After the storm, on the road are the broken branches. And after the goodbye, the click of the receiver being put down, are these emotions, this sene of rankling unjustness of things, pain stored for too long, in the bruises that still fester, exploding into screams, echoing of "fuck you". Always what goes around comes around. We keep doing it to one another, it has almost become a joke. I wonder what will happen when the fingers of both hands are not enough to count these statistics, I have two fingers chopped away already, so I have eight more to go. I don't know how many you have left, 4 or 5? Why is it so difficult? I have never asked for much except acceptance of who I am and the still my report card was always marked with unsatisfactory remarks.

Now it's time to give the finger, it's my salute to your feeling of unsatisfication with me. I am tuning out of your constant radio broadcast of me not being enough or not being as good as someone else: the subjects starting with my dick. I am sick of this and I am getting out of this club whose membership is measured by what he does and doesn't, this ringa - ringa roses game of getting in and out. I guess I will be the fumbling stranger in every room you might be in, look around and you will find me standing there as you dine with someone who can charm the pants off Miss Universe.

I am resigning from your parliment, where I had to be voted on:a vote of confidence again and again, always fearful of when I would get the dreaded call of eviction. I am now happy to sleep in a box lined with newspapers against the cold than stay in a palace where I get kicked out when the weather changes: from wanting to have a relationship to wanting to go out on fun dates. Did you ever think what would that do to me? I am so cut up, and I say this not because I need your pity or care, I don't want any of that from you, but because you should know the consequences of what you did.

I once begged you, I remember my pitiful voice pleading for some belief in me, for a chance. I realise you know neither, for you chance is a roll of dice in a card table at Vegas and a relationship is something that satisfies you or else. I take myself off the shelves. I am not for sale anymore atleast to you. I refuse to be a man with a feature set.

I am taking back my imperfect face and putting it on, I am not the most well dressed person in the room and will never be. Too sad you knew what I was under the skin and still wanted a ghost in a white coat. I say I got what the stuff that really matters at the core of things, too bad you wanted something else.

The guy who said: some food to eat, a roof to sleep under and someone to love are all that a human being needs to live would saffocate in your noxious world of withering demands. You had too high expectations of me, not for me, that I would have understood and even appreciated that, but for yourself. Sometime sit and apply that list that you once wrote out, of the suject of a perfect date and see if you measure up to that standard of perfection.

I am sick of being a whiny little dog who wags his tail when you show up or howls mournfully when you are gone. If my tone is curt know that I can be as hard as I am soft. You saw the best of me and this is the worst. I don't have the time to give to someone who doesn't have her days free for me right now. I demand to be as high as on the priority list as I put someone else on my own.

And of those whom you "trust", I say atleast "trust" them fully. If they think someone is a smelly sewer, take him as just that. If you don't want to think for yourself, don't even try because you will end up stepping over feet and that hurts. And I don't want to win over people who have lost my respect.

I am too aware of my own faults and my own confusion and I belive I did constantly correct and change what needs to be corrected and changed. But everyone needs many chances to get it right: you and me. And for a change I am giving myself as many chances when I fumble and fall down.

What is this and why today: the hurricane has hit the shore. After the storm there are, there will be broken branches. It's not hate. For once drop your reflexive attitude of being on the defensive: of wanting to hang out to your version of history and hear mine: as the other night, I invited you to stay at granpa's not because I didn't want you to stay with me but because I wanted you to stay in the most comfortable possible place. And when you do perhaps you might recognize and maybe even sense the pain in this voice that said: fuck you.