isn't that what they say?
That marriage is about compromise?
Saturday, September 12, 2009
I don't want to get married
But it might be worth it to wear a dress like this.
isn't that what they say?
That marriage is about compromise?
isn't that what they say?
That marriage is about compromise?
I like my sex like how I like my desserts
Sweet and warm and lingering on my tongue.
Hot and lurid and full of later regret.
Rich, passionate, fast and soon forgotten.
Cold, poignant, slow and ebbing away.
Going straight to my thighs.
Hot and lurid and full of later regret.
Rich, passionate, fast and soon forgotten.
Cold, poignant, slow and ebbing away.
Going straight to my thighs.
Sometimes
people do and say things, and my heart trills in my chest like a bird in a cage and I want to be impulsive and I am compelled to word vomit I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU because that gesture, those words, they just spoke to my heart and whether it was the softness or it was clever or sincere or just quirky it makes me love you 8 seconds at a time and it's so unbelievably hard to restrain those words, to swallow what rises in my throat like sweet, viscous, glitterysunshinerainbow love-bile, and to cover my mouth with my hand, maybe watch it overflow, and dribble between my fingers, sparkling and rosy, and -splut!- on the floor.
It's the love you clean up with a mop and bucket, these sticky, sickly sweet effusions that drip and seep between cracks in the floor and coat my hands and trickle onto my chest.
A lovely wonderful 8 second at a time word vomit.
It's the love you clean up with a mop and bucket, these sticky, sickly sweet effusions that drip and seep between cracks in the floor and coat my hands and trickle onto my chest.
A lovely wonderful 8 second at a time word vomit.
There's being different
because it is who you are and what you like,
And then there's being different for the sake of being different and how that translates to some perceived superiority.
Fucking hipsters.
Shit like this is ridiculous.
It's funky and I love it but no one in their right mind would wear it.
And then there's being different for the sake of being different and how that translates to some perceived superiority.
Fucking hipsters.
Shit like this is ridiculous.
It's funky and I love it but no one in their right mind would wear it.
I lie through my teeth.
Because I don't know how to tell people that if they continue to type like that I won't even acknowledge them as human beings.
Why'd I say we should hang out? I don't want to hang out, man.
goddamnit I'm a retard.
Why'd I say we should hang out? I don't want to hang out, man.
goddamnit I'm a retard.
You know what is fun and indicates you need a hobby?
Revising, editing and tagging like 70 posts.
Yeah.
I'm nearly as cool as this guy
Yeah.
I'm nearly as cool as this guy
I do perve on girls of all colours.
Time to put the earphones on…
Lalalala
Lalalala
(Born to) Born to multiply,
Born to gaze into night skies,
When all you want’s one more Saturday.
Well look here, until then
There gonna buy your life’s time
So keep your wick in the air and your feet in the fetters
‘Till the day
We come in doing cartwheels
We all crawl out by ourselves
And your shape on the dance floor
Will have me thinking such filth and gouge my eyes.
You be damned to be one of us, girl,
Faced with the dodo’s conundrum
I felt like I could just fly
But nothing happened every time I tried.
A dual tone on the wall
The selfless fool who hoped he’d save us all
never dreamt of such sterile hands.
You keep them folded in your lap,
Or raise them up to beg for scraps,
You know he's holding you down
With the tips of his fingers just the same.
Will you be pulled from the ocean,
But just a minute too late,
Or changed by a potion,
And find a handsome young mate
For you to love.
You'll be damned to pining through the windowpanes,
You know you'd trade your life for any ordinary Joe’s,
Well do it now or grow old.
Your nightmares only need a year or two to unfold.
Been alone since you were twenty-one,
You haven't laughed since January.
You try and make like this is so much fun,
But we know it to be quite contrary.
La la la la la la
Dare to be one of us, girl,
Facing the android's conundrum,
I felt like I should just cry,
But nothing happens every time I take one on the chin,
You himmler and your coat,
You don't know how long I've been,
Watching the lantern dim,
Starved of oxygen,
So give me your hand,
And let's jump out the window.
Shannyn Virgo eats peanut butter off the spoon and fucked your mother last night.
Is a Facebook status I probably shouldn't be proud of but am.
I don't even feel I need to say anything clever.
It speaks for itself, and needs no tasteless caption to add insult to injury, even though the implication that it is funny enough on its own could be more offensive, but honestly, who cares?
He sure doesn't.
He sure doesn't.
He's fucking Superman.
I have not slept yet.
and I don't know if it is worth my while to do so. I have a huge mess to clean up, and I just wanna forget it all, go to sleep and have the luxury of dreaming of impossibly random thoughts, because my subconscious is like a bowerbird that collects as many random and unrelated thoughts, people, memories, etc, to arrange them beautifully and haphazardly around his nest.
Oh well.
Oh well.
Numbers are slipping, people.
I will say, in the boardroom of my head, full of corrupt men in suits with ulterior motives and sordid past-times. There will be charts, a projector, maybe a white board (plus oh my god how do I subconsciously type "whore" instead of "white"?) and they will nod and go hmm and argue amiably, with tones that have that razor edge.
"Post count has decreased dramatically, sir" an underling will say to the man at the end of the table, who is of average height, maybe a little portly, who is greying and with down turned skin at the corners of his mouth, so he is in a perpetual grimace unless he makes an effort. His countenance is one of thoughtful consideration and deep pondering; not of anything profound, but just for how much he stands to lose. He is a deeply selfish man, only superficially a business man, and his dedication to the former is directly proportionate to his greed. He does not spend late hours in his office doing paperwork. He has others to do that for him, but his wife doesn't know that, and even though she is young and attractive, he will still be fucking someone else, be they hooker, employee or independent, just because they will not be his wife and that is all he needs. Not-wife. The beautiful auburn back-of-the-head and long white back of a Not-Wife. The slender ankles of a Not-Wife, or the pert breasts or long fingers wrapped around his less than impressive length or the smattering of lovely coffee freckles of a Not-Wife.
Maybe just someone you don't look across at at the dinner table Not-Wife.
He makes amends in his mind for his Not-Wife by letting his Wife rule the house, savage the credit cards, and lavish with gifts. She probably knows but like her husband, she is deeply selfish and only superficially a wife, and her discontent at an unfaithful spouse is directly proportional to the satisfaction she gets from material objects his means buy her.
Water under the bridge.
He keeps Wife happy. Not-Wife keeps him happy (distracted) and he also keeps Not-Wife happy with hush money and elegant gifts from international bank accounts that she can never ever ever wear to work.
All this will run through his mind as he sits at that board room table and ponders with his drooping, down turned face, his clasped hands, as the falls in daily posting could be catastrophically detrimental to his life-style, his Wife's happiness and his Not-Wife's silence.
It is a rare man who will not eventually use his wealth, ill-gained or not, as a means to their less than innocuous ends. With each of our hidden socially taboo and "wrong" delights and indulgences, money can buy anything.
Endangered animals? Check.
Endangered animal soup? Check.
Surgeries? Check.
Child slaves/prostitutes? Check.
Every other exotic fetish? Check.
