Amen, bruthaa.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Man, wtf
is up with orgasming stabbed mother at the end of Carrie?
Bitches enjoyed telekinetic flying pointy kitchen utensils knife fucking them in the 70's too much.
Kinda bummed
about having no plans tomorrow.
Halloween used to be a big deal to me, even if only just in theory, and I've always wanted it to be a bigger deal.
Damn.
Way to feel alone, man.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
A disappointing realisation
is that you're more dedicated or emotionally invested in something than your fellow(s).
I am the revolutionary who fell too deep.
So maybe I'm incapable of being serious
Shannyn Virgo Intolerance is uncool on a myriad of levels, so whether you're receiving abuse for your identity or want to help others out, show your support and stand up for the downtrodden, methods pacifist or not.
Or at least single out confirmed bigoted assholes to vent your pent up rage on.
With fists.
Probably not sporting equipment, but if you need to make a point, be my guest.
It's a FB event now
Do the right thing.
Impudently attempt to change the world with senseless, vigilante violence.
Impudently attempt to change the world with senseless, vigilante violence.
For fuck's sake
why do you even assume I want to steal your images? Have a little faith in me. I don't care about that shit. I wanna open new tabs.
SO FUCK YOU, YOU SHITS, WITH YOUR RIGHT CLICK DISABLED. FUCK.
SO FUCK YOU, YOU SHITS, WITH YOUR RIGHT CLICK DISABLED. FUCK.
25 Things I Dislike
1. Stepping on random droplets of liquids on my kitchen floor.
2. The sound of empty soft drink cans falling/clattering/touching each other.
3. Watching a movie you find hilarious but aren't sure if it's a comedy and feel uncomfortable to laugh.
4. Animal cruelty.
5. "Just for show" bisexuals and gays.
6. Low battery on my phone and the fucking beeping it does.
7. Vacuum cleaners.
8. Blunt blades. D:
9. Steamed spinach, by itself.
10. Doing stupid things in front of strangers.
11. Still thinking said strangers will judge me.
12. Being THAT self-absorbed.
13. People going through my stuff or even looking into my bedroom.
14. My various technical difficulties with my shitbukkit computer.
15. Using words I've only read and mispronouncing them around smart asses.
16. Feeling sweaty. D:
17. Running out of things to put on lists. Like right now.
18. Most generic hip hop and rap.
19. People who are close minded about music (lol)
20. Being capped.
21. Capsicum. lol. capped, capsicum, haha... nevermind.
22. Realising how stupid my jokes are only after I've made them, or realising a typo just after I've sent a message or submitted whatever.
23. Particularly forthright and inappropriate (and often dirty) strangers who decide to make me uncomfortable.
24. Lying awake at night really uncomfortable.
25. Having dirty feet.
+ MOAR
2. The sound of empty soft drink cans falling/clattering/touching each other.
3. Watching a movie you find hilarious but aren't sure if it's a comedy and feel uncomfortable to laugh.
4. Animal cruelty.
5. "Just for show" bisexuals and gays.
6. Low battery on my phone and the fucking beeping it does.
7. Vacuum cleaners.
8. Blunt blades. D:
9. Steamed spinach, by itself.
10. Doing stupid things in front of strangers.
11. Still thinking said strangers will judge me.
12. Being THAT self-absorbed.
13. People going through my stuff or even looking into my bedroom.
14. My various technical difficulties with my shitbukkit computer.
15. Using words I've only read and mispronouncing them around smart asses.
16. Feeling sweaty. D:
17. Running out of things to put on lists. Like right now.
18. Most generic hip hop and rap.
19. People who are close minded about music (lol)
20. Being capped.
21. Capsicum. lol. capped, capsicum, haha... nevermind.
22. Realising how stupid my jokes are only after I've made them, or realising a typo just after I've sent a message or submitted whatever.
23. Particularly forthright and inappropriate (and often dirty) strangers who decide to make me uncomfortable.
24. Lying awake at night really uncomfortable.
25. Having dirty feet.
+ MOAR
I love animals
but if the dogs next door, across the road and diagonally down the alley way keep losing their shit all day for no reason, I will give those fuckers enough chocolate to put them out of commission.
Dopamine will fuck yo' shit UUUUPP.
Dopamine will fuck yo' shit UUUUPP.
Y'know what smells really good
but tastes disappointing?
unprepared custard powder
IT WAS A TRICK I FEEL VIOLATED
unprepared custard powder
IT WAS A TRICK I FEEL VIOLATED
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
we're just dancing
Loose lips might sink ships but loose gooses take trips
to San Francisco, double dutch disco,
tech. TV hottie, do it for scotty
do it for the living and do it for the dead
do it for the monsters under your bed
do it for the teenagers and do it for your mom
broken hearts hurt but they make us strong and
[we won't stop until somebody calls the cops
and even then we'll start again and just pretend that
nothing ever happened X2]
we're just dancing, we're just hugging,
singing, screaming, kissing, tugging
on the sleeve of how it used to be
how's it gonna be?
I'll drop kick Russell Stover, move into the starting over house
and know Matt Rouse and Jest are watching me achieve my dreams
and we'll pray, all damn day, every day,
that all this shit our president has got us in will go away
while we strive to figure out a way we can survive
these trying times without losing our minds
so if you wanna burn yourself remember that I love you
and if you wanna cut yourself remember that I love you
and if you wanna kill yourself remember that I love you
call me up before your dead, we can make some plans instead
send me an IM, I'll be your friend
shysters live from scheme to scheme but my 4th quarter pipe dreams
are seeming more and more worth fighting for
so I'll curate some situations, make my job a big vacation
and i'll say fuck Bush and fuck this war
my war paint is Sharpie ink and I'll show you how much my shit stinks
and ask you what you think because your thoughts and words are powerful
they think we're disposable, while both my thumbsopposable,
spelled out on a double word and triple letter score and
[we won't stop until somebody calls the cops
and even then we'll start again and just pretend that
nothing ever happened X4]
we're just dancing, we're just hugging,
singing, screaming, kissing, tugging
on the sleeve of how it used to be
oh god
things are bleeding
I don't know why
finger
why are you spurting blood?
okay
you're not spurting, I'll give you that
why are you bleeding?
it really hurts
WHO HAS DONE THIS?
