Disinteresting... Part 2

This is my evening; my morning and afternoon were pretty decent. And then... I started -thinking-. Ugh. Always. "...and I hope the junk yard a few blocks from here, someday burns down, and I hope the rising black smoke carries me far away and I never come back to this town again.... in my life." This was me and my ex-husband's song.

I still feel like this, bleh. Still feel like... just unappealing. No one is interested in doing anything I want to do ever. I know, pout, waah, boohoo, poor Slave, always crying about how no one pays any attention to her.

That's not really how it is, people do pay attention to me. I just wish, that like... someone would ask me once a week... no, not even, --once a month, "What would -you- like to do?"

Seriously. "******, what do you want to do?" Or like, "Would you like to do something? Go somewhere, see a movie, etc., etc.," can someone please, just for like.. I dunno, five minutes or so, -pretend-, I'm not even asking that you genuinely sincerely give a shit... just -pretend- to be interested in me.

I know I seem like the girl who makes the decisions and has stuff figured for the most part, --which is true, I do. I have a master plan, ambition, and so on. But no one ever asks. I'm always asking. "Will you do this?", "Can we do this?" "Do you have time for this?" for me?"

This isn't about any one person either, this is evenly spread over -everyone-, except a couple of people. I miss being ... god, is there a word? I miss something that they haven't invented a word for; I miss intimacy and understanding, and interest, I miss talking and walking around and seeing and doing new things. I miss Dan, and I miss Sire, and I miss Anthony, and my husband, and Jessica and Kristen, and I miss the life I used to have... as opposed to the one I'm in now.

Maybe it's just the heat. I am mostly pleased with my current situation, despite the weirdness. Emotionless, clandestine, minimal intimacy; I can't complain.

I wish there were more hours in the day, more time to enjoy, to work, to learn, and I wish I could be at peace with my flaws, my innumerable eccentricities, and I wish they could be at peace with me. I wish someone would swim with me, and hold me in the water; I want to swim with dolphins and be dragged down down down into the deep water and never come up again. Learn to see in the dark, breathe underwater, and never ever cry because fish can't; how would you tell? I want to be surrounded by water and love all day, all night. And no talking ever; you can't talk underwater, and what would there be to talk about anyway?

"Hey, I just ate this eel," ..."Check out this big hole, dude," ... yeah, talking is not important to fish. I can forget how to read, and spend all my time re-arranging stones on the ocean floor, exploring sunken ships, hiding from sharks, and just snuggling down into the sand every night.

I'd miss music most of all, and conversations, --but honestly, how often do I have them?

Movies, books... If I didn't know any of those things existed, and could only just love the water, that would be best. Memory obliterated along with my capacity for abstract thought. There's a fly in here. Gross. Jeff Goldblum you are so going down.

"And I hope when you think of me years down the line... you can't find one good thing to say."

Sire

Missing you, times infinity...

I wish you were here, etc., etc. It's finals week, lots of stupid things going on, my brain is killing me, and I have no one to tell... just the little world that reads these. I miss you so much, but I know you're doing important things.

Oh, I'm so sick and tired of the taste of tears, the sting of pain, the smell of fear, the sounds of crying; ...I wish you could protect me here... ...Take me away from here, it's me you leave, you're gone from here, don't leave from here, don't leave me here, I hate it here, you're gone from here, don't leave me here, I need you here, I need to see you smile.

But I'll settle with the memory of you for now, and send out my little prayers to you into the void. Just letting you know, I miss you terribly.

Come back soon, and turn me into a vampire; one of the really good emotionless ones, --not the angsty Anne Rice ones, --and let me follow you around forever. Life sucks right now, and it's actually not even that bad. I'm just looking at it wrong, but no one can bully me into a better perspective quite like you can, and no one except you knows how to love me properly. They're doing it all wrong, and I want to cry but it's too hot for that.

Good night, beautiful man. I need hypnotherapy for positive thinking and inner happiness tonight.

Promoted?

Dunno how I feel about this.