A huge jumpy castle? Check.
It's not a character fault, it's human nature. We take what we want once we have the means to gain it. It used to be that we got skills or weapons or numbers and took what we wanted. Since we've imposed many systems, be they barter or currency, we're just inviting it. So paedophilia becomes for the economically elite, and has probably been a motivator for some of them. Just because now they're paying maybe hundreds of thousands or millions to have sex with that frail girl-child doesn't mean anything has changed from when they pay herds of cattle and blocks of land and serfs and whatnot for a go at that small, slight thing.
And he, this corporate head, knows this of the men and women around him. They all have their hidden desires and this is the means to their ends. They all have greed and lust and gluttony and revenge and over compensation. But as long as they do their jobs, he won't care.
But obviously they haven't.
A thin, gangly man stands at the front, with a pointer and a remote, highlighting areas on graphs and rattling off figures and percentages and differences.
"... since September 8th there has been a gradual decline in frequency and quantity of posts, and despite estimations on September 9th, the quality did not increase significantly..."
He starts to feel himself sweat, that big man does. Big man, big suit, big business. The thoughts of debt and bankruptcy and his Wife and Not-Wife trickle down his forehead. ohshitohshitohshit.
"... and song posts have faltered, and image posts have been on the rise, and they are neither clever nor insightful or with any clear point other than an excuse to post pictures from Google..."
There was a frantic buzz of low, mingling mutterings and conversations, and some exclamations of shock or woe.
No one turned to him. He was not asked in panic what he felt or thought and his voice did not join the drone and he sat, stagnant and with down turned corners and rivulets of sweat heading south of his hairline, his hands clasped over one another in front of him.
A big man in a big suit for a big business in a big building with big conference rooms full of no one that asked him.
The lanky man spoke up over the hum; "If we divert energy to encouraging introspective thinking, mental instability and failing that, irresponsible promiscuity, we could increase our post output by three times, but at a possible risk of degrading the establishment's overall longevity, but our shareholders agree that if we encourage more posts with somewhat detrimental behaviour, the establishment will right is imbalance and posts will continue consistently and with an increased frequency."
A low, unanimous sigh was sighed by all, but the big man. Inwardly, his eyes rolled back in his head and he may have let out a little breath, but that was all. He pondered on the fragility of maintaining his life-style, and that of his Wife and Not-Wife. How close he came every day to complete and utter annihilation because of it. How dangerous it was, and the stress these risks did to his health.
All this buzzed in his mind, tossing and turning fervently like caged animal, but his face was droopy, still, and even though there was a relief to his eyes, there was no obvious change to his expression, posture or external being. He was an introspective, introverted man, with an exoskeleton, one that was black, finely tailored for a portly gentleman, with silver buttons with delicate filigree vines, double-breasted, soft moss green silk inside, with a white shirt and smart olive tie. Inside, there was a new suit, and tonight he would shed his shell, and lie with his Not-Wife, and later, would shed his shell again and lie with his Wife and overnight he would have grown a new exoskeleton, with a red tie and pin-stripes.
Enthusiastic board members animatedly proposed any and every idea to maintain their positions and thus their lifestyles, and a very deeply selfish and only superficially business ManInsect clasped his hands and clicked his mandibles, and soft wings shifted and rustled under his double-breasted black (and green silk and with silver vine filigree buttons) exoskeleton.
so does this count as a post?
"Post count has decreased dramatically, sir" an underling will say to the man at the end of the table, who is of average height, maybe a little portly, who is greying and with down turned skin at the corners of his mouth, so he is in a perpetual grimace unless he makes an effort. His countenance is one of thoughtful consideration and deep pondering; not of anything profound, but just for how much he stands to lose. He is a deeply selfish man, only superficially a business man, and his dedication to the former is directly proportionate to his greed. He does not spend late hours in his office doing paperwork. He has others to do that for him, but his wife doesn't know that, and even though she is young and attractive, he will still be fucking someone else, be they hooker, employee or independent, just because they will not be his wife and that is all he needs. Not-wife. The beautiful auburn back-of-the-head and long white back of a Not-Wife. The slender ankles of a Not-Wife, or the pert breasts or long fingers wrapped around his less than impressive length or the smattering of lovely coffee freckles of a Not-Wife.
Maybe just someone you don't look across at at the dinner table Not-Wife.
He makes amends in his mind for his Not-Wife by letting his Wife rule the house, savage the credit cards, and lavish with gifts. She probably knows but like her husband, she is deeply selfish and only superficially a wife, and her discontent at an unfaithful spouse is directly proportional to the satisfaction she gets from material objects his means buy her.
Water under the bridge.
He keeps Wife happy. Not-Wife keeps him happy (distracted) and he also keeps Not-Wife happy with hush money and elegant gifts from international bank accounts that she can never ever ever wear to work.
All this will run through his mind as he sits at that board room table and ponders with his drooping, down turned face, his clasped hands, as the falls in daily posting could be catastrophically detrimental to his life-style, his Wife's happiness and his Not-Wife's silence.
It is a rare man who will not eventually use his wealth, ill-gained or not, as a means to their less than innocuous ends. With each of our hidden socially taboo and "wrong" delights and indulgences, money can buy anything.
Endangered animals? Check.
Endangered animal soup? Check.
Surgeries? Check.
Child slaves/prostitutes? Check.
Every other exotic fetish? Check.
A huge jumpy castle? Check.
It's not a character fault, it's human nature. We take what we want once we have the means to gain it. It used to be that we got skills or weapons or numbers and took what we wanted. Since we've imposed many systems, be they barter or currency, we're just inviting it. So paedophilia becomes for the economically elite, and has probably been a motivator for some of them. Just because now they're paying maybe hundreds of thousands or millions to have sex with that frail girl-child doesn't mean anything has changed from when they pay herds of cattle and blocks of land and serfs and whatnot for a go at that small, slight thing.
And he, this corporate head, knows this of the men and women around him. They all have their hidden desires and this is the means to their ends. They all have greed and lust and gluttony and revenge and over compensation. But as long as they do their jobs, he won't care.
But obviously they haven't.
A thin, gangly man stands at the front, with a pointer and a remote, highlighting areas on graphs and rattling off figures and percentages and differences.
"... since September 8th there has been a gradual decline in frequency and quantity of posts, and despite estimations on September 9th, the quality did not increase significantly..."
He starts to feel himself sweat, that big man does. Big man, big suit, big business. The thoughts of debt and bankruptcy and his Wife and Not-Wife trickle down his forehead. ohshitohshitohshit.
"... and song posts have faltered, and image posts have been on the rise, and they are neither clever nor insightful or with any clear point other than an excuse to post pictures from Google..."
There was a frantic buzz of low, mingling mutterings and conversations, and some exclamations of shock or woe.
No one turned to him. He was not asked in panic what he felt or thought and his voice did not join the drone and he sat, stagnant and with down turned corners and rivulets of sweat heading south of his hairline, his hands clasped over one another in front of him.
A big man in a big suit for a big business in a big building with big conference rooms full of no one that asked him.
