your monster;

april thirteen, oh nine.
ben franklin’s kate, something corporate.
exposure,
and the lovely body parts.
i haven’t been wearing a shirt since i got out of my shower at around 9:20. it’s now ten. i don’t plan on putting on a shirt. life without a shirt makes me feel, free.
just me in my bra just chillin’ around in my chair. everything below the waist is clothed in plaid cut pajama pants, which [since being cut due to a huge unfixable hole] are now capris. well, my feet aren’t clothed, they insist on staying naked from the moment i walk in the door in the afternoon, until i leave in the morning. my feet, like my chest, enjoy the exposure. exposure to the darkness of the room, and the glow of the computer. every time else my chest likes to be clothed because it’s quite insecure with it’s appearance. well, no. that’s my stummy. my poor stummy feels fat and seems to be packing on the pounds. she, like my chest, like the night time exposure.
my chest likes all kind of exposure actually. she’s kind of slutty. she likes the fact that she’s what most people look at. but she’s also just as sensitive as insecure stummy. she’s fragile. she contains the heart. if love is only being received because of what she has on the outside, her insides fall apart. she knows that she’s more than just something to stare at. and it’s not just the staring that gets to her. any type of betrayal hurts her.
back to my feeties. they’re so ugly and deformed. ten crooked piggies that have probably all been broken before. the left footie has a beauty mark right in the middle of it. he feels it sets him apart from his sister, my right foot. they’re free spirits. they enjoy flip-flops, and being nakie. they know they’re not pleasant to look at, but that’s just their piggies which i usually curl back to prevent my feet from being embarrassed. my feet bring me everywhere, so why should they be hidden from the world?
to bring on the next body that is neglected and covered up all the time, i’m dearly sorry arms. you’re pale, and beautiful. thin, and covered in “beauty marks” which we know are just freckles. you have your cuts from shaving, and your scars from everything else. you’ve been abused. i’ve cut, burned, and welted you. i’ve damaged you. beautiful arms you deserve to be shown off. but i just don’t feel comfortable without a sweatshirt on. i feel so vulnerable, and you know you feel the same way. with you showing, we’re naked. you get cold, and shaky. bugs bite in seconds leaving you coated in bug bites. but maybe you’d prefer that over being covered with heavy sweatshirt sleeves all the time. but i fear if i let you out, you’ll become like the legs, bruised and beaten on accident. you only know pain that was meant to happen. you occasionally get beat up by things. and that worried me. you’re weak. but you’re right, exposure would be good for you.
bringing up legs. you’re two guys most definitely. you like getting beat up, and you like the random bruises that show up. you’re usually wrapped in tight jeans that make you look fat. but you like to be lazy and wear pajama pants out on the weekends, and you like to go unshaved for months. you don’t look weak, but you are. and that’s okay. just like the arms, you’re pale and long, making up part of me five foot two body height. you keep me standing. but sometimes you turn to jello. i guess we can blame the head and chest for that though. you’re connected to the feet and stomach. caught somewhere between not giving a fuck and insecure. i don’t know how you manage it, but you feel both. i hope you like the new cut plaid pants. more exposure to you.
what have a failed to mention? oh yes, my head.
head head head. when did you become not a body part, but an expression for a blow job? when did it happen where when someone says head, everyone jumps to the conclusion of dick? you’re not a dick head. you’re my head. you contain my brain, my eyes, my nose, my mouth, and my ears. you keep me thinking clearly, keeping my hopes up, but not too high. you let me see the world, and hear the sounds it makes. you let me smell the scents of everything, both pleasant and unpleasant. you let me speak when i should and when i shouldn’t. sometimes me and you aren’t so smart, but we get by. one day we’ll realise when to say what. we’ll continue to listen to everything, and stop damaging the ears with loud headphones. we’ll watch everything and hope my eyes don’t get any worse. we’ll smell everything and hope it all smells good. we’ll dress you up in all sorts of make-up, and let you go naked on occasion. we’ll style the hair which grows from your roots differently and let it curl uncontrollably when it wants. me and you make a great team. i love how you get the most exposure out of everything, and yet you still remain so white you glow.
and last but not least, hands. you’re so pretty with your long fingers. you could model if you wanted, but perhaps the writers bump on your right middle finger wouldn’t allow it. you need to ease up on how hard you hold your pens. it won’t go away if you keep pressing down on them hard. you’ve been through so much. holding hands, high fives, burns, scraps, paper cuts, cuts from everything else, getting stuck in things, getting doors slammed on you. i’m surprised your not beat up and deformed like the feet. you keep me going. without you i lack the ability to write. and i feel sometimes my thoughts form at your finger tips instead of my dear noggin. you have an unusual love for rob’s hands, which i think is why we like him so much. you’ve fallen in love with his hands, and everything else has fallen in love with the rest of him.
-sigh-
back to rob?
i guess it’s alright.
i’m done anyway.
-love, your monster.