Oh gosh, oh my
Oh, think of the things I could do!
I don't wanna do it today/tomorrow for Deckchair because I'm liable to fuck it up, but I really wanna try making Choux pastry, and Danish pastry too. I can make profiteroles and éclairs and Paris brest and with Danish pastry I can make raspberry pin-wheels and strudel and hazelnut scrolls and ohh god.
eeeeeee!
Ehh. Just Eghhh.
iono.
I'm an idiot. I made myself look like a dick and allowed him a position of power, which I hate. I know I seem to be a bit of a control freak, but control is what I need to be calm.
I asked Ben if he wanted to catch up while I was Melbourne, because, despite it all, when everything wasn't so caught up with his shit about me, we were good together. We had good conversations, we got along, and when I didn't feel the pressure, he was a good friend. Selfish, a part of me knows, because it could still be very detrimental to both of us, but trying to rationalise it, I guess I hoped we could just hang out, without complications, but that's stupid because he can't get the fuck over himself.
Shannyn Virgo wrote:
> Uh, I know it might be counter productive to email you, and if you
> want, ignore this. But, I just wanted to know when you'll be in
> Melbourne. I am going to be there for a week within the next few
> months, and despite everything I'd like to see you, if you're around
> and feeling up to it. I get to choose the dates for my flight, so it's
> still up in the air.
> I hope you're doing okay.
>
> <3<#> Shannyn
to which he said:
"I'm just scared I'll return to what it was like when we were "together".
You have a boyfriend now.
I'm not sure I could handle that.
Let me think about it a bit more."
lolololol, "together"
and bullshit if he thinks anything would happen if I didn't want it to.
and he blogged
"This morning I found an email from Shannyn. She's coming to Melbourne. Soon. She wants to meet up.
I don't know that I could. She still has a boyfriend. I can't handle that. Seeing her, physically would make it real. I can't handle that. I don't want to go back to the way I was. Back to the miserable, confused wreck I was. And I was a wreck.
I loved her, and she broke my heart. More than once. I'd love to see her, to hold her. To try and make things work. But I know that doing so would be the biggest mistake of my life.
No. I can't do it. I can't go back to her."
Goddamn, people like this shit me off. He's just like Emily. I fucking hate that shit. And I don't care if I sound unreasonable. Just... when people put themselves above me, just because they think they had the last fucking word. Like I'm begging, and he's crawling back to me. It's not as though I have a problem with being refused, even though it doesn't happen that much, but when people do that bullshit like "no I have to stay away, foul temptress" when it's not my fucking intention at all. I wanna be friends. If you can't keep your fucking head in check, that's your problem. Don't put me down because you can't handle me. Get the fuck over yourself, acting like if we hang out, our individual resolve will crumble. Cocksuckers.
He emails me saying "No," and that's fine. I mean, whatever. Conditional love. We might have been really good friends, but because I'm in a relationship, it doesn't count for shit, so fuck him.
"Fine, suit yourself. But honestly Ben, I don't think you'll have another chance.
See you on the flipside.
I won't ask again."
I'm an idiot. I made myself look like a dick and allowed him a position of power, which I hate. I know I seem to be a bit of a control freak, but control is what I need to be calm.
I asked Ben if he wanted to catch up while I was Melbourne, because, despite it all, when everything wasn't so caught up with his shit about me, we were good together. We had good conversations, we got along, and when I didn't feel the pressure, he was a good friend. Selfish, a part of me knows, because it could still be very detrimental to both of us, but trying to rationalise it, I guess I hoped we could just hang out, without complications, but that's stupid because he can't get the fuck over himself.
Shannyn Virgo wrote:
> Uh, I know it might be counter productive to email you, and if you
> want, ignore this. But, I just wanted to know when you'll be in
> Melbourne. I am going to be there for a week within the next few
> months, and despite everything I'd like to see you, if you're around
> and feeling up to it. I get to choose the dates for my flight, so it's
> still up in the air.
> I hope you're doing okay.
>
> <3<#> Shannyn
to which he said:
"I'm just scared I'll return to what it was like when we were "together".
You have a boyfriend now.
I'm not sure I could handle that.
Let me think about it a bit more."
lolololol, "together"
and bullshit if he thinks anything would happen if I didn't want it to.
and he blogged
"This morning I found an email from Shannyn. She's coming to Melbourne. Soon. She wants to meet up.
I don't know that I could. She still has a boyfriend. I can't handle that. Seeing her, physically would make it real. I can't handle that. I don't want to go back to the way I was. Back to the miserable, confused wreck I was. And I was a wreck.
I loved her, and she broke my heart. More than once. I'd love to see her, to hold her. To try and make things work. But I know that doing so would be the biggest mistake of my life.
No. I can't do it. I can't go back to her."
Goddamn, people like this shit me off. He's just like Emily. I fucking hate that shit. And I don't care if I sound unreasonable. Just... when people put themselves above me, just because they think they had the last fucking word. Like I'm begging, and he's crawling back to me. It's not as though I have a problem with being refused, even though it doesn't happen that much, but when people do that bullshit like "no I have to stay away, foul temptress" when it's not my fucking intention at all. I wanna be friends. If you can't keep your fucking head in check, that's your problem. Don't put me down because you can't handle me. Get the fuck over yourself, acting like if we hang out, our individual resolve will crumble. Cocksuckers.