I started out working next door, at a property that my same bosses owned as well as other, seedier locations. Anyway, the hotel next door is nicer, and you'd think that would make for a happier, better paid Slave, wouldn't it?

The answer is a firm, resounding,

"Fuck no."

I didn't like it there, despite the better pay, the nice pretty  uniform, and the higher paying clientele. They're fucking assholes. People with money are shit-cunts, and I am determined to always be poor, so that at least, when people pity me for my negative outlook, lack of education, talent, or manners, they can say, "Well, look how poor she is."

I'd rather be poor and miserable than upper middle class and miserable to everyone else who can't afford to spend $100 a night at a barely notable property with an indoor pool that's had more fornication in it in a month than I've had in my life, --not to mention the disgusting saltwater (tastes more like watery cum than ocean, --I know what both taste like), and that it's used like a toilet by obnoxious suburbanite brats. Barf-o-rama. Stay with me, pools and swimming are very important to me, a water sign and all.

Anyway, I'm leaving the liberating company of rogues and the custom of local trash to the bitter exile, a few feet away... And I'm doing it for money and title. My soul feels unclean, and I want to stay with my scoundrels, and run screaming from the scrutiny of the owners, --I barely need to endure it here, and next door, I'll be working closely with them.

I desperately want to be brave and do what needs doing for the sake of affording life and survival, but it means sacrificing the freedom to hate my customers and be barefoot and beautifully unburdened by any need to wear stockings, or high heels or too much foundation.

I want to be wild and obscene and I hate the cage I'm walking into; but... it's necessary. I have to be good, and pretend to be the sweet little underling. I get two days a week though still, to work at the cheaper, less annoying motel. Like... two days of being slightly, if not completely disenchanted by the wicked witch of the west.

Well, it's Friday night and every time I start to be able to appreciate life, some annoying fucktard wanders up to the gate and asks me something stupid, --making it obvious that yes, there's a girl in here, yes, she hates everyone, yes, she will probably snap like a psychopathic lunatic if you keep pestering her.

With evil racial epithets on my tongue, I leave for the evening.

Shhh....

I have about a million things to say, and I'm keeping them all a secret. I'm not going to allow myself to feel at all discarded, used, or ignored today. I'm going to go home and do my laundry, and listen to music as loud as I like in my car, then go to bed early, and simmer.

I can understand why religion is so popular. I mean, unconditional love that endures as long as you don't go around fucking people over, stealing and killing people, and being an asshole? This isn't the popular interpretation, but... I can see how it would be appealing.

Anyway. Enough of this moping. There are things to do besides pining for people who don't pine for me. I resolve to be frozen, and cold, even if I go home to a fucking roasting pan of an apartment.

Hot and Cold

It's curled on the floor sweating
and less than beautiful without
any paint or razor or oil on it.

It's driving in the hot sun
and singing and smoking
and mostly alone and soft
and young.

It's wet and cool and slippery
in what remains of a very hot
eventful, frighteningly lonely day.

It's laying down on a foreign bed
and reading and smoking
about koi so pale and perfect
and swimming.

It's going to rain sometime
and rain and rain and rain
and it will rejoice in the water.

It's lost its reasons for sleep
and living and smoking
and breathing and fighting
and loving.

It's invisible and smooth
and cold and perfect
and smoking and reading
and breathing in and out
in and out
and smoking
and hot and cold
and loved and not loved,
not really loved.
And not loved,
not really,
not at all.

It's okay and isn't it what it isn't and
It is it, isn't it?

Very Bad Things

I've been moping and sulking.

The guy I liked, as it turns out, did not like me. In fact, he liked me so little, he had planned to dissever my association with him... with a text message. Ouch. So my feelings were pretty hurt. And then... I killed them. My feelings, I mean. I took a mental hammer, and killed them all. Tell me please, what good are emotions and affection, when you're all busted up inside like I am, and can't ever behave correctly?

