Angry mad gyal

I like picking fights. I'm about to pick one now.

I've just made a playlist of all the loud and angry music I have in iTunes. Not in any mood for soft and sweet.

I'm running low on Dunhill Lights. Cigarettes aren't the only things I am running low on.

I am a pratical person. At least so I like to think. That's why I chose a field that was practical by verb and noun. So why have I chosen a relationship that is totally impractical on every level? Yes I kinda like the space, but in moments like this, I don't.

So now I am also a contradiction.

I am being stretched in a way that makes me wonder if I am really up for this...spreading love across the entire distance spanning the Middle East to the Caribbean. Do I have so much in me? Really? Well, it's trailing thin right about now.

I can't even have a face-to-face fight about my frustration. I can't even do it over the phone, because apart from the fact that my phone is dead and buried, it's 7:30 am where Easy Skanking Chef is, and if I know him, he went to bed at 4am and has to get up at 9 for another 16 hour day on his feet. So talking, venting, cussing, fighting, bawling, and kissing and making up are options removed.

All I can do is sit and sulk and write about it.

Sometimes I wish he was much older. Older men have the wisdom of experience to anticipate the onset of drama and have the sense to be around to face the music. No. this one is so damn oblivious. He is in his bed sleeping, dreaming nice dreams about me and him together and happy. Tschuups.

He's always so easy-going, waxing philosophical about the strength of our love whenever I go on one of my tirades. I don't want philosophy, I want vile verbal ejaculate!

I want a fight dammit! Full on roaring confrontation!

This distance sucks big fucking time.