The lanky man spoke up over the hum; "If we divert energy to encouraging introspective thinking, mental instability and failing that, irresponsible promiscuity, we could increase our post output by three times, but at a possible risk of degrading the establishment's overall longevity, but our shareholders agree that if we encourage more posts with somewhat detrimental behaviour, the establishment will right is imbalance and posts will continue consistently and with an increased frequency."
A low, unanimous sigh was sighed by all, but the big man. Inwardly, his eyes rolled back in his head and he may have let out a little breath, but that was all. He pondered on the fragility of maintaining his life-style, and that of his Wife and Not-Wife. How close he came every day to complete and utter annihilation because of it. How dangerous it was, and the stress these risks did to his health.
All this buzzed in his mind, tossing and turning fervently like caged animal, but his face was droopy, still, and even though there was a relief to his eyes, there was no obvious change to his expression, posture or external being. He was an introspective, introverted man, with an exoskeleton, one that was black, finely tailored for a portly gentleman, with silver buttons with delicate filigree vines, double-breasted, soft moss green silk inside, with a white shirt and smart olive tie. Inside, there was a new suit, and tonight he would shed his shell, and lie with his Not-Wife, and later, would shed his shell again and lie with his Wife and overnight he would have grown a new exoskeleton, with a red tie and pin-stripes.
Enthusiastic board members animatedly proposed any and every idea to maintain their positions and thus their lifestyles, and a very deeply selfish and only superficially business ManInsect clasped his hands and clicked his mandibles, and soft wings shifted and rustled under his double-breasted black (and green silk and with silver vine filigree buttons) exoskeleton.
so does this count as a post?
Man oh man.
If my mum was still alive she'd be so mad at me.
To see the mess I've made, that I'm not jumping to clean up, and how I panicked and let my frustration get to me. It was a gradual decline until we were racing down hill with only flimsy helmets, knee pads and white faces peering over white knuckles gripping the trolley.
I fucked up and I did it alone and there was no one to laugh it off with or comfort me so I collapse and I cry at the sheer injustice of it all because it's all on me. I fucked it up and I have this immense weight of guilt and old failures and that warm, trickling burn of ineptitude and feeling inadequate and of hot shame, and my bruised pride. The anger at myself for disappointing someone, and for taking on a task I could not complete, and yet another reminder I am not as good as I thought, or wish to be, or hoped I was, and that this is not something I have a natural flair for, and to pursue it would be the source of continued anger and shame and inadequacy and guilt, so I turn away and know that with each failure, each episodic defeat, I am closer to giving up my dreams. A tiny, glimmering dream that shrinks with each gust, however much we may shield it with our hands, and let the dream flourish behind walls where it is not put to the test, confronted, and thus not able to fail.
Also
Goddamnit. :(
To see the mess I've made, that I'm not jumping to clean up, and how I panicked and let my frustration get to me. It was a gradual decline until we were racing down hill with only flimsy helmets, knee pads and white faces peering over white knuckles gripping the trolley.
I fucked up and I did it alone and there was no one to laugh it off with or comfort me so I collapse and I cry at the sheer injustice of it all because it's all on me. I fucked it up and I have this immense weight of guilt and old failures and that warm, trickling burn of ineptitude and feeling inadequate and of hot shame, and my bruised pride. The anger at myself for disappointing someone, and for taking on a task I could not complete, and yet another reminder I am not as good as I thought, or wish to be, or hoped I was, and that this is not something I have a natural flair for, and to pursue it would be the source of continued anger and shame and inadequacy and guilt, so I turn away and know that with each failure, each episodic defeat, I am closer to giving up my dreams. A tiny, glimmering dream that shrinks with each gust, however much we may shield it with our hands, and let the dream flourish behind walls where it is not put to the test, confronted, and thus not able to fail.
Also
Goddamnit. :(
Friday, September 11, 2009
It's September 11th
And I didn't even realise.
So, uh, wow.
This would be awkward.
Ya'know, if I'd maintained indignity over the attacks and if it was even my country.
We've lost more in worst, America just gets its panties in a knot at any slight against them.
anyway
blah blah
in memorium
and now this
EVERYONE IS SAYING I'M AN ASIAN FETISHIST AND IT HURTS MY FEELINGS
MAN I'M JUST A LITTLE CAUCASIAN GIRL WHO WANTS TO BE LOVED
So, uh, wow.
This would be awkward.
Ya'know, if I'd maintained indignity over the attacks and if it was even my country.
We've lost more in worst, America just gets its panties in a knot at any slight against them.
anyway
blah blah
in memorium
and now this
EVERYONE IS SAYING I'M AN ASIAN FETISHIST AND IT HURTS MY FEELINGS
MAN I'M JUST A LITTLE CAUCASIAN GIRL WHO WANTS TO BE LOVED
Oh, FSM, we give thanks...
I'm just kidding, Flying Spaghetti Monster is bullshit.
But yeah, we give thanks to Cake Supply Shop Whose Name I Cannot Remember, in Alawa, for being open until even 7pm.
In our gratitude, I offer you this!
Also
EVERYTHING ON THIS PAGE IS NOT YELLOW.
only some or most is somewhat yellowy.
saaaaad faaaaace.
:(
FFS fucking cuntwaffles
Oh I am so mad at myself, because I'm one silly fucking sausage.
Despiiiiite waking up at like 8:30 (after falling asleep on the couch, after turning my air-con on last night, fuck) I went back to sleep, in my room, and woke up like 10 minutes ago, and started yelling immediately.
so FUCK FUCK FUCK.
I need that fucking fondant. :(
I'm not intolerant.
And I am not racist.
Simply, what I am is an individual, one of many, moulded by my experiences and what I see on a day to day basis, thus a product of my environment. An environment that is, beyond a doubt, fixated on racial and cultural divides. Whether it be segregation or discrimination, or political correctness and affirmative action, or just closing your eyes and pretending race doesn't exist.
Which it really does, by the way.
I don't really "get" racism. I mean, I have some prejudices, but that's what life teaches me to survive, and when faced with questionable people and behaviour perpetrated by a very specific group of people, for the most part, I see people, not colours. You show me an indigenous itinerant and I will think the same of him as a caucasian man in the same position. The fact is that I see the former nearly every day means nothing. If any other ethnicity behaved this way I would feel the same way. The fact that I think some groups of people are inclined to behaviour I do not wish to be exposed to, I shouldn't have to surround myself with them.
If 98% of people out of hundreds I'd met from a city, of all colours, walks of life and creeds were all very violent, it's reasonable to expect that the next person I meet from that city will probably also be very violent. The statistic probability of meeting the 2% of amiable, safe people is tiny in the whole scheme of things. That said, it's a survival instinct to take what we can observe, generalise, and take ourselves out of situations that we can predict as likely to end in tears. I'm not saying all racism can be justified by self-preservation, especially not the "pre-emptive strikes" that some people use to validate their cowardly and disgusting actions.
I don't expect every indigenous person to be an icky vagrant or an alcoholic or a troubled student only in the system for the money they get for attending school, or to be a dole bludging, unemployed drain on the public budget, because I have met some exceptional people of Aboriginal descent and many of my family and friends also know people. I'm not suggesting they aren't out there, nor that anyone that does not fit my ideals for social conduct should assimilate, or even that people of other ethnicities are exempt.
