I Passed The Test.

Remember that post about me 'breaking through my shell?' And being liberated from the layers of lies and excuses that used to rest upon it?

Well, today I actually had to stand up on my own two feet and see if I still needed a shell to hide in.

Because the Sheep came back. Very unexpectedly.

Basically I followed him around the entire day - doing rubbish and looking for crooked doctors to forge documents for him. When it comes to Sheep, it's either something horny - or illegal.

Anyway, I realised I had nil feelings for this guy. Well, maybe not nil, but definitely less than ten percent. And in that way, I was so proud of myself. I was so proud of myself that I had managed to empty all the reserves of my feelings for this guy. And I am quite sure of that because I don't have that tingly feeling when I see him anymore.

But I still miss him.

Miss him in a way that someone would miss their friend. Just as how someone would miss the good times shared (I resent cliches but this is unavoidable). And probably just as how she would want to maximize the time spent together because she knows there's only so much and it's running out fast.

So it's safe to say that my feelings for Sheep are mostly platonic. And if there are anymore feelings left over - I'll be sure that I kill it before it festers.

Hopefully.

-No comment-

In

The Hedgehog Saved My Arm.

First of all, I would like to say that I was right.

I always knew Chemistry would be the death of me.

I was just moving around, going about my business - getting ready to light a very sneaky yet highly volatile liquid on fire. And so I strike my match and set it to the Bowl of Death. But oh dear, I see nothing happening. (A-HAH. First mistake.) And I carelessly wave my sleeve near the Bowl of Death.

By this time, the sixth sense of my Hedgehog was already picking up signs of an impending danger and he was ready to act.

Just as I wave my arm just near the flame ... my Hedgehog shouts out : 'STOP!'

... Oh, I'm sorry - were you expecting something a little more chivalrous? Take your fantasies elsewhere, sister. This is serious business.

So immediately my acute vision catches the sight of the dying yet invisible flame. Hah! It had failed to take my arm off, so it decides to retreat.

I thank my Hedgehog for saving my arm today; if it wasn't for him. I would not be able to type out this post. Or any other important post for that matter.

... Or maybe it was a plan. That he would save my arm from being burnt off - and subsequently I would feel so grateful so as to blog about him. ... Why? Because my blog is just important, OK?

Questions, questions.

Anyway, that's another post for another day.

-No comment-

Breaking The Shell Of Confusion.

For weeks on end, I complained about the Confusion. That sorry frame of mind I had lapsed into to determine my desires and expectations of my world, or perhaps just to escape that terrible static around my being.

I probably thought hiding in my own little shell called Confusion was a great excuse to ... well, freeze my time, so to speak. It would allow me to just retreat from this high - speed motion and watch everything pass slowly by me. Like a soul waiting for judgement, that has just been robbed from its body - and its mind refreshed by all the memories flooding back into it.

And then my shell collapsed. While I was still in it.

In fact, I should say that I had help cracking it. I had two people stand right there and help bring me out of this casing I had retreated into for so long.

I had my Rock, who is always there for me and God bless her soul, because just when I needed a hand to support my frail body, she gave me two.

And then there is a new person, who broke the shell. Who simply took that hammer and struck the layer of fragile glass surrounding me. In one amazing feat, I was free. Free from those lies and mistakes and excuses that was keeping me hidden. And so I call him Slayer of Broken Truth.
And now I am in this static again. It feels somewhat weird to be back, but at least I know I can feel again. And lies don't blind me from my idiocy anymore.

At least until the next shell builds itself. Until the next Confusion.

To Dance With The Devil. Literally. -PART 1-

I WAS PUMPED. So pumped that my in - built music player was spinning dance beats so loud that I couldn't even hear my own voice. A little malfunction there, but surely it can be overlooked. Anyway.

So pumped I wasn't walking, I was dancing. I wasn't climbing the stairs, I was jumping from step to step. My brain was producing an overload of the dancing hormone. There is a dancing hormone actually - even if it only exists in my anatomy. But nonetheless.