may forth, oh nine.
american love, jack’s mannequin.
just some thoughts,
to keep my mind focused.
as of last night’s post, when i threw the word love in there without thinking, it’s pretty much all i’ve been thinking about.
actually, that’s a total lie. i haven’t thought about it more than once.
until now of course. because this is something that needs to be really thought you.
agreed?
so, where do i even start?
love,love,love,love,love.
hm. i’m pretty unfamiliar with the concept besides family and friends.
i guess it’s all the same.
it’s all built around trust and shit, right?
you love your partner like you love your parents like you love your best friend like you love your dog like you love your grandparents, and so on.
is love any different when it comes to relationships?
and when do we know when we fall in love?
and after that, what happens?
if you’ve ready the thinking aloud above this one, i’ll tell you now,
my hands didn’t fall in love with rob’s. they just thought they did. just like the rest of me.
my hands are in love with anthony’s now, as is everything else.
i mean, i guess i love him.
i don’t know what love is, but i’m going to guess this is it.
maybe.
maybe not.
hm, there’s no reason for me to be thinking aloud,
i have nothing to think about.
ugh, goodbye then.
-your monster.

august eighth, oh nine.
a little less sixteen candles, a little more touch me, fall out boy.
when thoughts need to be typed out,
not thought out.
i’m back to finishing my pages.
i have what, five of them?
all kind of sitting there, unused.
well here,
here are some thoughts for you my thinking aloud page.
i’ve been thinking a lot about relationships.
what goes into them, the things you have to do in them.
it’s all just really difficult.
there’s no manual for it, so you’re left to fend for yourself.
with someone else.
and that’s the hard part for me.
we all know i’ve only been in that one two and a half week relationship,
but it’s what i have to work off of, so let’s not judge.
i’m a pretty independent person.
i work off others doing constantly,
but when it comes to emotions,
i’d rather keep them to myself than share with others.
that’s one thing wrong with me.
one thing that makes me uncut for relationships.
if relationships are in the shape of a circle,
i’m a pentagon.

i’m too ___________ to be in a relationship.
-sarcastic.
-moody.
-much of a liar.
-mean.
-annoying.
-independent.
-needy.

therefore, there is no question to why i am not in one.
and when people look at me and say,
“why are you single?”
[which never happens because i'm not exactly "pretty" either]
i want to tell them that.
i’m starting to think i should carry business cards with that written on them,
and at the bottom have it say,
“but if you still want to try to work something out,
call me.”
anyway,
now you’re thinking,
oh gosh another girl who thinks she’s ugly.
let’s leave before she starts to bitch.
it’s nothing like that.
i’m not ugly,
but i’m not like great looking.
i’m somewhere in the middle,
with all the other average looking folks.
it’s a comforting place, not a difficult beauty fight like the people above us.
even though,
it is just the same, but with less dedication for most.
i’m not making any sense. i really need to sleep.
it’s ten to two.
haha,well. goodbye thoughts.
-love your monster.