Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Thirteen -- The Nature Of French Girls

What people call a split personality, is simply extensive compartmentalization; everyone does it, some better than others. For me, this manifests as different applications, on a local machine.

To save me from the websites, that make me want to rip out my spleen. For life and death, a recount of a story in between. For French girls, my relationships were always different, even from other girls within my class periods. Most other girls I had a vague hope that I could someday love them, but the closest to this I've ever gotten to a girl from France is to be able to say "This girl, my friends, is a beautiful young girl that I cannot hate."

Sometimes it's easy to forget the past, and perhaps that is why I choose to resent the nature of French girls above all other girls from Europe, despite having more negative interactions for those in other places in Europe. But this is like telling an African not to hate a French infantry men, when they're under occupation. For me, the interaction was not anything so direct. Rather it is more in the specific of not interacting. Howe we choose to interact with others, says much about who we are as a person; how we don't is much the same way. Although it should be noted that my interactions with either Germans are French has never been the same as it was in high school; I like girls in Birkenstocks, whether that be Arizona style or Boston Clog. Whether it is them dangling their beautiful manicured heels, or other quirks of fetishistic desire.

There was a blond who would do things to try to get my attention; but I was so stuck in my own personal anxieties that I never considered interacting; often then meant off hand random phrases about how I never really fit it with Punk or Goth girls; I danced so far to the beat of my own drummer, I was all the way to the Communitarian end. Communitarianism, specifically of the hacktivism variety, is a form of libertarianism that focused on communal needs; but in a world where people are stuck within their own individual concerns, even for myself, it was difficult to even get a word in, in the face of the onslaught of multiple cars being tossed under, to the rhythm of cybernetic motorcycles, and total disintegration.

"Oh shit now, I knew I shouldn't have cropped my hair."

She was a very different type of voice from Anna-Marie, who stayed in the side-lines never speaking to anyone. It was almost as if she was a kind of ghost in the class. This was most note able in art class.

She was the only one I ever spoke with.

Maybe she was a better word smith. While I ground invisible axes.

Made by deranged blacksmiths.

Anna-Marie would always give me a heads up about the girl, with the hair color of fairies slaughtered by battle robots. Their heads falling off their shoulders, the crimson noticeably from the blue in which it came.

Perhaps there is a lot I could go into here, but to be honest, I'm not a hubzilla or friendica profile. This isn't the first draft of somebody's trashy romance novel, written on a pop fiction website for hopeless romantics. I may be a hopeless romantic, but I'm not so hopeless as to lower myself to that, while subsequently uploading the same content in which I rant, on its very bandwidth. It is a story of my own sensuality, with everything between love and hate. Even if that means it's time to masturbate.

Because we all do it people.

But all this to say, French girl had their own allure.

For Anna-Marie, this allure was in death.

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 8:12 PM