He emails me saying "No," and that's fine. I mean, whatever. Conditional love. We might have been really good friends, but because I'm in a relationship, it doesn't count for shit, so fuck him.
"Fine, suit yourself. But honestly Ben, I don't think you'll have another chance.
See you on the flipside.
I won't ask again."
... fecking cocksuckers.
... I'm not upset about getting snubbed. Right. Okay, cool.
I don't care if you have a folder
that says "It's about your daughter" which sounds pretty suss anyway, like an opening or segue in the principal's office, with a gynaecologist or in the depths of a castle on a full moon (by the way, each would continue: "Tell her I like her, and we had some good times, but I'm not looking for any commitment right now," "She appears to have tentacles in her junk," and "With tonight's moon, her transformation is complete, and she has surrendered to the primal beast within. None are safe! Bar the doors, and fetch mah wurrwulf huntin' bulluts, boy!"
I don't care about your folder, because you can't compare to a fucking pencil case full of pamphlets. C'mon dude. No contest.
Also, shame to you, other school's information package, it's all just fucking paper. Mail me some goodies, you shits.
god boarding schools are depressing :\
I don't care about your folder, because you can't compare to a fucking pencil case full of pamphlets. C'mon dude. No contest.
Also, shame to you, other school's information package, it's all just fucking paper. Mail me some goodies, you shits.
god boarding schools are depressing :\
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
So, on the ModCloth situation
Despite my best efforts, I couldn't find any listings for the discontinued dresses on this here le interwebs. Which is frustrating because I kinda really liked them, y'know?
sadfaec. :(
give up? maybe.
sadfaec. :(
give up? maybe.
y'know what?
fuck you, Nietzsche, you astute bastard.
Sensuality often makes love grow too quickly, so that the root remains weak and is easy to pull out.
also lol, innuendos include "root" and "pull out" and "your mother"
Alliteration?
Woe to the wiliest of women who, despite wandering and wondering, writing, warbling and wooing even the worst of the wretches with wicked witticisms, find themselves warring with womanhood, because for all the worldly mind, it is a rare well-read woman who can fight the womb and win.
OH MY GOD
IT'S 11:10 NEARLY AND I HAVEN'T POSTED ENOUGH
OH GOD
HOW AM I GOING TO OVERCOMPENSATE
MY SUPERVISORS WILL HAVE MY HEAD FOR THIS
OH GOD
OH GOD
HOW AM I GOING TO OVERCOMPENSATE
MY SUPERVISORS WILL HAVE MY HEAD FOR THIS
OH GOD
2 months
Today, it was two months. I find myself still waiting for it to be real, despite making milestones out of passing time, it's still surreal, and it still feels like anything but what it is. She's not really gone. Just away, somewhere. Not even coming back, per se. Just not gone. Gone absolutely. In an impossibly irretrievable way. Infinitely, explicably gone.
Today has come and nearly gone.
Alistair has been sick, thus home, and sullen all day, making me feel like shit. I was kinda hoping for a chance to talk to the urn, as he suggested, but I know I'm not ready for it yet if I find the thought of talking to what's left of her around someone else embarrassing.
It took me so long to find the words for her corpse, minutes that felt like days as I sat in that chair in the superficially cold room, staring at her dead sleep, trying to touch her arm, and discovering what exactly dead flesh and rigor mortis feels like to the observer.
Cold, stiff, by the way.
Today has come and nearly gone.
Alistair has been sick, thus home, and sullen all day, making me feel like shit. I was kinda hoping for a chance to talk to the urn, as he suggested, but I know I'm not ready for it yet if I find the thought of talking to what's left of her around someone else embarrassing.
It took me so long to find the words for her corpse, minutes that felt like days as I sat in that chair in the superficially cold room, staring at her dead sleep, trying to touch her arm, and discovering what exactly dead flesh and rigor mortis feels like to the observer.
Cold, stiff, by the way.
Where to begin, even?
I know it's terrible and stupid, but alas not entirely unfounded thus not so easily dismissed, but I worry with a heavy sickness in my stomach that he's ashamed of me. I feel like an idiot entertaining the thought, but... I don't know. I have no problem wanting to introduce him to my friends, and I understand we're both very different people with incredibly different circles, but even when he talks about all his gatherings, I feel the tiniest pang that he doesn't even do an insincere courtesy ask. But I know that's imposing and presumptuous, and again, I know very little about whether that would even be appropriate, but... I mean, okay. I could understand if he thought this had an unsteady future, and if I were to meet anyone, it would just be becoming too emotionally invested, but he claims to feel good about it. Does he still feel good about it? Gahk. Again, these are my insecurities playing against me, but I suppose I just don't know what to make of it. God I'm a dickhead. More likely I'm getting myself worked up over nothing, and if he reads this he'll think I'm a dickhead too. I just...
I can think of why he'd be ashamed of me. I know why I would be ashamed of me.
:\
I can think of why he'd be ashamed of me. I know why I would be ashamed of me.
:\
ham ham ham
ham sandwich :D
my ham sandwich
SO FUCK OFF YOU COCKSUCKER FLY, I WILL FUCK YOUR FUCKING SHIT UP IF YOU FUCKING SHOW YOUR FACE HERE AGAIN, YOU HEAR ME, BITCH? I'LL END YOU!
Yo bitches an' hoez
Wuh thuh fuhck, mon! Tha noo Faycebuk, it beh all ghey like, allz up in zat ere faggutree, wut wif dis ere no notifuckations, an' tha noo humm pagez, ayyy ladz! Iz du'unn mah fookin ead in, ya rite, wif me, laddiez?
DAT WOT I THORT, RIGHTY RIGHT, NIGGAHZ.
oh god what?
