Not My Division

an2

Allow me to clarify;

I'm terribly sorry for whatever the hell it was that you just read.

It is of my strong heartening belief that I, as a sentient and individual aspect of our own human kind, can perform so much better than I have published. All writers are entertainers after all, aren't they? As are musicians, all in a repulsive quest for validation, we sacrifice all relations for a few lines in a sonnet.

Since I have grown to repeal myself of romance artists and their desire to create an air on faux intimacy around a sickening relationship between a belligerent dominant male figure and an infirm 'delicate' symbol of femininity. Of course only to establish a set of age old gender roles, they carry tradition without question and give into ancient biblical tales of forced ideals of another paradise. Honestly, I'm shocked at how many people can so blindly follow antiquated social norms created by beings they have absolutely no proof to exist. And then they have the balls to claim themselves free. SO, do not expect anything of that type. I, myself, am not a romantic person. Not even in the slightest. Why should those feelings mean anything to me? I am young and alive and not willing to expose myself to beautiful things so easily. I don't deserve it, not yet. I'll take 'em as they come.

Of Rimbaud and Verlaine I had no knowledge then. Beauty meant nothing to me, I took her on my knee and found her bitter.
Allow me one last chance, please, to redeem myself from this banal and sick excuse for a 'story'. I'm going to rewrite this story entirely. Expect an update within the close of the fortnight.

-kb