And I was ready to break it down; wherever, whenever. I was even in my gear. Even the fact that I did not pay for my ticket and had to come up with a cock-and-bull story so I could get it in - did not bump me out of my zone. I was ready for a hurricane. I was ready for an earthquake. I was ready for anything.

Except a Sheep.

Yes, a Sheep could strongly defy a hurricane. And win.

I walk past two very handsome figures (Don't ask why - I might have been feeling slightly lesbian at that moment) all the way to greet my Cardboard Box. And just as I turn to walk back, I stare straight into the eyes of the Sheep.

The Sheep I had not seen in seven days. Wearing a brand-new shirt and jeans. And he is standing next to a Dark-Hunter.

People die for good reasons. This was one of them.

So, we all know what Sheep looks like. Let's describe his DH friend then. Six feet tall, broad shoulders, longish curly brown hair, dark eyes, and a fabulous posterior. Need I say more?

I name him Kyrian of Thrace. Eventhough he looks like a Valerius - Talon hybrid. Wait.

Val-Tal. Awesome.

So, what happens when Sheep and I meet? A loving embrace, of course. A much-needed one indeed. I mean, even if we don't kiss passionately - we still hug passionately. Not complaining.

And just as I move away, he gives me a kiss on my cheek. Boy, is he working hard to prove to me he's good in bed.

But it's alright. I'm already convinced.

So, I'm forced to leave my Sheep and Val-Tal because I can't make a scene in front of Cardboard Box. Oh, and I forgot to mention how positively GIDDY I felt as well as how I wanted to puke my last meal all over my dancing shoes. Perfect.

My music player has died. My zone has been infiltrated. And my body just feels like vomiting. All this from a Sheep. Great. My life is being rocked by farm animals. Soon, I'll be slitting my wrists over a chicken. Anyway.

My good friend Turquoise is trying hard to help me maintain my composure. Even forcing me to have a drink to calm me down. But alas, it was all to no avail.

I nearly break off the rim of the cup with my teeth and scream randomly to the ceiling. Which people still manage to hear through the noise. Amazing. And we all know nothing works better than a good slap.

So, after a good few minutes of Sheep not being in the room, I sit down to devise a plan. First - the ultimate goal ... eliminate all skanks. Second ... make sure my Sheep stays long enough for the party. And third ... get some booty-shaking with my baby. Done.

The night begins. I must admit the performance by a team of breakdancers was fab. Next, a weird - looking guy starts doing random movements to a song. A little gay at first, but it turns out okay in the end. And then, it was time for the open dancefloor. Showtime.

The backlights suddenly switch off. I began to lapse into my zone once again. The music is then turned up. I start to let the music fill my mind and clear out all my thoughts. And the room becomes pitch black. Bingo - I've gotten my freak on.

So, you should know that you can NEVER stop me when I'm dancing. And my body parts move in all directions so you might just get hit and die. I'm like a speeding car - a drunk driver at the wheel and fatal should you stand in its way.

And I see Val-Tal all alone. Moving his ass side to side like as if he's from a different planet where dancing is an offence. And by the way he was dancing, I could see why.

And what can't I stand for at dancing parties? People who don't dance. I grind my hips so hard in front of him, that he decides to move left and right a little faster.

For the sake of the Dark-Hunters, let there never be a Valerius - Talon hybrid.

-No comment-

My Burning Cage of Hell.

I have successfully created the perfect object of torture. It is the most brilliant tool that could only originate from an unsound mind - and one ruled by sadism. It creates fear in the most fool-hardy of souls and mentally torments those who dare to underestimate the power of my weapon. And only I have the location of this torture device. Yes, only I. But I feel it is best to reveal it to those who loyally read my blog. It is ...


... in my head.


Don't laugh. I'm sure you were still reading up until there.


So yes, it is in fact in Chamber 128 of my brain. The place where I mentally picture my enemies and somehow telepathically voodoo them until they give up the will to fight and I kill them slowly so they -


Wait. Too much information.


So, you're probably wondering how I could have come up with something so ingenious, right?!


... you're not? Well, it's bloody time you did. Anyway.


I have noticed recently that I have quite a few people on my hate list (ooh, I'm bad and I really care). You know, you have The Skanks, The Whore-Skanks, The Bitches, The Hypocrites, The Liars, and ... The Idiots.


