The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

[sweepthefloor]

I can’t change ugly, so I made it beautiful to me.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Me: You are not taking coffee anymore?
He: I don’t like it made with the well water.
Me: I won’t make it like this anymore.

And after he left, I finished my own cup and realized: it really does taste terrible. This experiment is over. I will go back to using the bottle water.

And if I never asked why he wasn’t taking my coffee anymore, I would still be drinking nasty coffee, not knowing it is nasty. And he would continue getting his coffee—outside.

 

[sweepthefloor]

We Are All Blue Here

I asked him why it didn’t work out with the last girl he dated. I couldn’t resist the inquiry. He seemed so sweet. He told me: It was her family, they were so blue-collar like. They didn’t like outsiders, and I just didn’t fit in. Her Father was a carpenter, and her brother was a cop.

I thought about my brother. He had text me in the morning asking me: “What’s up?” followed by, “Do I need to slap somebody around?”

These are general questions without any provocation, and everything is good.

There’s that image of my sister sneak smoking a bone on her wedding day, on the back porch at the house. The smell of those hand me down trucks, after truck- the kind with the choke start. The early morning conversation at the kitchen table between my Ma, and my stepfather—the plant is closing, and what will they do? Move to Georgia? I wasn’t supposed to hear that stuff, but I didn’t get to be there often, I wanted to know everything.

I thought about the bouncy rides on the newspaper truck, he made me a bed of bundles, and those deli people always gave me candy for breakfast.

Remember the conversation: I wanted to go to college. I wanted to be a journalist. He told me: You barely show up for high school. Pick a trade, you are going to vocational school, it is junior year. “Everything I know about life I learned in wood shop.”

And there I was in front of a mannequin roller setting hair, a real beauty school drop out: hanging out with girls who would become stylists married to boys who would become electricians, or diesel mechanics.

If this were a movie there would be a sound effect of a record scratching at this moment—because what happened next?

We are at this fancy restaurant and he is telling me that it didn’t work out because they were “blue-collar like.” What does that even mean? I didn’t really want to know. I didn’t want to hear anymore. The tone in his voice, the look on his face was enough for me.

I spent the rest of the night imagining my pleasure given to another mans dick, and making my date cry. I punished him in my mind. It was all very disturbing. I gagged him. I grabbed the back of his neck and put his face in front of some other mans dick, and I whispered in his ear: I am going to suck this dick and make it come, and you are going to watch. If you close your eyes—I will slap you.

 

[sweepthefloor]

We walked around the town. The cool air pushed the winter blown thoughts back into a secret corner where the snow used to drift. I was grateful. The guilt is an awful feeling. He liked my scarf.

I thought: It’s a tight knit. If you knew what I was imagining, you might want to choke me with it. There’s not much stretch in this fabric. I would die.

I took the scarf off and held it in my hand. There’s no sense setting myself up to be an easy victim. It would be on the news: Death by Winter Garment, Why?

I applied after dinner lips without a mirror. I kissed the excess onto a gum wrapper that I found in my pocket. He said: I wish I was that lipped garbage. I kissed his cold hand, to forgive my cold thinking.

 

[Ropebunny]

I asked him why it didn’t work out with the last girl he dated. I couldn’t resist the inquiry. He seemed so sweet. He told me: It was her family, they were so blue-collar like. They didn’t like outsiders, and I just didn’t fit in. Her Father was a carpenter, and her brother was a cop.

I thought about my brother. He had text me in the morning asking me: “What’s up?” followed by, “Do I need to slap somebody around?”

These are general questions without any provocation, and everything is good.

There’s that image of my sister sneak smoking a bone on her wedding day, on the back porch at the house. The smell of those hand me down trucks, after truck- the kind with the choke start. The early morning conversation at the kitchen table between my Ma, and my stepfather—the plant is closing, and what will they do? Move to Georgia? I wasn’t supposed to hear that stuff, but I didn’t get to be there often, I wanted to know everything.

I thought about the bouncy rides on the newspaper truck, he made me a bed of bundles, and those deli people always gave me candy for breakfast.

Remember the conversation: I wanted to go to college. I wanted to be a journalist. He told me: You barely show up for high school. Pick a trade, you are going to vocational school, it is junior year. “Everything I know about life I learned in wood shop.”

And there I was in front of a mannequin roller setting hair, a real beauty school drop out: hanging out with girls who would become stylists married to boys who would become electricians, or diesel mechanics.

If this were a movie there would be a sound effect of a record scratching at this moment—because what happened next?

We are at this fancy restaurant and he is telling me that it didn’t work out because they were “blue-collar like.” What does that even mean? I didn’t really want to know. I didn’t want to hear anymore. The tone in his voice, the look on his face was enough for me.

I spent the rest of the night imagining my pleasure given to another mans dick, and making my date cry. I punished him in my mind. It was all very disturbing. I gagged him. I grabbed the back of his neck and put his face in front of some other mans dick, and I whispered in his ear: I am going to suck this dick and make it come, and you are going to watch. If you close your eyes—I will slap you.

This has happened to me before. It is not pleasant and made me feel all sorts of awful things. The worst of which is that all nice people are closet assholes which hidden superiority complexes. Took a while to get over that.

Your imagination could be mine. Disturbing is in the eye of the beholder. Too bad some fantasies won't come true, eh?

 

[sweepthefloor]

This has happened to me before. It is not pleasant and made me feel all sorts of awful things. The worst of which is that all nice people are closet assholes which hidden superiority complexes. Took a while to get over that.

