Have you ever had one of those self-induced orgasms that, to go completely cliche for a moment, make you literally cry from pure, unadulterated, unashamed, longing?
I've had a few.
Just had one, actually.
I put on some of my fast-paced modern classical and a sort of fake silky sheet, got naked, and hopped on the phone with my man who's up in the northwest somewhere, and proceeded to use an electric cord to... well, do things that I'd really rather him do. And then I was allowed to get off, and even though it took longer than normal because I was tired, and had a stressful day, it was nice.
All the bottled up sadness from being separated washed down out of my skull, down my throat, poured into my breast, and dripped from my nipples down between my legs and swelled there, on my stinging, whipped sore labia. It finally rushed back up in a straight line up my spine, and hurtled back into my throat, demanding the due payment of a sob or two, but I bit down on it, and forced it to stay there, until I was off the phone. When he went to sleep, I curled around the watery afterglow, and allowed my inside self one short sob, and one tear only, then closed my soul's hands around it, strangled it, and shoved it back in my chest.
Most of the time, when I climax, --cum, for the male audience, --I just giggle like a retard, and try to reboot the braincells I killed for a moment, and force them to remember how to sit up and have a cigarette. But once in a while, I have this profound bittersweet experience, and have to write about it, or I'll forget.
I am taking only one silly girly moment. Then I'm going back to the trashy desk slave.
My whole entire soul cried out in agony and pleasure for a man tonight, and tried to escape from my body. That's gotta be a good thing.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Fuckin' Tards
Don't like the bed? You might have said something earlier, bitch, like, I dunno... when you fucking checked in?
And... a special, warm thanks to the fucking cocksucking tweaker who ripped the pool light out of its hole. Now I can't swim tomorrow, you bitch, which isn't -that- big of a deal, but still. Ugh.
Haven't done my homework yet, and I really miss my man.
That is all for today. And I might post the ending to Reasons tonight, when I'm finished with a certain relaxation ritual. So far though, shitty day.
And... a special, warm thanks to the fucking cocksucking tweaker who ripped the pool light out of its hole. Now I can't swim tomorrow, you bitch, which isn't -that- big of a deal, but still. Ugh.
Haven't done my homework yet, and I really miss my man.
That is all for today. And I might post the ending to Reasons tonight, when I'm finished with a certain relaxation ritual. So far though, shitty day.
Friday, May 25, 2012
The Rules of the Reservation
*ringring*
"Nnnnh..."
*ringring*
Slave: "....------ this is A-----, how can I help you?"
Black Guy Who Talks Way Too Much About Shit I Don't Give a Fuck About:
"I'm coming out on Sunday the 15th (I don't actually know what fucking month he's talking about until much later), and my company was supposed to hold a room for me and --blah blah blah blah blah blah..."
Meanwhile, some guy walks up, who sees I'm on the phone, and starts to just sit his key on the counter and walk off. Oh hell no, motherfucker, you're in my line of sight, now you're going to be acknowledged whether you like it or not.
White Guy Trying to Escape: "...blah blah blah blah checking out blah blah blah blah..."
Slave: "What room?"
....Annoying black guy is still talking, apparently oblivious to the fact I'm ignoring all his reasons, plans, and so on, because he has yet to say much that has anything at all to do with my role in all of his rambling...
White Escapee: "2--. Blah blah blah blah."
Slave: "Great, thanks, have a good day."
By the way, it's pissing rain, and I also don't give a fuck about his day.
Black Guy is still talking, and now that I'm done dealing with the first douchebag, I can finally stop the stream of insanity pouring out of this asshole.
Slave: "Yeah, okay. What day?"
Black Guy: "Sunday, the 15th."
Slave: "Yes, of which month."
Black Guy: "Uh... July. My office was supposed to hold a room for me on the 15th."
Slave: "Just a second."
What I really want to say is, "Congratulations, good for you," but I hold it in, and though I am already fairly certain there's nothing in there for that day, I check anyway. You know why I know there's not going to be anything in there? Because he specifically used the word "hold". Black people do that. "Let me hold some money, dawg," or in this case, "I need you to hold a room for me." The reservation process is foreign and scary for them. Yep, I said it. Don't like it? Fuck you.
Slave: "There are no reservations in here, sir, for either of those days."
Black Guy, Getting Stupider by the Second: "Uh yeah, that's cause I didn't make one. My office was just supposed to call and hold a room for me."
Slave: "Sir, we do not "hold" rooms. We make reservations. Unless you make a guaranteed reservation, with a credit or debit card (I don't add the word "valid" because most people are going to fuck us with their expired shit anyway) we cannot guarantee that you'll have a room."
Black Guy: -makes feeble, ineffectual comments that mean nothing- "...blah blah blah my office was supposed to pay with a "corporate check", I don't want my card charged."
