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The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

sweepthefloor said:
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.
Click to expand...
In the end, one could say it's all numbers, whether 0s and 1s or hex or whatever, even the grammar, though parts of that would have to fall into the realm of irrational numbers.

Make up your own number. Pick a section of numbers to the right of the decimal in π, length to be determined by your whim of the moment, and make it yours.
 
two plus two equal four...

...and just like that we are in the playground
 
jomar said:
two plus two equal four...

...and just like that we are in the playground
Click to expand...
And we are on the monkey bars swinging every other rod because we are strong. We live on top watching everyone fight or play. We don’t talk much, but we are looking. I go down to grab some weeds and climb back up to you. It is a risk and my heart races.

We spend the day decapitating weed heads singing: Momma had a baby and her head popped off.

The sign says the park is closed from dusk till dawn, the streetlights come on but we don’t want to go home. We could sleep on those bars because we are comfortable. We are on top of the world. We are untouchable and safe. We are the rulers of our jungle gym kingdom.

You are the King and I am your Queen. We are crowned with wild brown-eyed daisies. It is a honeysuckled sustenance that we picked from the alley.

Those are my old sneakers hanging from the power line. It is our summer time reign. I stepped on a bumblebee by accident. The stinger hurt, and I limp around loving you.
 
sweepthefloor said:
And we are on the monkey bars swinging every other rod because we are strong. We live on top watching everyone fight or play. We don’t talk much, but we are looking. I go down to grab some weeds and climb back up to you. It is a risk and my heart races.

We spend the day decapitating weed heads singing: Momma had a baby and her head popped off.

The sign says the park is closed from dusk till dawn, the streetlights come on but we don’t want to go home. We could sleep on those bars because we are comfortable. We are on top of the world. We are untouchable and safe. We are the rulers of our jungle gym kingdom.

You are the King and I am your Queen. We are crowned with wild brown-eyed daisies. It is a honeysuckled sustenance that we picked from the alley.

Those are my old sneakers hanging from the power line. It is our summer time reign. I stepped on a bumblebee by accident. The stinger hurt, and I limp around loving you.
Click to expand...

Your music is strong.
 
I forgot him. I cut his memory out of the pack of paper stock that sits on the table waiting to be made into some cute cards. And then he thought it was OK to contact me. It not OK, so I went psycho mean girl.

And then I felt bad—then I cried. Isn’t that funny?
 
sweepthefloor said:
I forgot him. I cut his memory out of the pack of paper stock that sits on the table waiting to be made into some cute cards. And then he thought it was OK to contact me. It not OK, so I went psycho mean girl.

And then I felt bad—then I cried. Isn’t that funny?
Click to expand...
No, it's human. Taking someone out of our "inventory" is a loss. Loss hurts.
 
And we made love in the dirt—down at the man made greasy lake after we went swimming with rafts made from the construction pallets that were left behind in the industrial wasteland.

He had soft brown curls and I had a stick hard body, but he didn’t mind my big mouth on his dick dipped in cheap brandy wine on the rock cock.
 
Trying to make him last longer is like staring at a home-made bomb and figuring out which wires are safe to detach with my tongue.

It is an explosion every time and his bomb is safe in the shelter of my mouth.
 
We play beauty shop all the time. Our latest endeavor is the wax pot. Every week we go up the steps at our Ma’s house with the supplies.

It’s all giggles and fear. I put the towel on the bed and she lays down on it. After years of experimenting with various beauty trials she decides to sit up last week and question me: Why am I the one that always goes first? We don’t even talk about it. We just assume that I will go first. You never go first. Why is that?

I had to give her the are-you-questioning me look. I am the big sister here.
 
My parents almost named me Loretta. Remember when we thought that white powder up the nose was headache medicine? It's like Aspirin, don't worry about it.
 
I got this look that makes men want to beat me. I don’t know if it is my face or the way I walk, but this is the way it is.

I wasn’t nearly school age when the first boy whacked me out by the trees. He called my name and when I turned to look, I met wood with my face. I probably cried, he probably laughed.

In Kindergarten there was this tire on a rope swing. I really liked it. This boy told me to get off the tire. I told him no, so he decided to punch me in the stomach. The teacher took me close to him and asked me what had happened. He had a beard. I pulled his beard and ran away. I wasn’t saying anything.

I got in trouble. I couldn’t resist yanking his beard.
 
She sure was beautiful with lit brown eyes and big bouncy curls. My Mother was sexy even when she was rolling pennies for bread. And when she was afraid and vulnerable she had this look, she still gets that look sometimes: what are we going to do?

All I knew was that when I grew up I was going to buy her a Cadillac. I didn’t grow up yet.

Then she met him. He wrecked his car with her in it. I picked the glass out of her head, and when she wanted that cast off her leg she soaked in the bathtub and we sawed it off with steak knives and laughed.

I ran to my Grandma’s house in the middle of the night. I sat by the window for a long time trying to figure out if it was a good idea. It was a risk. There was thunder and lightening. I still love a good storm.

My Uncle told me that when we grew up we were going to be The Beatles. I believed him. I don’t speak to him anymore. It took me years to figure out that he is a bad man—a liar.

My Dad always told me the worse thing you can be when you grow up is a liar.
 
What exactly am I supposed to be doing? Every once in a while I am just really confused. I text a list of all the things I need to do with my time. I was hoping that he would prioritize my tasks for me.

He responded: Blow me.

That wasn’t on the list!
 
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