Once again,
I've probably (and enthusiastically) made promises I can't keep, or that I will fall short upon, as I've over estimated myself.
Gosh darnit.
So I suppose
I should talk about the crap in my head, and what has been doing said head in for the past week.
Just... mehhhh. >_> Big nonsensical rant up ahead.
Iono, all last week, probably from the Saturday night after Aaron got home from bandly things and we were talking, it just felt... icky. All week, talking on MSN, and then when we finally saw each other on Thursday, it was awkwardy and, iono... I knew I was a bit off colour, and maybe he was just picking up on my bad vibes, or his bad vibes were completely imagined, but we both just seemed more reserved, like in the space of an afternoon we'd erected these walls for no good reason. Conversation was slow and tense and it felt like a chore at times, no question game...
I don't know. I couldn't be sure if it was just an idiosyncratic shift, and it would have been presumptuous to ask if everything was okay, and even then, it's likely he'd say nothing was wrong, and I don't want to be the person that doggedly pursues the question with people they don't know like the back of their hand. I mean, he wasn't visibly distressed, so of course it's most likely it's all in my head.
Fuck. I'm a bad girlfriend, I think. I need to meet him halfway, grow the fuck up and get out of these bad habits. I don't wanna continue my passive agressive bullshit. I don't know. I'm torn between censoring myself, and laughing it off when he asks me what's bothering me, and being as honest as I should be, and letting him in, but unfortunately, there is so much very wrong with me, and I'm not exactly jumping through hoops for him to realise how fucked up I am. Yeah, you can do that whole "no one is without their problems" shit but I'm afraid I'll scare him away, which is a bit stupid, I know. Because despite the fact he's said numerous times when I have confided in him about aspects of my mental wonkiness that he would support me, and that it doesn't bother him like that, and it's more worry than anything, I still freak out. I still want to hide bits of myself from him. I'm just trying to swim against the current. What I think could be saving the relationship is probably just causing new stress because we're both frustrated about what is wrong with me, and how do we interact with it? How do we fix it, fix her, do we want her fixed? He likes me how I am. People like me as I am. I think it's all bullshit when they wish I'm better, or if they realised what that entailed they'd change their tunes. I don't even know what better me is like, but I know so much of what I am has been grown like cultures in cheese by my myriad of mental ickinesses. If I were to heal, what makes me intrinsically me would also change. And who wants that, amirite?
Again, we are faced with the realisation that for the people that love me and their reasoning, my well-being takes a back seat to their self-indulgence, because as erratic and antagonistic and terrible as I am now, they understand this that I am. I understand it, to a degree, too. Once you understand the mechanisms of something, you can manipulate it. It's how I function. I observe, I prod, I learn, understand, and I manipulate. But on second thoughts, not everyone is quite as bad as I.
I've totally gone off the point.
Wow, I can feel the sub buzzing the chair my foot is resting on, and my heel is freaking out. Wicked.
I guess just last week, I didn't want to be too forward, and I had no idea how to broach the subject. For all I knew, his silences (and my silences) and his reservations (and my reservations) could have been just him. A part of his nature, and realistically, doesn't matter how much we talk, how well I know some aspects of him, only time can tell on some things. It was bound to come up eventually, I suppose I just hoped that by then I'd have the good sense to know the difference.
But how well can you ever know a person? How can we ever know what's in their heart? I wish I knew what that was behind his eyes, but no matter how much, or however which way you love a person, you'll never know. I will never know.
/rant
There might still be hope for me yet
Now, as probably only Eddy knows, I frequent ModCloth, because maybe I like pretty dresses, and the retro and indie thing just gets my jollies off.
A while back, I fell in love with a few dresses, and they've all been discontinued on ModCloth, and after chasing it down, writing and submitting a ticket, getting a reply, I have the individual designer's names, I will scour the internet for other stores or directly from the designers themselves in an insane attempt to get them.
I wanna be sure it's worth it, but that's just my lazy talking.
I FUCKING FOUND IT
FUCK. YEAH.
now google, please give me something reputable to copypasta because as much as I want to post it here, I refuse to type it out.
Huzzah, found one.
now google, please give me something reputable to copypasta because as much as I want to post it here, I refuse to type it out.
Huzzah, found one.
Whether it is hedonism or pessimism, utilitarianism or eudaemonism - all these ways of thinking that measure the value of thing in accordance with pleasure and pain, which are mere epiphenomena and wholly secondary, are ways of thinking that stay in the foreground and naivetes on which everyone conscious of creativepowers and an artistic conscience will look down not without derision, nor without pity. Pity with you - that, of course, is not pity in your sense: it is not pity with social "distress", with "society" and its sick and unfortunate members, with those addicted to vice and maimed from the start, though the ground around us is littered with them; it is even less pity with grumbling, sorely pressed, rebellious slave strata who long for dominion, calling it "freedom". Our pity is a higher and more farsighted pity: we see how man makes himself smaller, how you make him smaller - and there are moments when we behold your very pity with indescribable anxiety, when we resist this pity - when we find your seriousness more dangerous than any frivolity. You want, if possible - and there is no more insane "if possible" -to abolish suffering . And we? It really seems that we would rather have it higher and worse than ever. Well-being as you understand it - that is no goal, that seems to us an end , a state that soon makes man ridiculous and contemptible - that makes his destruction desirable .
The discipline of suffering, of great suffering - do you not know that only this discipline has created all enhancements of man so far? That tension of the soul in unhappiness which cultivates its strength, its shudders face to face with great ruin. its inventiveness and courage in enduring, persevering, interpreting and exploiting suffering and whatever has been granted to it of profundity, secret, mask, spirit, cunning, greatness - was it not granted to it through suffering, through the discipline of great suffering? In man creature and creator are united: in man there is material, fragment, excess, clay, dirt, nonsense, chaos; but in man there is also creator, form giver, hammer, hardness, spectator divinity, and seventh day: do you understand this contrast? And that your pity is for the "creature in man". for what must be formed, broken, forged, torn, burnt, made incandescent, and purified - that which necessarily man and should suffer? And our pity - do you not comprehend for whom our converse pity is when it resists your pity as the worst of all pamperings and weaknesses?