Not at all.
Simply, that I am an individual product of my individual environment, and so are all of them, and of us. I just see anti-social behaviour and a constant variable and I know where not to walk at night.
Simply, what I am is an individual, one of many, moulded by my experiences and what I see on a day to day basis, thus a product of my environment. An environment that is, beyond a doubt, fixated on racial and cultural divides. Whether it be segregation or discrimination, or political correctness and affirmative action, or just closing your eyes and pretending race doesn't exist.
Which it really does, by the way.
I don't really "get" racism. I mean, I have some prejudices, but that's what life teaches me to survive, and when faced with questionable people and behaviour perpetrated by a very specific group of people, for the most part, I see people, not colours. You show me an indigenous itinerant and I will think the same of him as a caucasian man in the same position. The fact is that I see the former nearly every day means nothing. If any other ethnicity behaved this way I would feel the same way. The fact that I think some groups of people are inclined to behaviour I do not wish to be exposed to, I shouldn't have to surround myself with them.
If 98% of people out of hundreds I'd met from a city, of all colours, walks of life and creeds were all very violent, it's reasonable to expect that the next person I meet from that city will probably also be very violent. The statistic probability of meeting the 2% of amiable, safe people is tiny in the whole scheme of things. That said, it's a survival instinct to take what we can observe, generalise, and take ourselves out of situations that we can predict as likely to end in tears. I'm not saying all racism can be justified by self-preservation, especially not the "pre-emptive strikes" that some people use to validate their cowardly and disgusting actions.
I don't expect every indigenous person to be an icky vagrant or an alcoholic or a troubled student only in the system for the money they get for attending school, or to be a dole bludging, unemployed drain on the public budget, because I have met some exceptional people of Aboriginal descent and many of my family and friends also know people. I'm not suggesting they aren't out there, nor that anyone that does not fit my ideals for social conduct should assimilate, or even that people of other ethnicities are exempt.
Not at all.
Simply, that I am an individual product of my individual environment, and so are all of them, and of us. I just see anti-social behaviour and a constant variable and I know where not to walk at night.
Now I know we joke around here a lot
*after school special music*
But poverty is serious business.
I can't remember the last time I donated (and why would I if I never have and why would I if I'm not yet paying taxes?)
but yeah do tax returns and donate to third world countries or Green Day and U2 and every other stupid stupid stuuuupid rock band with an agenda will "use their powers for good" all over yo' ass.
But poverty is serious business.
I can't remember the last time I donated (and why would I if I never have and why would I if I'm not yet paying taxes?)
but yeah do tax returns and donate to third world countries or Green Day and U2 and every other stupid stupid stuuuupid rock band with an agenda will "use their powers for good" all over yo' ass.
AND KILL BATMAN
I have wasted many a Mei Goreng Sambal Chilli sauce sachet, and I should feel bad but I just don't like them, so I throw them away.
What about all those poor souls in the world with flavour issues?
what can I say? buy my sambal chilli sachets. I'm a capitalist pig.
What about all those poor souls in the world with flavour issues?
Oh no. My rice. It's so bland.
what can I say? buy my sambal chilli sachets. I'm a capitalist pig.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Correct me if I'm wrong
But the meaning for descriptivey-type-nouns like, uhm, "cutie", "dickhead" or "cunt" is usually subjective to the individual and whilst I'm sure there is some constant elements, usually, what constitutes being a cunt is completely different for you than it is for me.
For example, you reading this could make you a cunt to me.
It could take as much as raping/killing/pillaging for you to be a cunt to me.
So do not tell me you aren't a cunt if she called you a cunt because your opinion isn't law. There is no set, universally recognised guideline of what makes someone a cunt, only that if someone interprets your actions as cuntish enough to justify calling you that to them, they can and will call you a cunt and you can't really say shit about it because it's not your definition of a cunt we're talking about here. It's subjective meaning, and fuck you for arguing about the terminology and then accusing me of calling you a cunt for standing up for linguistics.
yeah, what now, fucker.
For example, you reading this could make you a cunt to me.
It could take as much as raping/killing/pillaging for you to be a cunt to me.
So do not tell me you aren't a cunt if she called you a cunt because your opinion isn't law. There is no set, universally recognised guideline of what makes someone a cunt, only that if someone interprets your actions as cuntish enough to justify calling you that to them, they can and will call you a cunt and you can't really say shit about it because it's not your definition of a cunt we're talking about here. It's subjective meaning, and fuck you for arguing about the terminology and then accusing me of calling you a cunt for standing up for linguistics.
yeah, what now, fucker.
OH GOD OH GOD SHIT IT'S 10:23
AND THERE'S ONLY ONE POST FOR TODAY
IN 10 HOURS, 1 POST
QUICK! OVERCOMPENSAAAAAATE!
anyway I have an appointment with Cathy and I think after that we'll try go cake supplying and/or Bunningsing.
IN 10 HOURS, 1 POST
QUICK! OVERCOMPENSAAAAAATE!
anyway I have an appointment with Cathy and I think after that we'll try go cake supplying and/or Bunningsing.
In other news
They are now attempting to treat spine injury in rats by turning them blue with gatorade. Plus they're really rather very cute.
Oh science!
also new URL etc.
I may or may not have let this location slip and I'd prefer to stay hidden, no?
Oh science!
also new URL etc.
I may or may not have let this location slip and I'd prefer to stay hidden, no?
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
RAAAAAAAAAAGE
"Yeah! I'm pumped! Watching TV when pulling not only an all-nighter, but a next-all-dayer too is totally an okay idea! Given the time of year it is, the conditions we've experienced before, superreallylykhonestlyguiz how is falling asleep in the hottest time of day in the hottest time of year in the hottest room of the house NOT A FUCKING AWESOME PLAN?!"
That, and I had all these things that I wanted to do. Ya'know, like look like a productive and contributive member of this household (so I don't get kicked out lol) and go to Bunnings.
Oh and Bones was on and I've been waiting for Bones to resume for ages and I'm not sure if it's the first episode of the new season (only that it is the new season) and that it was like half-way through and that bothers me more than it should.
I can't remember if it was on Fawx or +2, but I hope the latter, but honestly, I CBF'd to check now, and I'll no doubt forget about it.
OH WELL GUIZ
That, and I had all these things that I wanted to do. Ya'know, like look like a productive and contributive member of this household (so I don't get kicked out lol) and go to Bunnings.
Oh and Bones was on and I've been waiting for Bones to resume for ages and I'm not sure if it's the first episode of the new season (only that it is the new season) and that it was like half-way through and that bothers me more than it should.
I can't remember if it was on Fawx or +2, but I hope the latter, but honestly, I CBF'd to check now, and I'll no doubt forget about it.
OH WELL GUIZ
WTF BLOGGER
You won't post the sketch full size but you'll post everything else huge?
I HAAAAATE YOU
also lamb kebab flavoured nooodles are strange and lovely things.
