The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

[sweepthefloor]

My heart breaks when yours does.

Knowing that you are willing to share my hurt lessens the true pain that I am feeling. I appreciate that.

I found what I wanted, but I wasn’t able to keep it. I don’t have those skills yet.

I am walking away intact. He doesn’t know anything about me. I didn’t give him that.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I have sad eyes and happy lips. If you know what that looks like you will see me.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I'm at the eye doctor. It is almost my turn. I'm so afraid.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Today I will be waxed. I'm so afraid.

 

[sweepthefloor]

The speed of my heart recovery is surprisingly frightening. Did I even love him at all? Who was he?

When the ache ends I search for a new pain. That hurt wasn’t so great after all.

And if he comes back looking for me, I won’t be found here or there. I am under this rock, and the rock has many tunnels underneath it in the ground where I hide friendly with the earth’s dirty worms.

He cut my tail off, but it grows back. It’s called regeneration. The worms know what I am typing about.

 

[sweepthefloor]

In Philadelphia—Feeling like an extra on a movie set that I stumbled onto by accident, I walked the dance floor and found the outside.

A man approached me and said: “I don’t know where I am, this is not Long Island.” I replied: “This is Philadelphia.” I smiled.

He said: “I am the Long Island killer. I shouldn’t be telling you, that’s how people get caught.”

I asked him: “Why do you kill people? Are you going to kill me?”

He said: “I won’t kill you. You are kind. Those people deserved it.”

I said: “You are not the judge of man to determine who deserves death.”

He said: “I like the way it feels when I cut them.”

I said: “There are other ways to feel that feeling without actually murdering people.”

He asked: “Do you know where Long Island is? Have you heard of the Long Island serial killer?

I said: “I know where Long Island is, but I don’t watch the news or read the papers, so I have not heard of any serial killing in Long Island.”

He said: “I don’t want to talk about it, Happy Hanukah.”

I went back inside and thought about my conversation with a murderer, and then I danced with my friends.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I didn't believe him. Murderers do not walk up to strangers and confess, do they?

 

[sweepthefloor]

The sock drawer is in a state of submission. It doesn’t like to assume the position. I threaten it with a garbage bag and find that suddenly they pair themselves and get in line. It works every time.

 

[JamieJ424]

Only if they are proud of what they did. Or if they want to impress you.

I didn't believe him. Murderers do not walk up to strangers and confess, do they?

 

[Sir_Winston54]

I didn't believe him. Murderers do not walk up to strangers and confess, do they?

Not usually, at least from my prolific reading of murder mysteries. However, did he look like this?

If he did, you might want to get in touch with Suffolk County police.

 

[Red Sonja]

The sock drawer is in a state of submission. It doesn’t like to assume the position. I threaten it with a garbage bag and find that suddenly they pair themselves and get in line. It works every time.

Really?? I've got to study your technique, Janey. I hate pairing socks with a passion. I only do it to please ddh. If it were up to me, all socks would just stay in a laundry basket to be paired on as needed basis.

On another note... how are you doing? I've been (covertly) following the thread for a while and am just a bit worried about you!

 

[sweepthefloor]

Only if they are proud of what they did. Or if they want to impress you.

I wasn't impressed, but I was interested.

Not usually, at least from my prolific reading of murder mysteries. However, did he look like this?

If he did, you might want to get in touch with Suffolk County police.

I am sure it was a sick joke. He was probably a hidden masochist desperate for me to splash his eyes out with my drink. Maybe he wanted me to slap him in the face.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Really?? I've got to study your technique, Janey. I hate pairing socks with a passion. I only do it to please ddh. If it were up to me, all socks would just stay in a laundry basket to be paired on as needed basis.

On another note... how are you doing? I've been (covertly) following the thread for a while and am just a bit worried about you!

Yeap! Just get the garbage bag! They need the look: I am gonna toss you in the trash if you don't behave and match yourselves!