Thus it is pity versus pity.
But to say it once more: there are higher problems than all problems of pleasure. pain. and pity; and every philosophy that stops with them is naive.
Nietzsche, "Beyond Good And Evil", section 225
translated by Walter Kaufmann
Meanwhile...
Mi Goreng!
Oh and some from the Maxims and Interludes
"Love of one is a piece of barbarism: for it is practised at the expense of all others. Love of God is likewise."
"To discover he is loved in return ought really to disenchant the lover with the beloved. 'What? She is so modest as to love even you? Or so stupid? Or - or -.'"
"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you."
"Christianity gave Eros poison to drink - he did not die of it, to be sure, but degenerated into vice."
Oh and some from the Maxims and Interludes
"Love of one is a piece of barbarism: for it is practised at the expense of all others. Love of God is likewise."
"To discover he is loved in return ought really to disenchant the lover with the beloved. 'What? She is so modest as to love even you? Or so stupid? Or - or -.'"
"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you."
"Christianity gave Eros poison to drink - he did not die of it, to be sure, but degenerated into vice."
Frick frick frick!
There is a single passage in Friedrich Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil that I love and cannot find and it's doing my head in so RAGE.
I hate this thing in my heart, in my head. A deep, penetrating doubt. I mean, yeah, it's probably saved my tail more than a few times, but I also know it enables my self-sabotage. I get into a great relationship, and all I can think is that it doesn't feel right. What's right? Will anything ever be right enough? Is it because it's not a blatantly unhealthy, codependent, needy, icky shitfight masquerading as a relationship? Because it's remotely normal and functional, I have to have a problem with it?
BPD + 1
and Cathy would know that, and she might consider giving me a formal diagnosis or something if she actually read this blog like I asked her to, or if she'd even tried to ring me in the past four-five weeks, she'd know, and she might also know that I'm going fucking insane. Also nothing makes you feel cooler than realising that you are, ultimately, just a name on file, a manilla folder, to someone who you kinda connected with. Fuck that. It's just her job. I hate that about seeing psychiatrists, therapists, all my counsellors. I give an inch, they take a mile, and I feel vulnerable and it doesn't mean anything to anyone.
Letting no one in is better than that.
BPD + 1
and Cathy would know that, and she might consider giving me a formal diagnosis or something if she actually read this blog like I asked her to, or if she'd even tried to ring me in the past four-five weeks, she'd know, and she might also know that I'm going fucking insane. Also nothing makes you feel cooler than realising that you are, ultimately, just a name on file, a manilla folder, to someone who you kinda connected with. Fuck that. It's just her job. I hate that about seeing psychiatrists, therapists, all my counsellors. I give an inch, they take a mile, and I feel vulnerable and it doesn't mean anything to anyone.
Letting no one in is better than that.
Y'know what, if anything,
indicates I have a problem?
I felt so icky the first day I had not posted a single thing because my net was down. I've gone and fucked up my thus far pretty swanky track record. Which is disappointing, to say the least, because as if I weren't already far enough behind, I now have only a few days to make up ~80-100 posts, because I feel some also icky obligation to stick to the standard I've created for myself, more than anything. But, furthermore, what hopelessly complicates the whole matter, is that I'm capped. So visiting any and every site is now a battle with my patience and MY STUPID FUCKIN' BROWSERS because they are all fucking cocks.
There, I said it.
But FML, at least I have shit to post about.
I felt so icky the first day I had not posted a single thing because my net was down. I've gone and fucked up my thus far pretty swanky track record. Which is disappointing, to say the least, because as if I weren't already far enough behind, I now have only a few days to make up ~80-100 posts, because I feel some also icky obligation to stick to the standard I've created for myself, more than anything. But, furthermore, what hopelessly complicates the whole matter, is that I'm capped. So visiting any and every site is now a battle with my patience and MY STUPID FUCKIN' BROWSERS because they are all fucking cocks.
There, I said it.
But FML, at least I have shit to post about.
you can call me anything you like.
Inexplicably, the frontman of the Arctic Monkeys is the only dude I've ever sorta felt attracted to, right off the bat. Next to James McAvoy as Mr Tumnus, and only as Mr Tumnus. Anyway he's weird.
As the more astute of you may have noticed
I was a bit AWOL for a moment there. I'm not going to try to justify myself, but if I were to, I'd say it was because my internet got cut off, but that's irrelevant. In addition, they're holding a bake sale to fund feed for me and captive horses. There will be cakes of all kinds, and very few as the night goes on, so we have to be guarding them around 8PM. I have been very excited to be making cakes, none of which have any shivs in them. Hurry! the cakes won't last.
Monday, October 26, 2009
lolrotica
This is official attempt numero dua at le erotica.
lololol.
---
In the bowels of the Natural History Museum, the only sound was the whoosh of pressurised containers decompressing, their briny contents raised and examined in the faltering fluorescents, and their prisons again closed, with a sucking in breath, whoosh.
Whoosh, splash, whoosh.
The occasional chicken scratching of a pen.
One of the lowest levels in the building, subterranean even, the only light cast was by a blinking, fading panels along the low ceiling, and the bulbs at the base of several tall, cylindrical tanks, bathing the long room in an eerie green and amber glow. In the half-light, rows upon rows of freezers, tanks and lead tombs formed long aisles. This, the storage floor of marine specimens, was pervaded by a heavy aroma of the sea, and of dead fish.
