A pessimist and an undercover pisshead bitter about the faults inherent in reality. A hopeless romantic that's been worn away by those she loves. Formerly ambitious and driven but no longer able to ignore the fact that class structure and old money means she will always be a non-entity, a good natured soul that has realised that one good turn usually deserves a massive punch to the metaphorical kidney. Basically a bitter jaded fucker who tends to drone on in a self absorbed way about how catastrophic life is – usually offensively – because she realises it is far better to get things of her chest than pick up a sniper’s rifle and shoot whoever gets in her way through the chin.
| Mo | Tu | We | Th | Fr | Sa | Su |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | ||
| 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 |
| 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 |
| 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 |
| 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 |
Love is no hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!
John Galsworthy (1867-1933)
I dispute that sort of love. Fleeting and fickle laced in words of a well educated soul.
 | friendly_freak [Member] 14/08/05 @ 16:56 |
What other sort can there be? Feelings cannot be pruned or cultivated. As metaphors go, this one is concrete. I like it.
The content of this website belongs to a private person, blog.co.uk is not responsible for the content of this website.
14/08/05 @ 16:46