That's not to say I don't blame him for his behavior. I do. I blame him for convincing me I had a future with him, for talking about the future, and making it seem like it was something that could be real. I blame him for using me like a Kleenex, --for fucking me, shooting cum down my throat, filling my head up with bullshit, and -then- deciding he didn't like my personality.

I get myself all angry, and then... remember him holding me, and telling me nice things, and then I can't be angry. I can only deny myself any more crying, wish him the best, and force myself forward.

I've been busy anyway. Finals are due soon, I'm going on vacation --a tiny one, --and work has been hectic because it's tourist season here.

A day I once looked forward to is approaching, and now... It's just another stupid hot day. I'll register for my new classes, give up crying for people that don't give a shit about me, and try to forget he was ever real. None of it was real, and it can't hurt me anymore.

Split/The Faculty

Well, it was nice while it lasted; feeling important, claimed, safe, adored.

As it turns out, I wasn't.

The world cracked open wide around 10:00 this morning.

And at about 12:00, it's slowly pulling itself back together. 

I've been alone for a very long time; I've become very good at being alone. I expect I'll be good at being alone once more. I think I'll be okay. I had good love once, even though it's gone now, and I'll have to just hold on to that through this. 

Sire still loves me, my good friends still love me, and they're the only ones who matter. So when school is out, I'll go back to Florida and be closer to those people. 

What bothers me most is having to tell my family. I feel ashamed, for some reason. Like, "Oh well, you know... that's Ashley, she never could hold onto anyone long." It's true though. I can't. People just don't like me, not in the long term. I don't have those qualities that hold people's interest for extended periods of time. 

Fuck it, though, man. Do you know what was just added to Netflix? THE FACULTY! Only the single best horror movie ever, and Josh Hartnett, omg, --the only sexier character he ever played was Iago, --and Shakespeare has never had more justice done to his work. Plus, I'm caught up with school, and that's a whole other ordeal, but it mostly worked out for the best. 

Disinterest(ing)

I'm sure that I have qualities that the opposite sex find attractive; that was never in question.

After all, I have decent tits, and get off on doing what I'm told. What guy wouldn't jump on that? Unfortunately, most people are forced to endure my personality before they ever know these things about me. I've only met a handful of people who can tolerate my personality, and know very few who love me anyway, --they are mostly relatives, except for maybe four people. I'm blessed with those four, though they are scattered out across the planet.

I have never met anyone who managed to sustain romantic love for me, --except one person, and he doesn't really remember any of it anymore. It was washed away, like someone poured Dawn dish-soap in his brain, and shook his head like a plastic, microwave-safe container. The grease of our ordeal is gone, left him with a clean, fresh slate to start all over again with.

That one person who loved me once so much, --that satisfies. The rest of my lifetime can flow over my eyes and march across my face, and nothing will ever change that I had good love at -least- once.

I just have to keep that in mind today, while I'm feeling guilty, yet again, for talking too much. Being... annoying, and not minding my own business when I should. The new significant other has this whole huge life which does not include me; which is fine.... really, because it's very stressful to be important. I wish I could just remember to shut up.

No feeling sorry for myself today though, nope, not allowed. I have homework, ...work, god forbid, laundry, and I'm so tired already. Next time, maybe, when the urge to be an idiot kicks in, I'll just smother it with a pillow. Oh silly Slave.... no one wants to know what you think, keep that shit to yourself!

Loverboy

This is not actually a new poem; I wrote it four years ago... I think I was fucking a sadist who liked to cut me at the time. As I recall, the sex wasn't exactly terrific, but it was a good time for me. I wore more black, and since I like pain, well... anyway. It was nice.


I've got what you want.
I've got what you need.
I've got the pretty eyes,
I know you like it when 
I bleed.


I've got all the right moves.
I've got all the right of way.
I've got the lovely legs,
I know you like it when
I stay.


Listen up loverboy.
I know what makes you tick.
I love to make you hot.
And I love your hard dick.


I know all the answers.
I know all the smooth replies.
I know how bad you want me.
I love to touch myself while 
Everything around me dies.

