(no subject)
Since when did everyone lose all their class?
I fucking hate this century. I feel as if I belong to a generation not for me.
Women throw themselves at men, and men don't give a fuck about the women. It makes me nauseous. Why can't any silly little girls see when they're being used? Why can't the silly little boys see that the girls are willing getting used? Maybe the ones who are ready to be used are easier.
Add the fact that my boyfriend is an alcoholic! That's less stressful, though. At least he still hasn't embarrassed me. It's not as bad as being juvenile. (Maybe juvenile is harsh, maybe... pubescent is a more pleasant word.) Plus, he never pukes so that makes me love him all the more. Most of all, he retains his class.
Perhaps I'm mistaking class for style. I lack stylish people in my life.
That line reminds me of a poem...
Style
Style is the answer to everything.
Fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous day.
To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without style.
To do a dangerous thing with style, is what I call art.
Bullfighting can be an art.
Boxing can be an art.
Loving can be an art.
Opening a can of sardines can be an art.
Not many have style.
Not many can keep style.
I have seen dogs with more style than men.
Although not many dogs have style.
Cats have it with abundance.
When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a shotgun, that was style.
For sometimes people give you style.
Joan of Arc had style.
John the Baptist.
Jesus.
Socrates.
Caesar.
García Lorca.
I have met men in jail with style.
I have met more men in jail with style than men out of jail.
Style is a difference, a way of doing, a way of being done.
Six herons standing quietly in a pool of water, or you, walking
out of the bathroom without seeing me.
Nothing could sum my feelings up better.
I'm devastated that all the respect that I had for a person for their "style" has been depleted because of a sickly realization that it was all a facade.
The other never really had much style to begin with. HA!
And yet, I'm still purple inside. I've never felt better. I'm cutting out a tumor. It's been taking too much out of me. Tumors never give anything back. Perhaps a life lesson or two, but mine has not left me so lucky. This is the first lesson it's taught me.
Depressing.
I fucking hate this century. I feel as if I belong to a generation not for me.
Women throw themselves at men, and men don't give a fuck about the women. It makes me nauseous. Why can't any silly little girls see when they're being used? Why can't the silly little boys see that the girls are willing getting used? Maybe the ones who are ready to be used are easier.
Add the fact that my boyfriend is an alcoholic! That's less stressful, though. At least he still hasn't embarrassed me. It's not as bad as being juvenile. (Maybe juvenile is harsh, maybe... pubescent is a more pleasant word.) Plus, he never pukes so that makes me love him all the more. Most of all, he retains his class.
Perhaps I'm mistaking class for style. I lack stylish people in my life.
That line reminds me of a poem...
Style
Style is the answer to everything.
Fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous day.
To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without style.
To do a dangerous thing with style, is what I call art.
Bullfighting can be an art.
Boxing can be an art.
Loving can be an art.
Opening a can of sardines can be an art.
Not many have style.
Not many can keep style.
I have seen dogs with more style than men.
Although not many dogs have style.
Cats have it with abundance.
When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a shotgun, that was style.
For sometimes people give you style.
Joan of Arc had style.
John the Baptist.
Jesus.
Socrates.
Caesar.
García Lorca.
I have met men in jail with style.
I have met more men in jail with style than men out of jail.
Style is a difference, a way of doing, a way of being done.
Six herons standing quietly in a pool of water, or you, walking
out of the bathroom without seeing me.
Nothing could sum my feelings up better.
I'm devastated that all the respect that I had for a person for their "style" has been depleted because of a sickly realization that it was all a facade.
The other never really had much style to begin with. HA!
And yet, I'm still purple inside. I've never felt better. I'm cutting out a tumor. It's been taking too much out of me. Tumors never give anything back. Perhaps a life lesson or two, but mine has not left me so lucky. This is the first lesson it's taught me.
Depressing.