#emoStory

140 characters including hashtag, with proper punctuation. Stories may not be about me, nor about things I have experienced personally.

140 characters including hashtag, with proper punctuation. Stories may not be about me, nor about things I have experienced personally.
She doesn't love you; nor does she mind your company.

What do you want? / Just lie to me, and pretend that you mean it for ten seconds. / I love you. / Thank you.

We had a secret. I loved you. Then you let it go. So it's just a story now.

In a less civil world, I'd offer to fuck you before touching your hands, but here, I've got too much to lose, so go fuck yourself.

Wearing no makeup, in a harlequin dress, her pale smile and sad eyes make me cry inside. Outside, it's business, "morning, aunty!"

Someone left the biggest shit you ever saw, in the drain behind our cafe. We blasted it with water, then BANG a sack fell into the dumpster. "Who the fuck is upstairs?!" "It's Harry." "Harry! You piss! Stop dropping shit in the dumpster!" The irony was lost on all of us.

One day she reappeared, saying she had found friends who had her back. Good. At least she's expressly aware of them. Lucky people.

Cough. Sneeze. I am ill, and alone. But never as alone as when you, often lay beside me, playing with your phone, naked and taken.

All the times I was there didn't make up for the times I was not. Oh no, oh my. I'm glad you did nothing about it. No, not really.

The problem with living in past, present, and future all at once... is that you're with someone, you do stuff together, but you know they'll leave you, so you wonder what it'll be like; then years later, they're with someone else, doing the same stuff, and you relive the moment of melancholy. But there's an "aha, I knew this was going to happen," feeling. :)

So many conversations left hanging. I used to respect silence. Now, 3 mins triggers: "I take it you're disinterested. Good night."

Sum up the times between when she stopped replying, and when I stopped waiting for answers - it could be months. More than a year.

Waiting for food. Let's write an #emoStory. Mustn't forget to calibrate mood to match society.

She walks, hands empty, gleeful at the thought, that this would be a good day to die; and her once lover plays in a city far away.

Hrm. Dude scraped the side of his car on my mirror. Hate to be ad hominem and all, but he had two unstrapped kids in there :p

One way to forget that you like someone, is to think about ways they hurt you. But I prefer to remember the good times. I am easy.

We walked the misty farmlands and markets, and he said, he enjoyed my company. Months later, he said there were only bad memories.

Special privileges. Ones I didn't have. Some I may never have. That means she really likes him. That is good. That makes me happy.

In skin, in flesh, in fabric. Of love, and boredom, alike. Irregular jobs, irregular hours. Too much waiting. Tears tear me apart.

It finally admitted disliking folks who spoke intellectual language; there were not enough 'fuck yous' to make up for wasted time.

And then she said, "make coffee; it's what you do," and then I thought, "maybe it's time I put an end to this," and that ended it.