Men in Uniform

Maybe it's the uniform, or the authority thing that does it for me, but somehow, I think it goes a little deeper.

Police; polis meaning "city" in Latin, --policeman literally meaning "man of the city."

I don't hate cops. Sure, they make me nervous, because I've had an out of state driver's license for about 18 months, and I smoke pot every couple of weeks to relax, and sleep worth a damn. But I don't hate them. I have a lot of good memories of police in my neighborhood.

I have a lot of good memories of police here at the hotel. Every once in a while, they come by to look for assholes, or they'll just stop and talk to us for a little bit. I have enormous respect for law enforcement, because it's a tough job out here in Meth-Dependence, and they do everything they can.

I remember reading this book that my ex had, called "What Cops Know", --I also listen to a police scanner when I'm bored, rather than the radio. I was surprised at how .... human they were. All of them. And then I was ashamed of myself for expecting them to be anything else. We forget too often that cops are just people, human like us, trying to do their best because they believe in something bigger than themselves. Sure, there are a few assholes in every force, in every city, on the planet. Probably plenty of corrupted pricks out there too.

Even so, plenty are just honest employees like the rest of us, getting dirty, chasing tweakers, and getting a rush out of locking up a rapist, or a burglar, because god damn it, they just enforced the law. Not just technical bullshit laws that make money for the county, but laws that are deeply ingrained in all of us, basic codes of existence: do not steal, do not rape, do not kill, --those laws, and while there is so much and more bureaucracy, every cop (except the few bad apples) are in the business to enforce those laws, those basic codes that make us human. These are the arrests they prefer to make.

Make a genuine effort to not hate police; even when they're pulling you over because you're driving over a speed limit that was clearly posted: you have no right to be angry when you're punished for breaking a law that was clearly posted. If you knew you were breaking the law, and did it anyway, you need to be angry with yourself.

If you're fined or jailed for fighting, smoking crack, carrying pot around, --don't get mad at cops. You knew that shit was against the law. Don't act surprised, don't be an idiot.

If I was arrested for carrying weed around, and speeding, or fined for possession or whatever... I'd be mad at me, for being a moron and getting caught. Not at the cop for catching me.

Ode to Jenna

Porn stars like Jenna Jameson are one in a million; literally. Jenna comes from the great porn era of yesteryear, when it was hot because it had a circumstantial sort of substance. Nowadays, there's just straight sex, to cater to the generation of men and women who want to rub one out real quick, and go to sleep, because they have two billion things to do the next day.

I love situational porn; daddy's best friend, babysitter, horny neighbor, office sex, getting out of a speeding ticket; it's sexier if there's a premise.

Jenna is a sexual role model, --she can teach a girl how to do just about anything, and doubly, she's one of the few women who can look hot while sucking a dick (seriously, most chicks look ridiculous with a cock in their mouth, and I won't lie, I'm probably one of them... it's just not a flattering look, if you're -actually- sucking, and not just... messing around).

She has had a long, terrific career in porn, and went on to establish her own adult entertainment company, a reality series hosted by Playboy, has had minor successes in acting, and may even go on to star in the Broadway musical "Rock of Ages".

She's been everywhere, done everyone, still looks terrific, and doesn't really give a shit what anyone thinks: she's in a perfect situation to avoid scandal, because she's already a porn star. There is no way to scandalize someone who doesn't treat sex as though it should be some big, dirty secret. three cheers for Jenna, her success, and her "fuck it all, and I will" lifestyle. Today's politicians could learn a lot from her.

Bad Girl

I'm a submissive, for only the best of men. Otherwise, I dominate, and not in obvious ways... just.... subtle, little things.

It's a special guy that can make me desperately -want- to obey, that  makes me feel like I need to be commanded. It's delicious, to do what I'm told.

But some days... I'm different. After the storm tonight, this was my theme:

I want to claw, and bite, and drink blood, and suck cock like a whore, --I want to be violated, and I want it rough, and painful... I want to wear black lace and be forced down on my knees... Oh gosh...