Your imagination could be mine. Disturbing is in the eye of the beholder. Too bad some fantasies won't come true, eh?

That’s got to be the worse—the secret jerk. Maybe that’s why I prefer the honest asshole.

I like to share imaginations. That’s how we know we are not truly alone in our thinking. I wouldn’t want that fantasy to come true. I’d feel bad about it.
---
The collective conversation chewed on the one small mean bone that exists in my body. The bone snapped so I sucked up the marrow.

 

[sweepthefloor]

There will be a time in my life that I put effort into writing the true story that reads longer than two sentences. Most likely this will happen when some man ties my legs to a wooden chair that is attached to a wooden desk. There will probably be a wooden ruler, and surely he will beat me with the ruler, or a stick, or a whip, or a belt if I sit there looking dumb at a blank page.

I have these wooden pencils, and I keep chewing on them. It’s not productive.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Samurai Song by: Robert Pinsky

When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined.

When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought.
When I had no thought I waited.

When I had no father I made
Care my father. When I had
No mother I embraced order.

When I had no friend I made
Quiet my friend. When I had no
Enemy I opposed my body.

When I had no temple I made
My voice my temple. I have
No priest, my tongue is my choir.

When I have no means fortune
Is my means. When I have
Nothing, death will be my fortune.

Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover I courted my sleep.
---

It seems to be a survivalist theme.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

Samurai Song by: Robert Pinsky

When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined.

When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought.
When I had no thought I waited.

When I had no father I made
Care my father. When I had
No mother I embraced order.

When I had no friend I made
Quiet my friend. When I had no
Enemy I opposed my body.

When I had no temple I made
My voice my temple. I have
No priest, my tongue is my choir.

When I have no means fortune
Is my means. When I have
Nothing, death will be my fortune.

Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover I courted my sleep.
---

It seems to be a survivalist theme.

this!

 

[sweepthefloor]

this!

I like it too. The last three lines.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I didn’t reply because the profile was one big psychological hot mess of intellect.

I imagined that I would be giving him a blowjob, and that he would be talking about: world peace, saving the whales, and socioeconomic disparity. In my head some sad song would be playing on my radio brain, and the whole effort would be ridiculous. I would stop sucking briefly to look at his face and wonder what he was talking about. He would ask me: Don’t you think?

I would look at him in total confusion.
---

The only way I would go out with a man like that is if he would slap me around for not listening.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

I like it too. The last three lines.

How does one woo sleep, exactly? I always offer my sweetest candies and softest romantic blooms and yet, try as I might, I seem to be locked in unrequited infatuation and pillow lust. Maybe sleep just doesn't like my little bed? Maybe it's my passionate affair with insomnia that has sleep jealous and too ashamed to take me home to meet Mom? I'm so tired today.

 

[sweepthefloor]

How does one woo sleep, exactly? I always offer my sweetest candies and softest romantic blooms and yet, try as I might, I seem to be locked in unrequited infatuation and pillow lust. Maybe sleep just doesn't like my little bed? Maybe it's my passionate affair with insomnia that has sleep jealous and too ashamed to take me home to meet Mom? I'm so tired today.

I am a good sleeper. If I could beat insomnia up for you, so that you can get some dream time-- I would.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

I am a good sleeper. If I could beat insomnia up for you, so that you can get some dream time-- I would.

*sleepslow clumsy sorta tackle hug* Thank you.

 

[sweepthefloor]

*sleepslow clumsy sorta tackle hug* Thank you.

I fell asleep thinking: Maybe you have to let sleep pursue you. If you cling to wakefulness like a desperate lover, maybe insomnia will go away.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Me: Did you miss me?
Dad: No.
---

I was happy to be home after the long weekend. It doesn't sound the way it is heard. And then I cleaned the toothpaste out of the sink.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Does this mean he still loves me?

 

[sweepthefloor]

I guess lol and huh are the wrong answers because he never called after that.

 

[richard_daily]

I guess lol and huh are the wrong answers because he never called after that.

Maybe you need more practice at sucking cock?

 

[sweepthefloor]

Maybe you need more practice at sucking cock?

I don't know if that is the case here. There really is no mystery. It's just him digging into my desire the minute I forget about him. I am still trying to bust off that fucking invisible chain. I don't like it at all.

 

[sweepthefloor]

It doesn’t have anything to do with kinky sex. My emotions for him revolve around a sickness that I can’t identify. I guess it was the way he would ask: What is wrong with you? And say: You’re gonna get it. When there was nothing wrong with me. He gave me nothing.
---
He says it's all my fault. He says he blames me. And if I did something wrong, I would rather take a beating then suffer this head game.

 

[sweepthefloor]

There is always a sad one in the bunch. It's been weeks with fresh water, and the others maintain pretty posture. I am standing in the kitchen talking to this depressed bloom trying to figure out what is wrong with it. I told the flower that if it didn't shape up I was going to pluck out each petal one by one: he loves me, he loves me not.

The flower told me: He doesn't love you but fuck off. I don't care what you do to me. I am already dead you stupid bitch.

 

[Sir_Winston54]

"... The why only matters if you want to change it."​

 

[sweepthefloor]

That's the best part!

 

[sweepthefloor]

Sometimes you wait your whole life for someone to tell you what to do but nobody ever does tell you anything. There is nothing to say. There is no easy algorithm so you just keep on simple counting because the numbers are never ending, and that’s a whole lot easier than the grammars.