the dog and the priest talked and came to the conclusion that no one loved them, not really.

that’s her right there, do you see?

awkwardly dancing around, but happy,

in her pajamas, the shirt holey and the bottoms frayed and

worn thin, almost to translucence 

and her feet socked;

the left one has fallen into a purple puddle around her ankle.

she dances (to her own merry tune)

and she laughs, and her red hair twirls around her

a dancing dancing flame.

she laughs, and her eyes laugh too

she laughs, and it makes me happy.

This blog looks like something someone's pet llama threw up
and then ate
and then pooped out.

hissy bitch fit.

You get sick of believing sometimes.

Sometimes, you start wondering what your stubborn faith has gotten you so far. Nothing, that's what. Life's going to screw you over just as bad as it will most other people. You're going to have to suffer and cry and bitch your way through too. Learn your lessons the hard way. 

Sometimes it's too much, hanging on to that last tiny thread of hope; the silver lining on a damp sodden cloud. Just waiting to rain it's tears down on the world.

tell a child santa doesn't exist,
that ducks cannot be pink
the trees never blue.
tell them to stop believing,
that there is no magic
and no faeries and unicorns and dragons
waiting to whisk them off to far off lands.
tell them that they can let go of all hopes
of ever finding neverland
of ever finding the cure for cancer
of bringing world peace
of becoming a wildlife photographer
an astronaut, a chef
a philanthropist, a dinosaur-hunter
all at once.
tell them that eventually
all their dreams will come crashing down
that if they become artists they'll be bums
musicians they'll be looked down on
actresses they'll be whores.
tell them that it's no use;
that all their hopes and intricate plans
will never come into realization
that they will look back someday
and laugh at their own naivety
at their innocence
and at the same time wish
(secretly)
that this world hadn't made them it's own
that their auras were still as fresh as they were the day they came here
that they were still able to conjure up an imaginary friend
if need be.
they'll laugh, and they'll cry, and they'll look back with regret
and they'll soldier on.

-bittersweet

tell them, and save them all the trouble.