Some nights I want to be so bad. It's not even necessarily about sex. I just feel like a rabid lion; my eyes all black and brown, my hair is wild and tangled; my teeth are sharp, thighs are soft, and oooooh, I want to just get tangled up and thrown down, and lost and drowned in this great big beautiful storm. Probably because I'm a Cancer; storms get me all wild and evil inside.

I'm sleepy and my storm is over. I'm peaceful inside again.

I go from wild to soft...

Again; not about sex.

Right now, placid... I am all warmth and softness, and I want to be curled in bed, beside someone special... held and safe.

Sleepy me. I'm going to get naked, curl up around my cat, my pillow, breathe in the clean rainy air, and the gorgeous night... I love this lonely wild/peaceful night. There are no hands on me, but I love this loneliness even so... I can better imagine hands on my thighs, a finger between my lips, kissing and touching and dreaming of the ocean, the sun, and even being back in the pool with my slip thin and wet and clinging to me. I love myself, lonely, and perfect and evil and warm and peaceful and wild and lost; wet hair, warm pussy, smudged eyeliner, smooth legs, long nails, tattoos and silly smile and just... the whole picture, baggage and all.

Slither unto Me, for I am the Night and the Way.

Writing: Freelance Drivel

I worked as a freelance writer for years, and it was possibly the most draining thing I've ever done. I felt constantly raped of any talent I had; throwing away any ability on money to sustain myself with. I will not become a freelance writer again, and will continue trying to write and work towards publishing a novel or an anthology. I wrote this piece back when I was still doing it for a living; just short, commentary prose.

Writing


It's lonely; as a writer, you are a writer and nothing else. The real writer sacrifices everything, to be a writer. When you are with friends, you are thinking of what you would write, if you could; corrections, editing your last entry in some form or another, and always, always writing. It creeps into you and takes over, the possessive, obsessive need to put pen to paper, finger to key and drain your mind until it is a bleak, blank landscape. But if fills again, because there is always a need that must be addressed, always an idea, --whether it is yours or not.

As a professional writer, you do not write books, or articles that appear in books, magazines, or print. Instead, this generation of professionals, we write to sell, we strive to make ends meet by twisting our god given talent until it fits the perimeters of the ALMIGHTY CLIENT. And if your client or customer is not pleased, then you go back and fix it, or you're fired. So what was once sweet release, is now a torturous affair, a barbaric punishment. The art that bled from you was not good, it will not bring more eyes, it will not make more coin.

You will forget there was ever a time when it only needed to be good enough for you. You will forget you ever had an idea, because every idea you work on will be belong to the ALMIGHTY CLIENT. And suddenly, you will wish for the lonely writer who did not make money from the words, who only wished that they could. You will desperately try to find the inspiration to be the writer that clung to the hope that maybe, one day, the PUBLISHING, the divine event of PUBLISHING will occur.

But the writer is dead. You killed this part of yourself, and resurrecting it means killing off the other writer, --the one catering to clients and customers. And what if the resurrection does not work? You will be left with nothing. No ideas, not even someone else's. What will you do for money? What job can you take when once you strove for the divine PUBLISHING, what is there left for you? And you will doubt yourself, until the professional writer takes over...

You become a slave to the doubt, and a slave to the writer, and all your ideas are dead. They never mattered, because they weren't making any money, after all. And what is the point, whispers the professional writer, if you can't make money? The cold part of you responds, and concurs. Surely.. writing for nothing... there is no point. And you forget the feeling you got. The satisfaction. Now it is all work. And you are tired. Maybe tomorrow, tomorrow... Right now...

We will sleep.

Melodrama!

I wrote this a few months ago, when I was all... lonesome, feeling pretty much dead on the inside. I had this perception of myself as a hollow corpse, discarded in a ditch somewhere, dead leaves half obscuring me, and little bugs crawling in and out of me... I felt just absolutely dead, and as every writer knows, nothing inspires you like depression.

