The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

A female knifed me in the back, and that hurts more than any man beating. And I walk away bleeding out trust, exsanguinating broken bonded cells by the millions.

I could have killed her with my honesty blade, but I felt sorry for her desperation.
 
aw it's alright. People are weak. I shelter my weakness like it's something special. I don't use it to hurt others.
 
I could buy a cooling air-conditioner, or I could just lay on the floor sweltering with heat lethargy.
--

And there was that man with the weird shoes, the man with the rope. I laughed at him last year, that was last year.
--
I was alone with my insides falling out. I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. I was shaking with the weaks. I knocked on his front door last week wearing a crooked toothed fragile fake smile. He let me in.

“What’s wrong? You wouldn’t be here if something wasn’t wrong.”

I sat down in the barber chair and demanded: Tie me to this chair right now, immediately. I cried like a lunatic.

He wouldn’t tie me to the chair. I let the river out of my eyes. He sat on the couch across from me, staring at me. I can only imagine what he thought of me in that moment. He didn’t say much.

He wouldn’t tie me to the chair with ropes. I cried more, half yelling at him, half begging him. His hands worked well enough to stop the trembling when he eventually laid them firm on my forearms. And he whispered in my ear: lots of people probably cried in this same antique chair while getting haircuts and spilling secrets. Imagine it: Billy fucked Sally’s best friend. John’s a drunk, his wife ran out. Bob lost his job. Lisa’s father died. Jill left Jim for Josette and didn’t want a threesome. Is it that bad you silly woman?

And just like that I started to laugh. I didn’t have to say anything. The whole scenario tickled my head. He let me go. I got up and ate at tuna fish sandwich like I owned the place. I almost washed the dishes. I went home: Ok, bye. Bye baby girl.
 
Is it that bad you silly woman?

I don’t remember. I was born in this year and everything else is subtracted from that thunder number. We blur the sight of the lightening strike with salty laugh tears and wet silly sad drops. We mix rain with black mascara and that creates dark rivers on the faces of the vulnerable ones. We can’t see what we are crying about after the storm.
--
The Unspeakables. That is what we are.

Fuck the ants in my sugar bowl. It’s summer time.
 
I am the object of his obsession. The art of manipulation seems like a hypnotic. I am awake wondering, how did I get here? Only the big clues wake me up: “I feel physically sick.”

It is my fault. This mind trick would have lasted if he didn’t punch my instincts in the gut. He feels sick and I feel a sense of doom. I am an anxious girl when there is a reason to be anxious.

Persistence weakens me over time. He doesn’t stop with the words and gifts. I get confused and forget--- and all of that keeps me talking to him even when I try to pull back, gently and not gently.

The only solution is to cut out communication like a tumor. I can’t deal with a man that is sick for me, when the sickness is not returned. I don’t share the obsessive germ. I gave the wrong man a sample, and it has grown wild in his testicular tube system that mocks a heart.

And of course there is guilt—I talked to him.
 
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I love the dull roar at the beach in the summer time. I limped close to the water with my towel and wondered all these people, where do they come from. A decision had to be made—where should I put my towel?

I thought about sneaking close to a family and pretending to be part of their world. Would they notice me? Who will sun block my back?

New Jersey beaches were the best when I didn’t know about the Mediterranean Sea and the other clear salt waters of the world. It’s so rough and dark here, and the water is cold. I force myself a swim and put my back to the ocean. It’s a risk that I take every year for the thrill of the slap on my back. I even bend over.

I keep the windows down and the radio up. The man at the tollbooth grabbed my hand. He said I have soft hands so I wiggled my tongue at him and raced away laughing inside.

What would it be like to suck a dick in that booth? My hands are soft, my mouth is softer.
 

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What does the world look like looking up? I have seen the ground and memorized cracks, chewed gum stains and boots. Who are we?
--
I wanted to take a picture with my blurry cry eye but my tear shutter blinked quickly and the effect went away. I couldn’t capture that. I was sitting on the toilet crying, holding onto the sink and staring at the waste bucket.

And just when I thought I got that leaky faucet fixed the shower opened up to a sobbing situation. I got on my knees with the water on my back. I realized that washing in tears is a ridiculous idea so I got up and shampooed my hair.
 

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Who is Frida Kahlo?

A surgeon at work told me that I remind him of Frida Kahlo. He told me this twice so I decided to find out why. I looked at pictures of her. I didn’t see the resemblance so I asked him why, and he told me it’s your hair, and your personality.

I am going to investigate this woman and find out what he thinks about me.

And my hair—I want to cut it short. I only keep it long because I love loose braids piled on the top of my head like a crown.
 
:rose: You can be a fresh piece in a pink pack and I can blow big bubbles with your wishes, and make sculptures with your sticky sugar soul.

It doesn’t get more disgusting than the days past. The sculpture that is the years of chewed bubble gum piled together over time and glazed with clear nail polish, stuck to the wall of my bedroom life. It’s a used mouth mountain. It might not be artwork, but we are the art.
 
Sounds perfect to me as so often your words really do make my chewy heart swell and pop.

*sigh* :heart:
 
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Who is Frida Kahlo?

A surgeon at work told me that I remind him of Frida Kahlo. He told me this twice so I decided to find out why. I looked at pictures of her. I didn’t see the resemblance so I asked him why, and he told me it’s your hair, and your personality.

I am going to investigate this woman and find out what he thinks about me.

And my hair—I want to cut it short. I only keep it long because I love loose braids piled on the top of my head like a crown.

Please keep the loose braids, and how about a picture of them :rose:
 
Who is Frida Kahlo?

A surgeon at work told me that I remind him of Frida Kahlo. He told me this twice so I decided to find out why. I looked at pictures of her. I didn’t see the resemblance so I asked him why, and he told me it’s your hair, and your personality.

I am going to investigate this woman and find out what he thinks about me.

And my hair—I want to cut it short. I only keep it long because I love loose braids piled on the top of my head like a crown.

You should definitely watch this movie.

Not because the guy at work is hitting on you, but because the film is really good.
 
If I will be Frida Kahlo who will be Diego Rivera?

I watched the movie. I cried my eyes out. And when I see that surgeon again I will call him Diego. I do not look like Frida but maybe my words paint like hers in my own head.

It’s a strange comparison on his part but I will take it because it means he looks at me when I feel most invisible.
 
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