It fucking sucks donkey balls. There's nothing to do here. At all.
The *only* plus side is we're in a bigger, better, nicer house.
I can't stop listening to Depeche Mode - In Your Room, The Cure - Lullaby, and The Cure - Fascination Street.
Over and over and over.
If it was possible to have a sordid love affair with music, I'd have a hot, steamy, raunchy all night fuck-fest with these three songs.
They bring out this...animalistic need to....exist and love and breathe and sink my teeth into tender flesh.
So odd to describe.
I'm almost done reading Vi Johnson's "To Obey, To Love, To Serve: Diary Of An Old Guard Slave" and I've never felt an author reach out from a book and draw me into how she's feeling, loving, acting. She writes so raw and passionately, I *feel* every moment of joy and sorrow, of passion and pain. It's very rare that written words can stir up such raw feeling, I'm usually a very visual person.
I feel trapped in my current living situation. Working on correcting it, but I can't be myself. I have to censor every act and word I do. And I hate it.