I often have on two different color socks. I really need to get it together and make a fashion statement other than: I am fucking crazy!

Thanks for following my words. I am alright. I was down for the count, but I haven't been knocked to ten in a while. I just keep getting up. There is something wrong with me.

 

[sweepthefloor]

He never came back to me after that. I think I cried but I can't remember now.

 

[sweepthefloor]

If I want to feel the pain again, because I like to feel that I can always go back and read my own heart ache. hahahahahahahahhahahahahaha

 

[sweepthefloor]

Rejection makes me wet, and then I please myself. It's pretty disturbing.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I peeled these potatoes and wondered how awful the mash would be if I used the peppermint mocha creamer by accident instead of milk.

If I really liked the man I would have made him work for my heart. Everybody knows if you give a dog a bone it won’t do no tricks. Dogs like doing tricks. It gives them a sense of purpose.

I had so much fun with bone I forgot about the dog.

 

[sweepthefloor]

All I am saying about heart ache is that it could be worse. It’s not like he raped me in my asshole or anything.

Imagine the possibilities of worse-r. Yeah yeah he’s got a short video of me dicking myself with my finger… Ew! The acting is poor, poor, poor.

 

[JamieJ424]

Love it.

I peeled these potatoes and wondered how awful the mash would be if I used the peppermint mocha creamer by accident instead of milk.

If I really liked the man I would have made him work for my heart. Everybody knows if you give a dog a bone it won’t do no tricks. Dogs like doing tricks. It gives them a sense of purpose.

I had so much fun with bone I forgot about the dog.

 

[sweepthefloor]

The pleasure of a broken heart is all mine. I forget what I loved about him and then I remember: it was all going to be alright. That is a good feeling till it’s not alright anymore.

The heart has it’s own pacemaker. It just keeps on beating for what it wants to beat for. And then it’s just a pump. The house needs cleaning, and the plants want water. The cat is crying. I got the shakes but I am not a drinker. I’d punch a hole in the wall if I were fifteen years old again.

On fifteen year olds: What about the time I put my Dad’s belt sander to my leg? That was fucking crazy.

I am the girl sitting on the stoop eating a bag of chips watching the twins beat each other up.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I have a carry-on bag heavy with insanity, and he’s got a suitcase packed with a terminal illness.

And I am the kind of girl that would devote the rest of my life caring for a stranger man. A man on the cusp of true powerlessness. And if I can’t give love—I can still give power.

 

[sweepthefloor]

He asked me if it was Ok for him to fuck other girls. I told him that I am not the boss of his dick.

 

[sweepthefloor]

ooooops i don't fucking care huh.

 

[JamieJ424]

Like.

I have a carry-on bag heavy with insanity, and he’s got a suitcase packed with a terminal illness.

And I am the kind of girl that would devote the rest of my life caring for a stranger man. A man on the cusp of true powerlessness. And if I can’t give love—I can still give power.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I am so confused that I don’t even know how I can achieve masturbation with any satisfaction. It’s a good thing I am quick. I don’t linger around any pleasure. The act is fast violence.

I try and think about a situation, one man, something, anything—the good old standby daydreams, but they don’t work. I just get it done and over with and it is rapid—it’s a combination of this man, that hand, those words, the other guy, bitch, look at what you did to me, and then it is over. It’s a job. I am my own trick. I don’t even have to take my clothes off.

I don’t really feel better but there is a slight decrease in tension and a will to put on lipstick. I wear my old hat.

It’s wintertime but I still don’t wear a coat in the daytime. I have gloves and scarves and sweaters and.... red lips on a pale face.

It’s denial. I am not cold. I warm like the first days of June.

Family parties are over for a while, but if I close my eyes I can still smell the scent of beer and booze on hard working cherished men. I can taste the dish soap in the kitchen air because it is my turn at the sink. I can hear the bicker babble of women teasing each other--- we are all so familiar.