I HAAAAATE YOU
also lamb kebab flavoured nooodles are strange and lovely things.
Some old habits never die
Like picking at my skin and doing a traditional google when Chrome tells me to just right click it.
Yeah, fuck you, you beautiful faster-than-thou(ie. firefox) browser.
Yeah, fuck you, you beautiful faster-than-thou(ie. firefox) browser.
NEVERMIND
It didn't stretch my page.
It just informed me that blogger seems to be, well, for want of a better phrase...
FUCKING RETARDED.
Bearing that in miiiind... I'm going to... uh...
I don't know how to fix this with minimal effort. :\
----
Follow up;
Well, since nothing requiring minimal effort did shit, y'all can just click on it okay.
It just informed me that blogger seems to be, well, for want of a better phrase...
FUCKING RETARDED.
Bearing that in miiiind... I'm going to... uh...
I don't know how to fix this with minimal effort. :\
----
Follow up;
Well, since nothing requiring minimal effort did shit, y'all can just click on it okay.
Well this is going to stretch my page
Turns out Blogger doesn't care if I select "small"
at least it's left aligned
the proper way
the patriotic way
the American w- nevermind.
This post gives thanks to Joe Havasy, a cool, kooky little artist whose work I'm gonna post the fuck out of because it makes me smile.
Kudos dude.
Crop of a painting.
Forcibly cute.
An unappreciated subject.
Man this guy is awesome.
*love*
Well that's just ridiculous.
we all know the earth is flat and what's super popular in France is indie here.
I was going to write more sexiness
And post it here
But I got distracted
She blinded me with "science"
and I forget where I am.
also some are just cute, like the kind you wanna play footsies with under tables and kiss their napes and hold them and press their noses and go
beeeeep.
You don't want to wake up next to that and hang out in sheets, drink tea and watch the day go by? be my guest.
But I got distracted
She blinded me with "science"
and I forget where I am.
also some are just cute, like the kind you wanna play footsies with under tables and kiss their napes and hold them and press their noses and go
beeeeep.
You don't want to wake up next to that and hang out in sheets, drink tea and watch the day go by? be my guest.
MY KITCHEN SMELLS LIKE FISH
And it's not because I just fucked some sea scullery maid or sailor over the counter, no no.
"Oh hey, I just heard your mother/single legal guardian/partner/spouse/love of your life died. You know what you need? Two whole, frozen fish."
What the fuck, good Samaritans of my life?
Give me good pity food.
also does this make me and Alistair room/house mates?
I want a fishily fuckable wench.
"Oh hey, I just heard your mother/single legal guardian/partner/spouse/love of your life died. You know what you need? Two whole, frozen fish."
What the fuck, good Samaritans of my life?
Give me good pity food.
also does this make me and Alistair room/house mates?
I want a fishily fuckable wench.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
I don't care what they do in Rome
Don't do PCP.
That will fuck yo shit uuuup, nigga.
But seriously angel dust is the kinda thing that'll get you into dismemberment orgies and sodomise yourself on a fire hydrant and get your dick bitten off and say bye bye to your nipples and also I hear it can make you look icky after repetitive use.
Plus: gangs and violence and other seedy, unwholesome unCaucasian activities.
don't do PCP, kids. mmmmkay.
vampires do PCP.
/blawg poot.
That will fuck yo shit uuuup, nigga.
But seriously angel dust is the kinda thing that'll get you into dismemberment orgies and sodomise yourself on a fire hydrant and get your dick bitten off and say bye bye to your nipples and also I hear it can make you look icky after repetitive use.
Plus: gangs and violence and other seedy, unwholesome unCaucasian activities.
don't do PCP, kids. mmmmkay.
vampires do PCP.
/blawg poot.
Hurr durr derp dweep is this overripe?
Going grocery shopping, I fear she has left me too soon, before teaching me domestic things, like how to pick just right vegetables, and iron pleats and make good coffee even though I hate coffee but plenty of people don't hate coffee.
:(
:(
Hippy Bread
Is yummy
Oh so yummy
And I don't worry so much when I have it with me.
Oh, soy linseed batard, where have you been all my life?
Oh so yummy
And I don't worry so much when I have it with me.
Oh, soy linseed batard, where have you been all my life?
You see, dear Eliza
To explain that, I have to explain this.
It's a known fact that to the bloggers of weak disposition, once they yield to posting pictures and videos, the entire establishment itself crumbles and anything thoughtful, intelligent, meaningful, moving or human, ceases to exist and the blog becomes a barren wasteland of YouTube embeds and Google images. Eventually the posting stops altogether.
So that's why I don't give a fuck about the hole in your bucket, you whore.
It's a known fact that to the bloggers of weak disposition, once they yield to posting pictures and videos, the entire establishment itself crumbles and anything thoughtful, intelligent, meaningful, moving or human, ceases to exist and the blog becomes a barren wasteland of YouTube embeds and Google images. Eventually the posting stops altogether.
So that's why I don't give a fuck about the hole in your bucket, you whore.
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wi' tha boppin' an' tha dancin' an' eeiimm Bill Cosby
or Bill Cosbee
Combee.
That's a pokemon.
This isn't.
Jello puddin' pops doo bop bedoop shawhoop an' yeah.
Good morning!
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me ha-aappeeeeee
When skies are grey-
what? It's afternoon?
oh well fuck all of you then.
You make me ha-aappeeeeee
When skies are grey-
what? It's afternoon?
oh well fuck all of you then.
:(
Well now I'm just depressed.
If someone writes a sexy story for you, it's polite to stay around/awake until they (who are lit up and eager like an excitable little girl) can show you, right?
That wasn't just some social courtesy I imagined?
:( fuck. I don't ask for much, do I?
If someone writes a sexy story for you, it's polite to stay around/awake until they (who are lit up and eager like an excitable little girl) can show you, right?
That wasn't just some social courtesy I imagined?
:( fuck. I don't ask for much, do I?
Taking a fleshy stab at it.
It's no secret to anyone who asks that I have a thing for tentacles. I watch the hentai, peruse the manga, collect plush Cephalopods and have a Lovecraft fetish.
So I thought, why not try to write it myself? But rather than rape (and not to sound like a zoophile here, as I have no delusions about interspecies consent) what about tentacle lovin'?
So excuse the following vulgar short story.
...
With the soft, mindfulness of a lover, she eased the creaking door to the green house open. Inside, it was like wading through water, the air thick with moisture that dampened her skin, hair, and glistened in tiny sparkles caught on the fine fraying of her uniform. Filled to the brim with tropical and exotic plants, inside the cramped green-night glass house, crawlers, fungi, flowers, vines, palms, bushes and lush mosses created a heady, dizzying scent. But it was nothing compared to her pride and joy, the main event. In the centre of the green house sat a squat green (that was once white) bath tub, nearly overflowing with aquatic plants, weeds and algae. It wasn't even the plants. Beneath the surface was the reason she had cultivated this cornucopia of lurid, damp vegetation. To make him feel at home.