With no natural light, conceivably, hours could have passed that she was down there, taking the museum’s massive inventory, some of the specimens dating back well over one hundred years. It felt late, well into the night. A persistent cold seeped in to the already chilly storeroom. A breath of a frost curled up a chrome sheet metal examination table.
A marine biologist with (electively) very little field experience, the young researcher flicked the latches up on container #3P68, a relatively large individual, Melancetus johnsoni, the deep sea angler fish, and with a whoosh, and lifted it up by its jaw. Even in the minimalist light, there was evidently nothing wrong with the fish; no undue decomposition, no perforations to the skin, especially the delicate membranes on the caudal fin, no damage to the dorsal fin ray. She lowered it, and a gurgle air rushed out of its gaping mouth, from the pit of its ballooning stomach. For all her love of sea creatures, even at the stench she made a face of distaste and closed the container once more, wiped her gloves and wrote notes on the subject’s condition.
In the corner of her eye, she saw a tank at the very end of the last dark row flicker on, illuminating the area around it. It was empty, unremarkable, but next to it, there was a metal cold tank. Larger than all the others, but what was most intriguing, she noted as she put her pen down and wove between aisles of tanks, were the large, gratuitous locks. Locks unlike any of the flick close latches on every other container.
Her curiosity was piqued. She knew full well that with an establishment as old as the Natural History Museum, they would have accumulated innumerable strange and exotic marine creatures, but by that same token, she’d seen many of them, and none, none, were kept under lock and key like this.
Looking around, casually, suddenly furtively, she tried to rationalise and justify her imminent actions, finally, her hands finding a heavy bone saw in the dim light, I am an intrepid researcher. I got to where I am now by forsaking all else in the pursuit of knowledge. This institution and my career are indeed both founded on these principles. I will unwaveringly explain my actions should the need arise, and I can declare without shame “I did it for science!”
She sawed at the heavy padlocks, forgetting the cold, forgetting her work, consumed by a desire to see the contents of the metal tank. She could hear a sloshing inside, as her attempts to cut the locks shook the container and the water-ammonia solution within.
With a clatter, the first lock dropped to the ground, and incensed by her small victory, she worked vehemently on the other until it too hit the icy concrete floor with a clatter. She felt a tense anticipation, a flutter somewhere in her, as she pulled up the thick lid, its seals making a wet, sucking noise as they whooshed.
Inside, the water was a dark, inky black, but smelt like none of the chemicals of the others. Simply like the deep sea; of dark, briny, ice water. She could see nothing, and placing her hands in (and shivering at the intense cold,) could feel nothing. The illuminated tank had flickered on and off all the while, but did not cast nearly enough light to show if there any indeed anything inside the locked tank. She faltered for a moment inside. Had her efforts been for nothing, the researcher wondered, her iron resolve weakening as she leant in against the tank. She gazed in, but in this light, could see nothing.
Looking around fervently, she searched and found a rusty lantern, and, as its golden glow shed light on the surface of the water and her anxious face, she searched for some shape, something, and gasped when she found it.
She suppressed a small scream as her wet gloved hand clasped her mouth, and with the lantern swinging at the length of her shaking arm, she looked into a white, pallid face below the surface of the water. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and seemingly frozen, thoughts raced dangerously fast through her mind. Oh god, they’ve killed her, she’s a woman, and they’ve killed her. Who is they? An employee of the museum, a scientist? How long has she been here? Oh god, she’s preserved, is she an object of necrophilic affections, oh god, she is dead, she has been murdered… but she trailed off, mentally, as her eyes adjusted to the light, as the haze of stupefying panic lifted. New details seemed to materialise… The woman’s face was, for want of a better expression, not normal. Her eyes, closed, were larger than she had even seen, and rounder, almost bulbous. Her eyebrows were high and arched, but she had no hair on them; the ashen skin was discoloured a blue black along the line, a colour that faded to blue down her eye sockets, and along her nose bridge that ended in a slightly upturned, flattened nose, with twin slits rather than circular nostrils. Her mouth was blue, and her chin was pointed; the woman had a high and angular face, that was ultimately feminine but entrancingly androgynous. Ribbed ridges rose on her cheek bones, and upon closer inspection, a generous cloud of blue black hair floated behind her head in the shallowly lit sea green water. She was beautiful, but alien. Far from human. In her face alone, she seemed like a seamless marriage between a human and the sea. The embodiment of the ocean. Her long, slender neck had heavy folds, beneath which raw blue flesh could be seen.
Gills? Gills. Gills.
“Gills.” She breathed aloud, barely audible. She reached into the tank, and pulled the woman closer to herself. She was heavy, limp, and the scientist hesitated for a moment, but only as long as it took to gaze into the creature’s face. She continued to bring her closer, until her cold torso was in her arms, and her hands supported her under her surprisingly large breasts. She looked again at the narrow frame of the womanfish, and pulled her legs, no, not legs, into the light, finding herself supporting a large black fish tail under her right arm. Her knees nearly buckled as she heaved the mermaid out of her tank. Lighter than expected, but flaccid and weighted nonetheless, she carried her to an examination table under a brighter fluorescent. The new light bathed the mermaid in a white light, and she was indeed very blue and green. Where her skin had been alabaster, now she was tinged the colour of sea foam, there were black fins running down the length of her forearms, her fingers, black tipped, were webbed. Her tail, with gossamer fins, was black as a blue night, and striped with tiny glittering gold scales. More than anything, as she laid her down on the table and fought the urge to run her hands along the body, the researcher noticed the distinct smell. Heady. Intoxicating. Salty, that of the sea, and of something else. The pungent scent of a woman. An almost sickly sweet animal smell.