But you can't actually hate The Idiots, can you? No, we can't. We should sympathise with them. Poor things.


So basically, all those above mentioned - with great disgust - (except for The unfortunate Idiots) are sentenced to my Burning Cage of Hell. The door is opened upon their arrival and they are tossed inside like large turds - after which you could stay behind to watch and hear them sizzle, or if you really aren't the violent type, you could well ... ugh ... leave.


It's alrite. Sometimes the gore gets to me too.


So now you're probably wondering what happens when this cage fills up ...

... still no. Such bright blog readers I have.


Well basically, we tend to lift their mangled, bloody -not to mention charred- bodies out from the cage and they are tossed again to the Pit of Rage.


But I am terribly sorry, I am unable to disclose information about the Pit of Rage as it is only for those who hate as much as I do. And for those who like blood and the smell of burning flesh.


-No comment-

A Week Without A Sheep.

The Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep. Har-har.

Seven days, seven EXCRUCIATING days without the Sheep. Yes, I am blogging from Hell. It's a nice place.

Believe me, death by a lonely heart is by far the worst. I would slit my wrists three times over just to escape this kind of death. Ironically. Never mind.

So basically, I had a plan. And this positively diabolical plan was to finally set my mind to getting over you. Because somehow I had figured that your absence would provide an avenue for me to finally erase those memories of your touch, your scent, your face.

I told you it was diabolical. Because it has not taken effect to this day. Not counting on it any other time either.

All I want to do is pick up my phone and dial your number. And wait for your devastatingly gorgeous accent-laden voice to sound at the other side. But I never make it past the ninth digit.

All I hope for at the end of the day is to see you casually walking by me. So I could leap on you and we could just be locked in the most heavenly embrace ever ... until ... well, our arms cramp.

And all I think about is how I can detect your scent even when you're not there. And when I do catch it, I'm always frantically swivelling around, praying that if I keep spinning, you may appear - wearing the most sinfully sexy outfit imaginable.

But it's never that way. Maybe I hope too much.

And the more I'm away from you - the clearer your face appears in my head, the stronger your scent holds on to the skin in my nose (that even food smells like you), and even more I imagine you cuddling me so close.

And the more I can feel your lips on my skin.

I miss you, baby.

-No comment-

Pure Hypocrisy.

I have actually delayed this particular post for quite a while because ... well, my horny life takes total precedence over hypocrites, tramps, and thieves.

But it's time that I speak of this. And I fucking hope you read this.

SO ... you like to bullshit, huh?

You like to tell me that you're a calm and serene person, totally unnerved by your environment. You like to tell me you will do anything to stand up for your friends. You like to tell me you would even go to the lengths of MURDER for those who show disrespect to those who mean SO much to you. And those who call your friends names, get hurt real bad.

You also like to say that you would never EVER get angry at me - no matter what I do or say.

Because you're an angel.

And then the truth unfolds. One joke (J-O-K-E), and your eyes turn red and your head aflame. And out comes the slew of shit that is inside that blown-up head of yours. All the thoughts that you ever had about me, all the names you've always wanted to address me with, all the vocabulary that I actually never knew you possessed.

And then I realise what a filthy, back-stabbing liar you are.

And then something else.

I can't trust what you say about other people. I can't trust what you say about the person I care about. No matter who he really is, there is no other way I can find out now - than me dancing with the devil himself.

Because only you have made it that way.

I guess it was wrong of me to ever lay any trust of mine in your hands until I saw the real you. But now I have to say I'm sorry. I have to say I'm sorry I bothered to even tell you anything. I'm sorry I wasted my time showing you how much I appreciate what you mean to me.

I'm sorry I gave a shit.

Because Baby, the only person who could ever care about you is that Banana you fuck. And I actually feel sorry for her. You show her how violent you can become when confronted with problems - and she still takes off her clothes - not to mention her dignity - for you.

So you physically injure someone to let them know that they can't mess with me, because you don't like people calling me names. ... Wait. Hold up. YOU DON'T LIKE PEOPLE CALLING ME NAMES??

