Girl Sings the Blues (because she’s meant to);

Perhaps I have spoken about this topic before I can’t recall – but I will again.  And you can’t stop me.  I mean, I suppose you could just click past my post, but then that wouldn’t be very nice now would it, hm?

When I was a child, I always thought I was most beautiful when I cried.  I mean, yes, there is nothing like a child’s smile (I can see that now), but there is also something so beautifully compelling about a melancholic femme who so obviously bares the weight of many sorrows.  At least to me, that is the sort of person whom I would like to get to know more about, to understand, and to analyze.

There’s nothing intriguing

about a cheerleader;

Now, I’m not insinuating that I had a bad childhood – actually, quite the contrary.  The life that I was privy to was marvelous – don’t get me wrong.  But inside of me there was always something wrong.  I was always different.  At a much younger age than my peers I thought about love, about mysterious adventure, about many things that a youngster should not comprehend.

I cannot recall

ever being innocent;

So I cannot help but to wonder: am I meant to sing the Blues?  Metaphorically speaking, of course.  Well, to be honest, also quite literally speaking (I’m sure I’ve mentioned that my father spent a great part of his life as a blues musician); there is nothing more compelling to me than the Blues.  And Chopin.  Who is really like classical blues, if you think about it.

But I digress.  As I said, I had a wonderful childhood full of a wealth of travel, experiences, arts, education, and leisure that not many children are fortunate enough to live.  All the while, however, I was sad.  I was never sad about this thing or even that thing – it was just my most basic state of being.  I never acted spoiled, however – no tantrums or the like; my sadness was always held dear to me, like a perfect secret.  With all of the love and attention I was afforded, nobody could help me.  I could not be changed.

As I’ve grown older, I seemed to have unintentionally sought out further anguish.  I surround myself with Darkness.  Opportunities I have to be happy and normal, I close the door on; I burn those bridges down.  Instead of walking away from situations that cause me great distress, I further and further coinvolge myself in them, virtually binding myself to my unhappiness and those that cause it.  (Is it okay with everybody if I make up words like “coinvolge” from Italian because I can’t think of an acceptable English counterpart? Yes? Good, thanks!)

Why is this?  Is this intrinsic sadness like my own little version of B*tchy Resting Face (henceforth referred to as BRF)?  I mean, I don’t actually have a BRF.  Or a DRF (*depressed) as it were.  I have quite a smile.  Most people who think they know me believe me to be one of the happiest people they know – I am always laughing.  Those that really know me, however, know that this is absolutely not the case.  This laughter is only there to mask my inner torment.

This brings me to consider what I wrote about last night.  Yes, it is true:

I did sleep with

17 Italian men

in less than half a year;


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