Quietly, ever so quietly, she pulled up a slimy chair and sat in front of the tub, careful not to startle him. Instead, she slipped off her shoes and panties, both dampened by the humidity. Placing her feet on the edge of the bath tub, she slowly sucked her fingers and ran them along her moist pink slit, and again, and again. She repeated and let her own heady scent amongst the flowers waft over his water. Her small bead of pleasure was swelling, and things moved beneath the surface. Juices pooled on the seat, and she reached into her school satchel and pulled from a paper bag a red raw, juicy sliver of meat. Diluted blood and icewater ran down her forearm as she took the flesh and dragged it slowly up and down her wet cunt. She let it sit in place, and, leaning forward, lazily dipped her blood and juices drenched fingers, and her lover, very awake, brushed her from beneath the water's surface, licking her clean with a long tongue. A single eye on a stalk rose from beneath algae blooms like a submarine periscope, and a small, lonely black pupil under a murky green membrane swivelled to look at her, her parted, waiting mouth, pert nipples captive in a tight button-up shirt, and her swollen, dripping pussy, adorned with raw meat.
A tentative tendril rose and half slithered, slowly, cautiously, towards her, and with a delicacy and care, extracted the sliver of meat and returned to the water, and there were slight ripples as he gorged himself, and she moaned with anticipation.
"Come..." she crooned, again doubling over and leaning over the tub's pond surface. A thick, turgid tentacle rose and traced her lips slowly, and she kissed it tenderly, and it slipped between her lips, and she sucked hungrily. She arched her back, and beneath his water he moved with her, and a second and third tentacle wrapped themselves around her small ankles, and a fourth landed with a sucker squelch on her pubis, and slithered up her stomach and between her generous breasts, and pulled back towards itself, ripping her shirt open and she grinded into the air, moaning into the tentacle in her mouth. Arms circled her tits, coiled and squeezed her erect nipples, and she was dripping wet, and her eyes looked imploringly at his single stalked eye still floating in the water. Fuck me. she begged.
With a heave and an unpredictable speed he pulled himself from the water, a giant squid-like creature, with many suckering, hungry tentacles. His huge, bulbous mantle was pulled back from his body like a foreskin on an erect, throbbing cock. He placed his centre around her cunt and the thickest, slimy phallus with a mind of its own, with a head like a squid mantle, teased her red pearl. Tears ran down her cheeks, and with a gasp, he thrust himself into her, hard and fast, fucking her pussy relentlessly, roughly , holding her in place as she moaned, wriggling against him, but he held her arms and legs fast. She ran her mouth up and down his tentacle and moved her hips with him gasping and groaning with his massive erect form inside her. Suddenly, he turned her around, his tentacles guiding her until she was bent over the chair, and finally, fucking her hard, a last small tentacle slipped wetly in and out of her anus. Her moans of ecstasy were stifled by his tumescent tentacle, and she felt a low, golden pleasure rippling up her lower stomach, and tingling in her whole being. Her juice was running down her legs as he pounded into her, faster and faster, and she knew they were both about to come. Her legs tightened, and all her muscles contracted, and white hot sensation explode in her crevice, and she felt her whole cunt clench and squeeze him just as he ejaculated, warm and creamy, so profusely it exited everywhere. They both shook in absolute bliss for moments as he thrust into her a few last times, his seed shooting up in her and trickling down her legs and stomach. He shrank away from her, and receded into his tub with a splash, and she, gripping the chair with white knuckles, looked back at him with wide eyes, an engorged mouth and a throbbing that ebbed away, giving way to deep contentment. She bent over to pick up her discarded, soaking panties, but with a slimy tentacle still slick with her saliva, he grabbed her hand. Stay.
So she took off her socks and slid into the slimy, algae bloom covered bath tub with her lover and sighed deeply as he played with her hair, and she rolled over and felt post coital exhaustion creep up on her like a sneaky sunset, and she fell fast asleep.
THEY LOVED EACH OTHER VERY MUCH AND LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER.
THE END
So I thought, why not try to write it myself? But rather than rape (and not to sound like a zoophile here, as I have no delusions about interspecies consent) what about tentacle lovin'?
So excuse the following vulgar short story.
...
With the soft, mindfulness of a lover, she eased the creaking door to the green house open. Inside, it was like wading through water, the air thick with moisture that dampened her skin, hair, and glistened in tiny sparkles caught on the fine fraying of her uniform. Filled to the brim with tropical and exotic plants, inside the cramped green-night glass house, crawlers, fungi, flowers, vines, palms, bushes and lush mosses created a heady, dizzying scent. But it was nothing compared to her pride and joy, the main event. In the centre of the green house sat a squat green (that was once white) bath tub, nearly overflowing with aquatic plants, weeds and algae. It wasn't even the plants. Beneath the surface was the reason she had cultivated this cornucopia of lurid, damp vegetation. To make him feel at home.
Quietly, ever so quietly, she pulled up a slimy chair and sat in front of the tub, careful not to startle him. Instead, she slipped off her shoes and panties, both dampened by the humidity. Placing her feet on the edge of the bath tub, she slowly sucked her fingers and ran them along her moist pink slit, and again, and again. She repeated and let her own heady scent amongst the flowers waft over his water. Her small bead of pleasure was swelling, and things moved beneath the surface. Juices pooled on the seat, and she reached into her school satchel and pulled from a paper bag a red raw, juicy sliver of meat. Diluted blood and icewater ran down her forearm as she took the flesh and dragged it slowly up and down her wet cunt. She let it sit in place, and, leaning forward, lazily dipped her blood and juices drenched fingers, and her lover, very awake, brushed her from beneath the water's surface, licking her clean with a long tongue. A single eye on a stalk rose from beneath algae blooms like a submarine periscope, and a small, lonely black pupil under a murky green membrane swivelled to look at her, her parted, waiting mouth, pert nipples captive in a tight button-up shirt, and her swollen, dripping pussy, adorned with raw meat.
A tentative tendril rose and half slithered, slowly, cautiously, towards her, and with a delicacy and care, extracted the sliver of meat and returned to the water, and there were slight ripples as he gorged himself, and she moaned with anticipation.
"Come..." she crooned, again doubling over and leaning over the tub's pond surface. A thick, turgid tentacle rose and traced her lips slowly, and she kissed it tenderly, and it slipped between her lips, and she sucked hungrily. She arched her back, and beneath his water he moved with her, and a second and third tentacle wrapped themselves around her small ankles, and a fourth landed with a sucker squelch on her pubis, and slithered up her stomach and between her generous breasts, and pulled back towards itself, ripping her shirt open and she grinded into the air, moaning into the tentacle in her mouth. Arms circled her tits, coiled and squeezed her erect nipples, and she was dripping wet, and her eyes looked imploringly at his single stalked eye still floating in the water. Fuck me. she begged.