Untitled


The compartment is cluttered,
And pretty dirty.
I found a centipede under a towel
Yesterday.
I work and sleep and
Play a game sometimes.

I sleep in the arms of my best friend
I imagine
During hypnotherapy
That I listen to on a tape every night
Before bed, in bed,
Just so I can sleep.

And sometimes at night
I think that I can do something amazing
And fix myself.
But I can't, I always slip.
And in hard times
I remember I can fix myself if I want.
But I never do.

So I see all these
Little examples of true love.
There isn't anyone for me.
I am not healthy or
Pretty enough.
I think I was at one point.
But things have changed.

I lied about some things,
And I fought my whole life
For my whole life.
Just to live.
And found the casualties crying at me
Under my feet.
I love.

I love harder than I can stand.
And he ignores it.
And then he loves me back a little.
I watched a man make it rain
For the woman he loved.
I watched people pretend and
Convince me that love exists.

No one will cover me with roses
No one will watch me sleep
No one will whisper to me in the dark
No one will make it rain for me
No one will fight for me
No one will try to forget me
I just watch them do it for other people.

I reach out
And I do it rarely now
But I do sometimes.
The spaces in between get longer and further apart
Because my hands are always
Pushed away.
Nothing touches them.

Things are better on the outside
Than they've ever been before.
And all I can do is cry so the neighbors
Can't hear.
Because I'm alone
And because at the bottom of
Being alone I decided
I want to be.

Sick, Sore, Seriously Pissed Off

I don't mind helping. I don't. I have driven from my house, back to work, and helped. I've taken phone calls at all hours of the night, I've explained the usage of the security camera at 2:30 am.... recently. But sometimes, I'll admit, I don't want to help. I'm tired, and really want to curl up at home, in my bed, and seriously just -cry- for no reason, the way that girls do when they bleed for seven days, inexplicably, as a cruel joke of biology. Or some Supreme Being's little vendetta, --basically a way for men to justify themselves for being fucking pigs. "God says you're evil, and the fact that you have a biological process every month proves it! We own you! Muahahahahaha!"

Tangent over.

Anyway. I woke up, blood everywhere, ew, already starting the day off with gross female issues that no amount of peppy Tampax commercials can make acceptable. ...And I have to work the morning shift today. Dragging myself out of bed with only four hours of not so terrific sleep behind me, sucks. I get to work sommat on time, and first thing, the night guy is all, enthusiastically, with entirely too much energy and drama, telling me about his night... I already have to read about it, can't you just fuck off, please? Just for today? Do I -look- like I want to hear this shit?

Irritating Night Guy: "So and so (owner) said she wants me to do write the room types beside each room number on the housekeeping checklist. That's like 80 times! That'll take forever!"

Slave: "So... you didn't do it, so that I would have to?"

Fucker: "That's beside the point. I don't -understand- why she wants me to do it. And now she wants me to print out all the future reservations for the whole year, and she told me to call the help desk, but I can't get them to answer, -and- I spent hours trying to figure it out."

Slave: "Uh... huh."

At this point I'm thinking, You lying bitch-made motherfucker...


...and waving him away. We used to be friends, but now, he really just grates on my nerves. He's butthurt, because he didn't get to be manager. I am a person who naturally yearns to obey, and be good for the male authorities in my life... I live for the phrase "good girl." ...So when someone who should comply, doesn't, regardless of where the orders come from, female or male, in whichever position, or WORSE, when such a person directly disregards and disrespects a male whom I honor with a position of power over me... I feel wronged, vicariously. I feel disrespected, and I'm angry.

It's been a continuous rebellion of sorts, and this is just one more example of the Irritating Night Guy's determination not to obey, or assimilate to these changes.

I -like- having someone to obey, professionally, right here in the office. I am -relieved- of the overwhelming responsibility, and it's nice. I understand that males are different... but I do not understand the blatant disregard for professionalism, especially when the other male, who works a swing shift of nights and evenings ...has assimilated already. Anyway... armed with a smoothie and a diet coke... I face the day, still feeling sickly.