Sinister: the cries of a sinister (or perhaps not so sinister) gal

[Histrianic at xxx.com]

Hi Sinister.

Because I am in a writer's rut and can't rhyme my verse
(Or rather, my lines.  I'm afraid now we've gone back in reverse.)
I have chosen this faithful day to greet you lot.
I must warn you, though, that this post has no plot,
So if you wish to read something exciting and worthwhile,
You should just ignore this, or grit your teeth and read with a smile.
I have loads to tell if only someone would listen-
Or understand.  But most of my stories lack frison.
That's my favorite word nowadays, by the way,
Because it doesn't or does happen everyday.
It all depends on perspective, I guess.
It usually doesn't occur when I'm in a mess or under stress.
Which I often am, and for no good reason.
It sometimes depends on the season.
Earlier this summer, I came home to my parents and Pete and Shelley
(Pete and Shelley are my hamsters, and they are sometimes smelly.)

Because I was upset I overdosed, and that landed me
Straight in the hospital.  It was dumb of me, I agree.
It had been thought of too much to not materliaze, though-
I walked out of my room all grinning and aglow,
Maybe even seeming happy to the untrained eye.
A few days later, I had another episode, and my mother asked me why
My emotions were so out of control.
I don't know.  It's not a road I can patrol.
The funniest bit is that my mom took away the drugs from my shrink.
Not wanting me dependent or addicted, I think.
Not that they helped much anyway, because I was still sad.
(Sad is an understatement.  I was quite psychotic and mad.)
I won't go into the details of my fits because
It always creates an awkward pause.
Maybe this will, too, without that aid.
I'm sure someone will think this childish and cliched.

And because I have 24 inch thighs
When I really should have a waist that size,
I still have nightmares.  I still wake up and scream.
They tell me it all has to do with self-esteem.
I'm sure it does, because the measurement tape tell me otherwise.
My thighs expand by inches when they are reflected in my eyes.
It's funny, though, because I am so arrogant, so vain.
Maybe it's made up in my head.  Maybe it's all feigned.
Anything's possible.
(Except loving myself in this 128 pound body.  That's impossible.)
I'm sure it's all just an excuse.
Because I'm so confused, my body is abused.
All 68 inches of my height must be toned and tight,
And then maybe, just maybe I'll be alright.
(Yeah, right, like that'll ever happen.)
I feel like my entire self is misshapen.

So now I've just found a slower way to self-destruction
Falling prey to the world's seduction-
Telling me that I should look like this and act like that:
"Get rid of the fat and stop acting like soda that's gone flat."
Oh, this is so cliched.  This is the masturbation of my pride.
(Thanks, Matt, for giving me that.  I use it at times when I am tried.)
I'm not always like this, though, I am giddy sometimes.
Would you believe this was all brought on by rhymes?
Because I was running short on inspiration?
And even as I write this, I am covered by perspiration.
I have to exercise hours to burn off that apple I ate.
It's my dream to have a miraculously fast metabolic rate.
The Essay on the Personal tells me love is all that matters.
I don't think it's fair for a someone to love a person in shatters.
I should end this now, because it's time for me to sleep.
Maybe tonight I won't dream and weep.

I appreciate if you've read this.
Writing this gave me a momentary bliss.

xoxo
h

p.s.  if i've managed to write this well enough, then i should apologize for being depressing.  yeah.  i do that.
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