With a heave and an unpredictable speed he pulled himself from the water, a giant squid-like creature, with many suckering, hungry tentacles. His huge, bulbous mantle was pulled back from his body like a foreskin on an erect, throbbing cock. He placed his centre around her cunt and the thickest, slimy phallus with a mind of its own, with a head like a squid mantle, teased her red pearl. Tears ran down her cheeks, and with a gasp, he thrust himself into her, hard and fast, fucking her pussy relentlessly, roughly , holding her in place as she moaned, wriggling against him, but he held her arms and legs fast. She ran her mouth up and down his tentacle and moved her hips with him gasping and groaning with his massive erect form inside her. Suddenly, he turned her around, his tentacles guiding her until she was bent over the chair, and finally, fucking her hard, a last small tentacle slipped wetly in and out of her anus. Her moans of ecstasy were stifled by his tumescent tentacle, and she felt a low, golden pleasure rippling up her lower stomach, and tingling in her whole being. Her juice was running down her legs as he pounded into her, faster and faster, and she knew they were both about to come. Her legs tightened, and all her muscles contracted, and white hot sensation explode in her crevice, and she felt her whole cunt clench and squeeze him just as he ejaculated, warm and creamy, so profusely it exited everywhere. They both shook in absolute bliss for moments as he thrust into her a few last times, his seed shooting up in her and trickling down her legs and stomach. He shrank away from her, and receded into his tub with a splash, and she, gripping the chair with white knuckles, looked back at him with wide eyes, an engorged mouth and a throbbing that ebbed away, giving way to deep contentment. She bent over to pick up her discarded, soaking panties, but with a slimy tentacle still slick with her saliva, he grabbed her hand. Stay.
So she took off her socks and slid into the slimy, algae bloom covered bath tub with her lover and sighed deeply as he played with her hair, and she rolled over and felt post coital exhaustion creep up on her like a sneaky sunset, and she fell fast asleep.
THEY LOVED EACH OTHER VERY MUCH AND LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER.
THE END
I am most most most upset
I can no longer put my hair up with a pencil (and I can't believe it took me this long to realise.)
And to think I'd been eyeing hair sticks online with no idea.
now I just feel silly.
And to think I'd been eyeing hair sticks online with no idea.
now I just feel silly.
I say stupid things.
Things like "I love you", "I like you" and "maybe someday. You never know what could happen"
And then I don't know to take them back and explain I said them in a moment of feverish, blooming feelings!
And it wasn't what I meant at all. And I give people false hope, lead them on, and feed my goddess complex with their adoration but sometimes it just makes me feel awkward and dirty, like things crawling under my skin.
"You're so beautiful, you're so perfect, you're such a good person"
Crawling, skittering, many legged things, with pincers that click and tiny shoes for tiny feet, so they don't leave little many legged track marks in my flesh, but rather, brand name treads.
So, upon realising my mistake, I immediate pull back (whoa Nelly!) and try to be cold and aloof and cool (like Ray Bans cool) and impassive, or sometimes compassionate and sisterly or maternal. And sometimes it never works. Sometimes they get the idea, the smart ones.
I wish I didn't have such a fixation with love.
Loving, fucking, being loved, being fucked.
If I didn't, maybe I could avoid breaking so many hearts to get my fix, but maybe it's just in my nature.
And then I don't know to take them back and explain I said them in a moment of feverish, blooming feelings!
And it wasn't what I meant at all. And I give people false hope, lead them on, and feed my goddess complex with their adoration but sometimes it just makes me feel awkward and dirty, like things crawling under my skin.
"You're so beautiful, you're so perfect, you're such a good person"
Crawling, skittering, many legged things, with pincers that click and tiny shoes for tiny feet, so they don't leave little many legged track marks in my flesh, but rather, brand name treads.
So, upon realising my mistake, I immediate pull back (whoa Nelly!) and try to be cold and aloof and cool (like Ray Bans cool) and impassive, or sometimes compassionate and sisterly or maternal. And sometimes it never works. Sometimes they get the idea, the smart ones.
I wish I didn't have such a fixation with love.
Loving, fucking, being loved, being fucked.
If I didn't, maybe I could avoid breaking so many hearts to get my fix, but maybe it's just in my nature.
Monday, September 7, 2009
It's raining!
And this is fantastic because I love the smell of rain and it means the weather we've endured for a little while now may be VERY short lived which is awesomesauce.
People watching
I'm a people watcher. I watch humans with the detached observation and avid fascination of a seasoned bird watcher. See their mannerisms and predict their temperament, observe their behaviour, inhibited and no, and understand how the two differ. That said, I am, and my goals are, something else entirely from that of a bird watcher. Humans gave up their beauty (for the most part) in exchange for psyche, and their idiosyncracies and subtleties and lies make them far more interesting.
I like to watch couples, too.
Most of the time, my first instinct has been to imagine them having sex. It seems like such a natural thing to do, imagine them, naked, sweaty and in the throes of passion (or disinterest) because that's the most natural thing to do. Next to shitting, eating, breathing and killing. Fucking's up there with the most natural acts.
Also some people I try to imagine shitting and it just doesn't work.
But now, there's something different in me, and I've started to question why. Why is she with him, and/or he with her? Are they just compatible like that? Does she like his cock? Is that why? Or does she resent it? Is it money, is it security, is it for the children? How have children changed their love? Is she loose from childbirth? Was she always? Does his prick lose its spunk after the first round, or did it always? Can they still look each other in the eyes? Did they ever?
Does he still find her attractive, and her him? If so, why? If not, why? How much of her has changed more than he in the years? Is he in any position to judge her, and is it reasonable for him to peruse dark streets for fairer fare if gravity has taken its toll?
How different is sex now from when they were first lovers? Did they have that young, awkward fumbling of passion? Or that slight innocence and tenderness in their post coital gaits, hands intertwined and shy, mischievous glances exchanged, as they walked out of a dark theatre, a parent's bedroom, or a hushed night park? Or did they meet, both seasoned lovers, with deft hands to unzip trousers, unclip bras and grip flesh? Was there an imbalance in skill; was it he or she that was nervous and whispered in ears, tentatively, "be gentle"?
Now of course I could never ask anyone these things. No one I don't already know well enough to know the answers in my heart of hearts, anyway.
It's not a perverse thing. It's mere curiosity about a natural act we've accosted with taboos. Will you judge me if I ask you how you breathe, and if you breathe the same you did when you were young, if you still have that childhood asthma? If you can remember how you inhaled sharply when you first saw her, and caught a lush hint of the smell of her hair, a smell you would be determined to have in your hands while she slept, naked, curved into your body?
I like to watch couples, too.
Most of the time, my first instinct has been to imagine them having sex. It seems like such a natural thing to do, imagine them, naked, sweaty and in the throes of passion (or disinterest) because that's the most natural thing to do. Next to shitting, eating, breathing and killing. Fucking's up there with the most natural acts.
Also some people I try to imagine shitting and it just doesn't work.
But now, there's something different in me, and I've started to question why. Why is she with him, and/or he with her? Are they just compatible like that? Does she like his cock? Is that why? Or does she resent it? Is it money, is it security, is it for the children? How have children changed their love? Is she loose from childbirth? Was she always? Does his prick lose its spunk after the first round, or did it always? Can they still look each other in the eyes? Did they ever?
Does he still find her attractive, and her him? If so, why? If not, why? How much of her has changed more than he in the years? Is he in any position to judge her, and is it reasonable for him to peruse dark streets for fairer fare if gravity has taken its toll?
