and risk a hematoma, I will just punch the next man in the face that tries to lick my pussy, and then I will walk away laughing. I can serve out the mean, and the dish-back is the one that never called me.

This hole in my head has been pre-drilled by a long line of alcoholics. It’s easy to twist a screw in. I am taking off the goody-two-shoes and smashing the eggshells I walk on, with my bare feet.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I am gulping my self-esteem for dinner. I am good at some things: eating dicks, nursing, and drinking.

 

[YourCaptor]

eating dicks, nursing, and drinking.

Hmm, those do seem to fit one category.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Hmm, those do seem to fit one category.

All oral ideas, all the way. Honestly, I give better head sober. I don't have to worry about that right now.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

I am back on the black stuff to dull the senseless me. All letters will be read from the bottom of an extra stout pint glass from this day forward. It’s a wet useless read. The numbers 2:10 used to mean blowjob, from now on they mean drink it bitch.

I am the pigswill, the nastiest drop, and it tastes so fucking good to me. I won’t crack a bottle open onto my head and risk a hematoma, I will just punch the next man in the face that tries to lick my pussy, and then I will walk away laughing. I can serve out the mean, and the dish-back is the one that never called me.

This hole in my head has been pre-drilled by a long line of alcoholics. It’s easy to twist a screw in. I am taking off the goody-two-shoes and smashing the eggshells I walk on, with my bare feet.

What you said ^

What I heard, summarized in a sort of homage haiku...

senseless wet blowjob
fucking good hematoma
pussy laughing bare


*tip-silly I crumple at your feet to jealously pick and scrape at the eggshells that are deeply lodged in your terribly beautiful calluses.*

*hiccup*

 

[sweepthefloor]

^^ I love it! Thank you!

 

[sweepthefloor]

I have sobered up enough to meet a random stranger from the Internet, and begin my career as a Trauma ICU RN. Now as long as he doesn’t bash my head on the concrete leaving me with a subdural hemorrhage requiring emergent evacuation of the bleed: I will call it a win.

These two things cannot be related but I will put on my best red lips, and set my hair with heavy hot rollers, just in case.

Also, do these fishnets make my legs look too skinny? I will rip a few holes in them before today is done.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I am pretty sure my Dad not so secretly thinks that I am a nurse by day and a free-range hooker by night.

Eggs are easy to crack, and the shells are good for the garden soil.

When I was a teenager we had a telephone for a few months. The three way party game guess what she said, was amazing. It never stopped ringing.

My Dad said to me: “You are either selling drugs, or you are a slut, which is it?”

Shortly after the phone got shut off, and it was back to whispering through tin cans, and pennies thrown up at my window.

When I was younger, I played in the woods. I got poisoned by ivy. It spread between my legs like the wild fire in my heart. My Dad said to me: “That better not be an STD, cause we don’t have any health insurance.”

The good thing about easy eggs: the crack is predictable, and that is comfortable.

 

[sweepthefloor]

He didn’t bash my head in. He sells toys and has no money. He is underweight, has a nervous tic, and drinks like there is no tomorrow. We met in the bar at noon and devised a plan: We will hang out at the racetrack, waste all my money on booze and horses, and if he can manage a boner over all the alcohol and blood pressure medications: I will suck him off every once in a while.

I said: Put your hand up my skirt.
And he blushed.
I said: Do it now.
And he did it.

 

[sweepthefloor]

It must be wrong to want to hurt others to make up for my own hurt. I was this close, then I turned around, headed true north to myself, and found empathy on the longitudinal line of my heart.

Then I made him violate me with my sneaky little ways.

 

[jomar]

He didn’t bash my head in. He sells toys and has no money. He is underweight, has a nervous tic, and drinks like there is no tomorrow. We met in the bar at noon and devised a plan: We will hang out at the racetrack, waste all my money on booze and horses, and if he can manage a boner over all the alcohol and blood pressure medications: I will suck him off every once in a while.

I said: Put your hand up my skirt.
And he blushed.
I said: Do it now.
And he did it.

It is good to be upfront with your dates.

 

[YourCaptor]

When I was younger, I played in the woods. I got poisoned by ivy. It spread between my legs like the wild fire in my heart. My Dad said to me: “That better not be an STD, cause we don’t have any health insurance.”

Everything loves reaching under your skirt.

 

[sweetmoonbeam]

I am gulping my self-esteem for dinner. I am good at some things: eating dicks, nursing, and drinking.

And writing. Don't forget that.

 

[Sir_Winston54]

And writing. Don't forget that.

Amen to the nth power.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

Amen to the nth power.

*smiles & nods...then leaves Janey dark chocolate happy Saturday caramel drizzled truffles*

 

[sweepthefloor]

And writing. Don't forget that.

Sometimes, I can write. I feel like a messy page right now.

Amen to the nth power.

Thank you.

*smiles & nods...then leaves Janey dark chocolate happy Saturday caramel drizzled truffles*

I love dark chocolate on Saturdays, and all days.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I don’t know what has been happening to me lately. I keep getting really lost in the forest. The deeper I go, the harder it is to find my true house. There is no house.

The path to self-destruction is easy to find. I want to focus on all these great things about me. I do great things. I have good judgment when the caring is for others. I always have the answers. The knowledge is placed on the tip of my lip. It spills out gracefully on command. It is the awareness cascade.