Woah. I had never heard SO much bullshit until this. I believe the exact words were : midget, incompetence, and *____* fucking prick. Fill that up with another ample vocabulary of curse words and you have exactly what he said to me.

But I feel that you are clearly mistaken. The retarded one is not that guy who screws around with girls and leaves them the next day. He is not the one who randomly swears at people and smiles about it. Neither is he the one to kiss a girl as part of a game.

The retarded one is the one that Lies Through His Teeth and makes Empty Promises and Lies To His Girlfriend behind her back. And worst of all, to pretend to give a shit.

I would sooner be fucked by my man-whore, than to speak to you again.

-and I say this with clenched fists, and through a stream of tears.

-No comment-

I Miss My Bitch.

Yeah Feesh,

If you're out there, I'm sending out this worldwide blog posting about you. [OhMyGawd, Feesh is actually famous for something other than being a stripper!]


No. I really wasn't kidding. OK, I was.


Anyway, I basically have found that she is really THE person I can rave about anything to. I mean, ANYTHING.


We're both young hearts, rebels WITH causes (very good ones, in fact), and we just love to party. We both seem to get ourselves into situations we used to scoff at when other people got involved in them. And we both seem to love getting fucked in the ass. And loving it.


We both find gorgeous guys (although ... cough ... mine is ten times more gorgeous), and have them throw sand in our face - which we dutifully lap up no matter how much we bleed as it makes its way down our throats.

Oh, and if you haven't already guessed - we are fans of BDSM.

It's great that through so many periods of pain and anguish - that we have caused for each other as well - we make it through. We may not have learnt lessons that we should have, but we did learn something totally better : We've got each other to cry to.

I just hope she hasn't discovered the joys of being apart from me. I certainly haven't.

-No comment-

Everything We Had.

I trying to figure what has made me this way. I'm trying to embed in my brain that it's just the way you are so kind to me when I behave like a bitch.

I mean ... anyone's got to love that, right?

But then I think what if it WAS in fact JUST you being nice to me. Meaning that extremely sexual encounter (wink wink ) occured without ANY following expression of care and kindness. Would I still be infatuated with you?

In a way, yes. In a way, no.

So I've got myself sorted out then. The way you show me what a good lover you can be - seems to have gotten me spun three times around the wrong way. And back again.

And of course, that ever-growing resentment or rather hatred to those whores who think they own you. I mean - neither do I, but hey, THEY STILL DON'T.

But I can't get enough of you. There's something about you I just can't seem to brush away. An aura, a vibe - or maybe it's just that sincerity I see radiating through those sparkling eyes, when you really don't mean to be.

Those bouts of sexual desire you try to work off on me - are just bouts of desire, really. It may up your status a little bit more, but basically, it's safe to say - I really just like the way you're so sweet to me.

What I have to deal with now is the fact that I may not see you so much now (or at all). And that I have to deal with the other girls getting from you WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY MINE. And also that we can never be together - because there is just no way in Hell that is ever going to happen.

One last passionate encounter - whether sincere or just something to work off the horniness. That's all we had.

-No comment-

The Kiss That Crossed Me Off The List.

Yes. That magnificent kiss. The one proportionally planted on my lips. The one perfectly timed to hit just when I'm caught off-guard. The one so moist and tender.

And 1 down, __ to go.

I have joined the ranks of the many girls who gave themselves up willingly to gain the love of someone who pretends to give it. I got played.

But I knew it was coming.

I ain't giving no love. I'm just receiving it. He probably wants me to fall head over heels for him but I won't.

REALLY - I WON'T.

OK, a little hard to believe coming from me. But I will persevere. I will make sure all he can think about at night is me. And then I'll kick you in the face.

Well, I aim to.

But I can't hold anger for more than a day (or anything else for that matter) and it will most probably fizzle out into a flurry of fresh petals, so it would appear I was happy and not the least bit miffed. [Think : GRRR ... wee *flowers* wee ...]

But I must maintain some self-respect and keep myself dignified. So you pretend that you love me and I'll pretend that I love you.

Simple.

-No comment-