She could not stop staring. Just could not stop staring. Could not. She felt surreal, lighter. Dizzy, even. She drank in the sight of the merwoman, and noticed, just barely, the fluttering in the pit of her stomach, of an alien anticipation, of a carnal excitement. She forgot to chastise herself, and reached into her pockets and pulled a small voice recorder. She could, she should, document this. In a moment of clarity she wondered if this was really happening, but with a gloved hand, she ran a languid finger along the flat, clammy stomach of the mermaid, and knew that she couldn’t conjure such a creature in her mind.
She, taking a deep breath and clearing her throat, clicked on the recorder.
“Specimen appears to have traits very concurrent with Homo sapiens of Mammalia, and of many species within both Osteichthyes and Chondrichthyes. Note the presence of uncannily Simian-esque features on the upper half. Creature has a near human torso and head, those of a female,” she paused, noting everything that was very female in front of her, most of all, the pair of round, spherical and endearingly perky breasts, topped with erect bluish mauve nipples. She took a double take. Erect? That couldn’t be. She wracked her brain to try remember how they had been in the tank, and tried to convince herself that because it wasn’t typical erectile tissue, yes, it could have been like this the whole time, especially due to the conditions, and yes, if anything, dystrophy could have kept the nipples hard in well past death and preservation. Of course, she didn’t even know how the creature’s individual physiology could affect nipple tissue, most certainly.
She sat back against a container and took a moment, crossing her legs with a pang and a slight sensation she was unable to place, before she continued.
“The tail seems fishlike in nature, with a split caudal fin, ventral fins, anal fins and what seems to be a long and low dorsal fin along the human spine down the lower back. She has evidently wide human like hips, and the swell beneath the tail belies a piscine bone structure. The waist and top of the tail seem almost human, and as if evolution has just fused her legs together in place for a tail. She also has what seem to be almost pectoral fins along her human forearms…”
She went to lift her subject’s arm, and realised with horror the soft flesh had stuck to the icy table. Panic skittered up her chest, like insects, like lightning. Without thinking, suddenly feeling a thick worry that went beyond the professional repercussions, but worry for the creature of the table’s well being, she breathed heavily on the sticking flesh, exhaling a warm fog. Running her gloved hand through her dishevelled blonde hair, she found a sink, containers down the row, and filled a bucket with lukewarm water. As she poured the water down the sides of her mermaid, her charge, something she felt inexplicably possessive over, she realised her breathing was laboured, and her mind fraught with pleas, please let her be alright.
The water warmed both the table and her skin, and the mermaid slid easily across the slippery examination table. She put her head down on the tail, breathing a sigh of overwhelming relief.
With a renewed timidity, she tentatively ran her hand along the length of the tail, that was smooth, and sleek. She looked ahead oh her, and pulled out her recorder again, having come face to sex organ with what appeared to be a cross-species concoction of genitalia. With raised, thick lips sitting atop the equivalent of the pubis, it was almost like a shark’s cloaca, but for a small discrepancy. At the top of her slit, there was a fold in the flesh, and in its hood, sat what could have been a large, black pearl.
Unsure of how to proceed, but curiosity winning out, she, with shortened breath, took off her rubber gloves with a snap, and extended a finger and placed it on the obvious clitoris of the mermaid. It was sticky, like a pearl freshly removed from an oyster, and smelt of enthralling womanflesh. She rubbed it softly with her thumb, and it felt hard, like her erect nipples, but lost in the moment, the scientist disregarded it. Her forefinger pulling back the hood and remaining on its clit, she ran her thumb down the length of its slit, and to her surprise, for which she emitted a small, illicit gasping moan, her thumb slid in, to find the mermaid wet, and warm. Warm? She shook off her thoughts, engrossed in discovery. She parted the thick lips. Beneath were a second pair of labia, a thinner membrane, and inside, she was suddenly confused. Rather than an entrance, inside her lips, there was a large bulb of flesh. Flesh that was almost ivory pink, and glossy with whatever clear viscous slick coated her pearl. Captivated, and against her better judgement, she climbed up onto the table, and straddled the lower end of the tail, and bent over to further inspect the marvels unfolding before her. With her thumb, curiously, she stroked the flesh, and her eyes widened in astonishment as it swelled under her fingers, and grew, until it pushed out from between both sets of lips, and developed steadily, shaking, as it rose in an arc into a phallus. Her trembling hands still around the length of it, her mouth hung open in surprise. Her thoughts lost all sense, and all she felt was a deep ripple of wanting in her stomach. The flesh was wet, with a defined crowning head on the mermaid’s… well, penis? Pseudo-clitoris? It appeared almost human, were it not a pale blue, turgid; translucent white skin stretched over the swollen, erect and veined flesh, and blooming into a pale pink at the head.
She took a deep breath. The skin was so soft. Velvety, even.
Between her legs, the large diaphanous caudal fin tensed as she ran her fingers slowly down the shaft. With this she was pulled, rushing, whooshing, back to the present, and her face down turned, fear rose in her throat and she squeezed her eyes closed. Fuck. Slowly, ever so slowly, she looked up at the mermaid’s face, who sat up resting on her forearms, staring intently, suggestively, at the young scientist. She had large wholly black eyes, bottomless, that caught all the lights in the room. A thin second eyelid membrane closed on them slowly, tackily, and the two women gazed at one another, the mermaid’s quivering cock between them.
“I… I…” she stammered, and with a push, the mermaid sat up and raised a cold hand to her explorer’s lips, and shushed her softly. There was a hunger in her eyes, and she smiled. Well, whether it was a smile or not, she couldn’t tell. It was the shape a human mouth made, but for all she knew, it was the mimicry of a bird, a gestured observed, learnt and copied.