I don’t know how to take care of myself. None of that goodness matters much as I dig my own hole. I fail to bring those same very skills into my own heart.

And when this happens to me, and it has happened before, I cry. I cry because it is back to the institutionalization of myself. I wish someone would help me out, but I don’t know anyone. I stare at the blank sheet of paper and with my best block print I write:
1. Eat breakfast
2. Take a shower
3. Drink water
4. Run
5. Hang the clothes out
6.
7.

This is task orientation and I find it so pathetic, but it is the only way to get home. There can be no deviation from the plan. I can’t relate, and talking about it doesn’t fix any of this.

The past is a war and I will kill memory soldiers with my machine gun heart.

 

[eastern sun]

I don’t know what has been happening to me lately. I keep getting really lost in the forest. The deeper I go, the harder it is to find my true house. There is no house.

The path to self-destruction is easy to find. I want to focus on all these great things about me. I do great things. I have good judgment when the caring is for others. I always have the answers. The knowledge is placed on the tip of my lip. It spills out gracefully on command. It is the awareness cascade.

I don’t know how to take care of myself. None of that goodness matters much as I dig my own hole. I fail to bring those same very skills into my own heart.

And when this happens to me, and it has happened before, I cry. I cry because it is back to the institutionalization of myself. I wish someone would help me out, but I don’t know anyone. I stare at the blank sheet of paper and with my best block print I write:
1. Eat breakfast
2. Take a shower
3. Drink water
4. Run
5. Hang the clothes out
6.
7.

This is task orientation and I find it so pathetic, but it is the only way to get home. There can be no deviation from the plan. I can’t relate, and talking about it doesn’t fix any of this.

The past is a war and I will kill memory soldiers with my machine gun heart.

This is me too. My life is now written in a list each morning. And then I go out the door.

The problem with machine guns is they lack nuance and finesse. I am going to teach my heart how to fence.

 

[sweepthefloor]

This is me too. My life is now written in a list each morning. And then I go out the door.

The problem with machine guns is they lack nuance and finesse. I am going to teach my heart how to fence.

I am glad I am not alone. This sucks a carrot when I thought it was a cock. I don't have the grace to fence. I will blaze a bloody trail and when I run out of mags I will use my bare hands. This battle is serious, and I intend to win it. It is fight or die.

I might even be depressed. I can't be sure.

 

[waaitg]

I am glad I am not alone. This sucks a carrot when I thought it was a cock. I don't have the grace to fence. I will blaze a bloody trail and when I run out of mags I will use my bare hands. This battle is serious, and I intend to win it. It is fight or die.

I might even be depressed. I can't be sure.

Soldiers used to carry bayonets attached to their rifles, this way they would have a weapon to yield even when they ran out of shells.

One does not need grace to stab a heart, because for all the style of a coup de grace, an ending is but the beginning of something new. So when you end your battle with your enemy, you are not alone. It finishes in the most intimate of petite morts, leaving one triumphant and at peace, and the other, sadly tasked with facing yet another day and searching for a new enemy.

When classically trained Pat Benatar sang of battlefields without guns, she knew she was neither the first nor would she be the last. So carry on and know that your comrades-in-amour are by your side, in depressions and over the hills, as we face another day in this war fought across heart shaped terrain while a beating drum calls us all to rally once more.

W~

 

[YourCaptor]

I don’t know what has been happening to me lately. I keep getting really lost in the forest. The deeper I go, the harder it is to find my true house. There is no house.

The path to self-destruction is easy to find. I want to focus on all these great things about me. I do great things. I have good judgment when the caring is for others. I always have the answers. The knowledge is placed on the tip of my lip. It spills out gracefully on command. It is the awareness cascade.

I don’t know how to take care of myself. None of that goodness matters much as I dig my own hole. I fail to bring those same very skills into my own heart.

And when this happens to me, and it has happened before, I cry. I cry because it is back to the institutionalization of myself. I wish someone would help me out, but I don’t know anyone. I stare at the blank sheet of paper and with my best block print I write:
1. Eat breakfast
2. Take a shower
3. Drink water
4. Run
5. Hang the clothes out
6.
7.

This is task orientation and I find it so pathetic, but it is the only way to get home. There can be no deviation from the plan. I can’t relate, and talking about it doesn’t fix any of this.

The past is a war and I will kill memory soldiers with my machine gun heart.

Have you tried research? Find miss goody2shoes and take notes.
Or what about those life coach people...

But hey, you've made it pretty far, you should be proud girl.

 

[DreamStation]

When classically trained Pat Benatar sang of battlefields without guns, she knew she was neither the first nor would she be the last. So carry on and know that your comrades-in-amour are by your side, in depressions and over the hills, as we face another day in this war fought across heart shaped terrain while a beating drum calls us all to rally once more.

I see your Pat Benatar and raise you a Peter Gabriel

Andre has a red flag, Chiang Ching's is blue
They all have hills to fly them on, Except for Lin Tai Yu
Dressing up in costumes, Playing silly games
Hiding out in tree-tops, Shouting out rude names

Whistling tunes we hide in the dunes by the seaside
Whistling tunes we're kissing baboons in the jungle
It's a knockout
If looks could kill, they probably will
In games without frontiers
War without tears