The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

[sweepthefloor]

Now he wants to communicate.

 

[sweepthefloor]

And I can not communicate because I am a failure. I can not because in my own little world everything is simple. I cook you dinner, suck your cock and if I use my lip in any other way but to please you: I get beat.

And I need that because I do not know how to function any other way, and I flush one man down the drain after another. It is not their fault that I am not wired right.

And he said: you ended it. <click> my failure validated.

 

[sweepthefloor]

This is not the kind of pain I signed up for.
The pain he delivers I can do myself better, by just being me.

 

[sweepthefloor]

This life is a theater: absurd, give it one word. I can laugh and cry at the same time, we can label it labile or just plain funny. Some dog defecated on the floor and the pooping bitch wasn’t me. I don’t do that shit.

I left him with a shred of self-respect hanging off of a dress that I made with my own hand. I wanted to stay in that worthless dress so badly but the threads wouldn’t stay together and his needle became blunt. I lost my thimble again.

I didn’t want to rip that dress off. That dress is comfortable but he hates it. I only ever wanted to please him, so I ripped it off, cleaned up my own floor with it, and left him.

I don’t do long sorry good-byes. I prefer the swiftness of the mercy deathblow. We could talk about this till exhaustion but it hardly yields therapeutic results.

Now I am digging through the trash and crawling around on the floor for the pieces of that dress. It is my dress, and I want it back.

 

[sweepthefloor]

How easy it is to slip out of nurse shoes and slip into boots. It’s just how we used to do it only easier cause we have tools. I am a girl in a boom and I am screwing a sign-face off, just like my own face.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I am an idiot beyond repair. The phone rang and I answered it. There was no conversation, but it is enough to satisfy his soul.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I am up in a boom and changing ballasts faster than ever before, because the new ballasts are simple. And I will make everything simple.

------------------------------------

There is a girl up in a boom, and her ass crack is hanging out of her jeans cause her pockets are filled heavy with screws and her ass is too small, and her will is too large.

There is a girl in a big truck that carries a bucket and she looks tiny. At a red light her mind whispers: I dare you to follow me and open my throat in some dark alley, I know you want to.

He is looking at her, and by habit: she is digging for the lip-gloss in the tool bucket.

Whispering: where is my lip-gloss?

 

[sweepthefloor]

I said to myself I wouldn't answer the phone and I answered it. Now I want to break the phone. It is not the phones fault. I think I will go brush my teeth and pretend I never said 'hello?' in that stupid little voice that I have.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I will gag the 'hello' right out of my throat--with my toothbrush. every day.

 

[DeepGreenEyes]

Your thread is one continuous whispering poem, and I am captivated every time I read it.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Your thread is one continuous whispering poem, and I am captivated every time I read it.

It is captivating to captivate sometimes, and I just like the word captivate.
Thank you.

 

[sweepthefloor]

And he hurt me again this weekend with the 'little love death' so I severed my own head to save my own heart.

 

[YourCaptor]

Hey babe, you know he wasn't right for you.

More fish in the sea.

Keep your heard up.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Hey babe, you know he wasn't right for you.

It wasn’t right, and I was ok with that for a while.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I got lazy and joined the rest of humanity: I watched porn.

I just can't believe all those squeak little noises the women make, and the words that they speak.

If I were a man: I'd gag them all, every single one of them.

 

[sweepthefloor]

That is me in the black contractor bag-- that is my life. It’s my life, it is me: it is the dress that is the only thing that I own. Where did all this stuff come from, and why are there so many mosquitoes here?

I fall apart and I don’t know where the men with Chevy trucks and trailers came from. They just show up. They show up before me and say: Today is the day. No more crying, get in your car and come tell us what you want out of here.

Nothing is packed so he opened up the black contractor bag and said: Throw your heart in the bag.

I said: Will you beat me?
He said: Shut up and get in the bag.

And that is the difference between me and men. What took me months to figure out…….they moved me in five hours.

I am a lucky girl. I got nothing and everything at the same time.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Where do the men come from? It is life story of a girl who used to be strong, thought she had a penis and then woke up and realized she didn't. The good news is: her brothers still loved her without the penis!

They still won't beat me though, fuckers.

 

[sweepthefloor]

There is a big web, but I don’t see Charlotte. She didn’t die, she just skipped town. She was smart.

The world changed, but I didn’t. I got stuck going around the same circle. I am looking at the same dirt, I keep sweeping it up and it just keeps coming back. There is no garbage day; there is just this dump out back. Dirt is alive. It has a brain. It knows where it wants to be. It wants to be on me.