Taking the human hands into her own, the mermaid placed one of the scientist’s on her left breast, and the other on the pulsating organ between them. For the second before she leaned in for a kiss, she caught sight of the creature’s almost transparent teeth, fangs; small, longer, dagger-like, serrated. But their lips met in a wet exchange and the mermaid held her head and searched her with an untamed yearning, all worries were assailed. She surrendered, leaning against her, gyrating her hips just below the penis she stroked, and thumbed the hard nipples with her other hand. With blind hands, not understanding, the mermaid tugged helplessly at her lover’s clothes, and, seeking only to please her, the scientist found herself beyond compelled to strip herself off, despite the cold, especially that of the icy table they lay upon. She peeled off her lab coat, her shirt, and feeling a hot milk feeling rise in her stomach, from the pit of herself, her very core that felt absolutely soaking, she ripped off her bra with abandon, and the mermaid watched her eagerly, her tail drumming madly, restless against the cold steel. Yes, yes. Wearing a skirt and thigh high stockings, she unzipped the side and couldn’t pull it off fast enough, nor could she pull of her saturated panties off leg by leg with grace, and momentarily was embarrassed to have seemed foolish before the creature between her thighs.
Naked but for her stockings, a welcome reprieve from the absolute cold of the table, she finally slipped off her shoes and hovered her sex above the flesh just ahead of the mermaid’s waiting, stiffened cock. She was drumming frantically against the table, a woman lost in the moment, squeezing her own breasts with her hands, intensely impatient, longing, and, making her first noise, she whined lowly. Lowering herself onto the flesh of her lower stomach, the scientist took a blue breast her hands, and slowly licked the nipple, dragging her warm tongue along the tip, tracing the areola. She sucked, hard. Her companion, helpless, tried to find an outlet for her hands, and grasped at the air, the edge of the table, her naked back. She moaned into the nipple, and still squeezing the other nipple with her hand, moved her mouth lower, along her smooth stomach, tasting sea salt, and something sweeter. Nibbling, nipping, licking, the tumescent penis rubbed between her breasts, and she went lower, and with a licked thumb, rubbed her clit, and took the phallus into her mouth and slowly bobbed her head, sucking hungrily. The mermaid rain her webbed hands through her blonde hair, pushing her head down, lower, lower, until she yanked her up and they both gasped. Wrapping her arms around her, and with a small surprised noise, the merwoman flipped the arrangement with an unexpected strength. She was on top, in control. Her tail and cock rested between her now captive’s legs, her head resting on the outside of her pussy, on the edge of oblivion, teasing her. Moaning in anticipation, the scientist could feel nothing but a desire to be filled, to be fucked, as she felt a boiling heat inside, a slow burning, bubbling, hunger.
With a slow push, and an expression of ecstasy, the mermaid finally pushed herself inside, and drummed her tail loudly, hard, as she slid in and out , her thickness and length swallowed whole by her snug cunt, and the two moaned loudly into each other, slipping back and forth on the wet table, her legs wrapped tightly around her lower back, but not as tightly has her muscles contracted around her cock as she fucked her, relentlessly, harder. Thrusting in and out, faster, she pushed her hips harder into the mermaid, taking her entirely, gasping as she reached a spot inside herself again, and again, their clitorises rubbing together like sticks to match the flame that burned in the centre of both of them, and the hot cold contrasts in their sex. Every hard thrust brought her closer, and she feverishly sucked and bit at blue nipples, lost in the moment. Her lover gripped the table above her head tightly, her face contorted to one of bliss as she made clicking, gleeful and guttural chirping noises, not unlike a dolphin. Inside, low in herself, she felt her orgasm building, and muscles contracted, and her lover went faster, faster, and oh god, faster, until in their speed, the ardent thrusting, her cunt clenched hard, and with a white hot, golden internal explosion, and they both came, chirruping and screaming. The mermaid came pearlescent strings of inky black semen, that shot up into the centre of the scientist, that effused from her dripping pussy, and onto the table. They held on to one another for dear life, still convulsing and moaning, breathing heavily. In the corner of her eye as the scientist gasping toward the ceiling, her mermaid, her mermaid, draped over her, she saw her gills opening and closing wildly, and wondered idly how she was breathing currently. Webbed hands dug into her shoulders, and a mouth was on her neck, kissing, sucking wetly, and she was breathing hard into the hollow of her collarbone. Gingerly, the scientist nibbled along her lover’s jaw, and ran her fingers through her silky black hair. The intense throbbing in her pussy ebbed away to a low contentedness, and with a long sigh, she nuzzled the creature in her eyes, whispering sweet nothings.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the mermaid pulled herself up, and apart from the sticky mess between their legs. She swung her tail over the edge of the table, looked back at a stunned blonde scientist, and warbled plaintively. The language barrier seemed too great. Confounded, all she could do was shake her head at the increasingly distressed sea creature. With webbed fingers, she attempted to scoop up water and whatever else was on the table and rub it on her drying skin. Sickening realisation crawled up her throat, and she nodded emphatically, sinking worry in her stomach. Naked, but for stockings, she slid off the table, and placed one arm under her tail, and another around her back, and heaved the mermaid off the table, and her legs, weak from rippling pleasure, nearly toppled the two of them, but she pressed on, taking careful, weighted steps back towards the locked tank. With a great lift, she heavily dropped the squirming woman as softly as she could into the deep container, and watched her, with both the detached avid fascination of a scientist and the tenderness of a lover, as she swam back and forth to the extent she could, drinking deeply of the water, running it over her gills. Finally, she looked back at the scientist, gazing at her amorously, but with a barely hidden gratitude. She gestured up to the lid, and disappeared into the depths of a tank that seemed to go on forever, and with a sigh, she closed the container on the mermaid, flicked the latches shut, and walked down the aisles aimlessly.
Pulling on her lab coat and shoes, she sat nearly naked, freezing cold, and took a deep breath.
Finally;
“I did it for science!”
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