How different is sex now from when they were first lovers? Did they have that young, awkward fumbling of passion? Or that slight innocence and tenderness in their post coital gaits, hands intertwined and shy, mischievous glances exchanged, as they walked out of a dark theatre, a parent's bedroom, or a hushed night park? Or did they meet, both seasoned lovers, with deft hands to unzip trousers, unclip bras and grip flesh? Was there an imbalance in skill; was it he or she that was nervous and whispered in ears, tentatively, "be gentle"?
Now of course I could never ask anyone these things. No one I don't already know well enough to know the answers in my heart of hearts, anyway.
It's not a perverse thing. It's mere curiosity about a natural act we've accosted with taboos. Will you judge me if I ask you how you breathe, and if you breathe the same you did when you were young, if you still have that childhood asthma? If you can remember how you inhaled sharply when you first saw her, and caught a lush hint of the smell of her hair, a smell you would be determined to have in your hands while she slept, naked, curved into your body?
Shopping List
- Washing Liquid
- Misc Fruit and Vegetables
- Prescription drugs
- Bread
- Milk
- Juice
- Pain meds of a dead woman
- Straws
- Coffee
- Weed
- Ice Cream
- Misc Fruit and Vegetables
- Prescription drugs
- Bread
- Milk
- Juice
- Pain meds of a dead woman
- Straws
- Coffee
- Weed
- Ice Cream
Well where were you going?
I was walking somewhere, to do something, and I stepped on a wilted lily on the floor below a bouquet and forgot where I was going.
Our house has been full of flowers for weeks. Flowers that die slowly in their cellophane, boxes, vases and small, green plastic wrapped wire. I touch their petals with my fingers and their veined translucence becomes like soft, fleshy see through butcher's paper.
Like greasy food in white paper bags.
Like the way chicken satays, soaking through, create a yellow paned window in from the outside.
The way her flesh looked with that yellowgreen post surgical antiseptic around her bionic woman parts. Yellow chicken flesh around plastic, steel, tubing, and a chemotherapy drip.
I still don't know where I was going.
Our house has been full of flowers for weeks. Flowers that die slowly in their cellophane, boxes, vases and small, green plastic wrapped wire. I touch their petals with my fingers and their veined translucence becomes like soft, fleshy see through butcher's paper.
Like greasy food in white paper bags.
Like the way chicken satays, soaking through, create a yellow paned window in from the outside.
The way her flesh looked with that yellowgreen post surgical antiseptic around her bionic woman parts. Yellow chicken flesh around plastic, steel, tubing, and a chemotherapy drip.
I still don't know where I was going.
I'm trespassing
Or I feel as though I may be.
This is not my place to be, because of all things said and done, things unsaid and things coming undone.
At moments, for his words, my hearts swells with an admiration and love but even though he has waltzed back into my life, saying what he will with silver tongued lies, a silver tongue that should be anywhere but in solely in his mouth, I can't relent. I would love to, but where does that leave me?
Not in India, that's for sure.
This is not my place to be, because of all things said and done, things unsaid and things coming undone.
At moments, for his words, my hearts swells with an admiration and love but even though he has waltzed back into my life, saying what he will with silver tongued lies, a silver tongue that should be anywhere but in solely in his mouth, I can't relent. I would love to, but where does that leave me?
Not in India, that's for sure.
She had a death like sleep
It didn't have the coldness or absolute stillness of death. She wasn't peaceful. Her death looked accidental, unintentional, a thing she'd do over again if she could. Accidental, like a nap. Falling asleep without meaning to.
A still frame in her sleep.
A still frame in her sleep.
Oh god, this is my origin story, isn't it?
Well, shit.
If I ever become a superhero, I'm going to be the one who started out being lazy, mentally wonky, with mostly likely mentally wonky promiscuity, who felt like an orphan but really wasn't.
Better than nothing I guess.
If I ever become a superhero, I'm going to be the one who started out being lazy, mentally wonky, with mostly likely mentally wonky promiscuity, who felt like an orphan but really wasn't.
Better than nothing I guess.
My new life is a series of milestones
First breath taken after she died.
First water after she died.
First tears.
First piss.
First masturbation.
First drawing.
First time looking in a mirror.
First moment alone.
First shit.
First piece of cake.
Now, first sex since she died.
I wish she still disapproved.
First water after she died.
First tears.
First piss.
First masturbation.
First drawing.
First time looking in a mirror.
First moment alone.
First shit.
First piece of cake.
Now, first sex since she died.
I wish she still disapproved.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Looking back at my facebook profile picture
From that angle I kinda look like DK's Joker and while in another universe that could be cool as hell, every single other person in the world ever have ruined this for me.
Nice going, guys.
Nice going, guys.
I've grown up a lot.
Also why the fuck would auto-complete be on for post titles?
Anyway
In my music, film and comics, I've gone hella wayward to something more mature.
Not in a sexy way (but sometimes in a really sexy way.)
Anyway
In my music, film and comics, I've gone hella wayward to something more mature.
Not in a sexy way (but sometimes in a really sexy way.)
I'm considering leaving LiveWire
Because what's the point if I'm only there to check his profile, again, again, read his posts, check his profile again, pray he'll reply to my topics/quote me/message me/love me, check his profile again, make topics that I would think would appeal to him, and check his profile again.
It just seems like a waste of bandwidth.
But if I leave LW, how else am I going to feel that pinch at my nape and lightness in the pit of my tummy? I need an obsession and fleshed out ones are far too dangerous.
It just seems like a waste of bandwidth.
But if I leave LW, how else am I going to feel that pinch at my nape and lightness in the pit of my tummy? I need an obsession and fleshed out ones are far too dangerous.
I form attachments easily.
Too easily. Too quickly.
Far too quickly.
I am moved by words not meant for me.
So I will tell the girl who writes the beautifulterrible poems on Deviant Art I love her, or at least I will think it and wish it and say it to myself so hard and so fast and in a single breath that in hushed tones she would not have heard me at all even if my lips at been at her earlobe, midfeast.
I love you I love you I love you.
Voicing it would only make me feel foolish. So I sit, stewing in my unrequited love for wonderlustqueen, the girl with beautiful words that I imagine in her beautiful imaginary voice, whispering to me these beautiful things between whiteyellowed sheets.
I won’t send the note.
I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.
Far too quickly.
I am moved by words not meant for me.
So I will tell the girl who writes the beautifulterrible poems on Deviant Art I love her, or at least I will think it and wish it and say it to myself so hard and so fast and in a single breath that in hushed tones she would not have heard me at all even if my lips at been at her earlobe, midfeast.
I love you I love you I love you.
Voicing it would only make me feel foolish. So I sit, stewing in my unrequited love for wonderlustqueen, the girl with beautiful words that I imagine in her beautiful imaginary voice, whispering to me these beautiful things between whiteyellowed sheets.
I won’t send the note.
I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.
Green Seas Tuna is dolphin free
Which would be such a relief if I really cared about eating the sexiest mammal in the sea (and sometimes estuary and river and aquarium lol) but what about the tuna?
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