I smell like rust. I haven’t grown at all. I am still in the same jumper with no hem left. That is me at the wooden desk. My knees are too big for my body. My cursive is perfect but there is no ruler anymore. Isn’t that the way discipline works sometimes? No one is looking, but I am still taking my time with each curve on the letter L for lust, and I am still blushing about it.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I am caught in a comedy act. There is no front stage. It is covered in Ivy. There is a sign that says: entrance-back-stage-only. The back door is wide open and the kitchen is flooded with dirty laundry water because it is not hooked up right. I got a five-gallon shop-vac and I squat as I suck it all up. I look ridiculous.

Somebody laugh at me before the shepard’s crook hooks me. This is Vaudeville booked in one minstrel mind, and here comes the hook!

Next load: I stand and hold the drainpipe in the right spot while the machine dumps its dirty load. I feel the power of water rushing through my hand, should I jerk it? One more mess and I am going to put the drainpipe out the kitchen window to drain into the yard.

 

[sweepthefloor]

He is the nut that just keeps on nutting.

My phone rings and his name shows up on the caller ID after all this time. I let it go to voicemail.

The message sounds like this: Hello, we have business to discuss. I intend to purchase your house. I see that it is for sale. I will call your Realtor and make arrangements.

My Realtor says he cannot discriminate if he qualifies and that he did contact him.

My mind whispers: stay away from me.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I made it to the nail salon. A dirty hole as far as I could tell, the place surely wasn’t sterile. She did a good job with my eyebrows and it stung just enough to make me feel good. It’s hard to find a girl that doesn’t want to wax my eyebrows into some pencil thin line. I can’t stand when they do that.

I let her manicure my nails. It’s not really about the polish or the color. I just want to sit still while the paint dries. She didn’t do a good job on my nails.

I imagine that this cheap salon is just like a cheap whorehouse. The way she left my cuticles is like a man paying for a blowjob but ends up jacking off to come.

She wanted to pedicure my feet but I saw her filthy tools and decided I better not. She was also coughing and sniffling the whole time. I said: No thank you. Letting her touch my feet would be like a man fucking a crack head in the ass with no rubber for five dollars.

The place was cheap but the girls were still cute. I did admire them with their dirty white lab coats on over black Lycra, on top of high heels. She said: “You pay me now?” And I paid fair price for their nasty hand tools, hot wax and I always over-tip them.

Over tipping compensates for the pseudo-cock I get rising under my dress. It’s like an amputee with phantom limb pain. Their leg hurts: but it’s not there anymore. I get a boner sometimes and then I check to make sure there really isn’t a penis there. Luckily, there never is, never was.

 

[sweepthefloor]

It is back to the wax pot for me, and this time it is from the waste down. I am afraid, and I like it.

 

[PatchIsMe]

She wanted to pedicure my feet but I saw her filthy tools and decided I better not. She was also coughing and sniffling the whole time. I said: No thank you. Letting her touch my feet would be like a man fucking a crack head in the ass with no rubber for five dollars.


..... for the pseudo-cock I get rising under my dress. It’s like an amputee with phantom limb pain. Their leg hurts: but it’s not there anymore. I get a boner sometimes and then I check to make sure there really isn’t a penis there. Luckily, there never is, never was.

I have been thinking of getting a pedi. I may yet this evening. Not a lot of cute girls and no dirty tools where I go though. Maybe next time I'll go with you.

I too, have a pseuo-cock. I hate the phantom pain. I hate the stretching, yearning hip thrusting that evolves when It makes Its appearance...

 

[sweepthefloor]

I have been thinking of getting a pedi. I may yet this evening. Not a lot of cute girls and no dirty tools where I go though. Maybe next time I'll go with you.

I too, have a pseuo-cock. I hate the phantom pain. I hate the stretching, yearning hip thrusting that evolves when It makes Its appearance...

I haven't gotten a pedicure in a long time. My new work shoes rub the polish off my toe, so I pedi myself lately. My feet are so ticklish too. I have graduated to the wax pot anyway, it is more bang for the buck.

Phantom cock pain! I thought I was the only one! I wonder sometimes if it has anything to do with this aversion of actually looking at myself.

 

[sweepthefloor]

If you meet a male operating room nurse on the internet and he says: I am so very excited to meet you in the very near future.

Watch out! He might drug you and harvest your organs by night to sell on the black market the next day.

My mind whispers: He wants my warm beating heart on ice in a lunch box!