Slave: "Sir, I don't charge the card, I record the number in case you don't show up, --then I charge you," and at this point, I'm really just going over the basic, elementary shit that should be common sense, and he's acting awed and shocked. I refer him to the manager for the whole "check" thing. Wtf is a "corporate check" and what makes it special? No clue, and since I cannot personally accept checks, I'm not going to stress over it.
Point being, don't fucking call a motel this early in the morning. If it's just now getting to be around 8 am, wait until later. No one wants to talk to you this early, no matter how happy they sound to hear from you. As a matter of fact, I've said this before, but just in general, you should try to remember, that most of the customer service representatives you speak to, hate you. They hate you, and they want nothing to do with you. We don't want to talk to you or interact with you in any capacity whatsoever, and frankly, we're only here in this Purgatorial nightmare because we have bills to pay. We didn't choose customer service because we dreamed for years about being shit upon by assholes with more money than us since we were old enough to strip our Barbies. We're here because it was what was available. Get in, get out, be polite, and don't make us remember you. Because if you should be so unlucky to attract our attention, we will fuck you every time; you will be remembered, by employees that succeed us for years to come.
Have a great day!
"Nnnnh..."
*ringring*
Slave: "....------ this is A-----, how can I help you?"
Black Guy Who Talks Way Too Much About Shit I Don't Give a Fuck About:
"I'm coming out on Sunday the 15th (I don't actually know what fucking month he's talking about until much later), and my company was supposed to hold a room for me and --blah blah blah blah blah blah..."
Meanwhile, some guy walks up, who sees I'm on the phone, and starts to just sit his key on the counter and walk off. Oh hell no, motherfucker, you're in my line of sight, now you're going to be acknowledged whether you like it or not.
White Guy Trying to Escape: "...blah blah blah blah checking out blah blah blah blah..."
Slave: "What room?"
....Annoying black guy is still talking, apparently oblivious to the fact I'm ignoring all his reasons, plans, and so on, because he has yet to say much that has anything at all to do with my role in all of his rambling...
White Escapee: "2--. Blah blah blah blah."
Slave: "Great, thanks, have a good day."
By the way, it's pissing rain, and I also don't give a fuck about his day.
Black Guy is still talking, and now that I'm done dealing with the first douchebag, I can finally stop the stream of insanity pouring out of this asshole.
Slave: "Yeah, okay. What day?"
Black Guy: "Sunday, the 15th."
Slave: "Yes, of which month."
Black Guy: "Uh... July. My office was supposed to hold a room for me on the 15th."
Slave: "Just a second."
What I really want to say is, "Congratulations, good for you," but I hold it in, and though I am already fairly certain there's nothing in there for that day, I check anyway. You know why I know there's not going to be anything in there? Because he specifically used the word "hold". Black people do that. "Let me hold some money, dawg," or in this case, "I need you to hold a room for me." The reservation process is foreign and scary for them. Yep, I said it. Don't like it? Fuck you.
Slave: "There are no reservations in here, sir, for either of those days."
Black Guy, Getting Stupider by the Second: "Uh yeah, that's cause I didn't make one. My office was just supposed to call and hold a room for me."
Slave: "Sir, we do not "hold" rooms. We make reservations. Unless you make a guaranteed reservation, with a credit or debit card (I don't add the word "valid" because most people are going to fuck us with their expired shit anyway) we cannot guarantee that you'll have a room."
Black Guy: -makes feeble, ineffectual comments that mean nothing- "...blah blah blah my office was supposed to pay with a "corporate check", I don't want my card charged."
Slave: "Sir, I don't charge the card, I record the number in case you don't show up, --then I charge you," and at this point, I'm really just going over the basic, elementary shit that should be common sense, and he's acting awed and shocked. I refer him to the manager for the whole "check" thing. Wtf is a "corporate check" and what makes it special? No clue, and since I cannot personally accept checks, I'm not going to stress over it.
Point being, don't fucking call a motel this early in the morning. If it's just now getting to be around 8 am, wait until later. No one wants to talk to you this early, no matter how happy they sound to hear from you. As a matter of fact, I've said this before, but just in general, you should try to remember, that most of the customer service representatives you speak to, hate you. They hate you, and they want nothing to do with you. We don't want to talk to you or interact with you in any capacity whatsoever, and frankly, we're only here in this Purgatorial nightmare because we have bills to pay. We didn't choose customer service because we dreamed for years about being shit upon by assholes with more money than us since we were old enough to strip our Barbies. We're here because it was what was available. Get in, get out, be polite, and don't make us remember you. Because if you should be so unlucky to attract our attention, we will fuck you every time; you will be remembered, by employees that succeed us for years to come.
Have a great day!
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Who's Excited About the Last Season of Teen Mom?
Okay so... I have a big, dirty, dastardly secret:
I like reality TV.
I know! Can you believe it? Meee?! The smart, fat girl, who is pretty fuckable and has emotional problems? I should just read books and live with my cats and get useless degrees in philosophy and history! I have no business doing trendy mainstream things... Craziness.
But, I do. I love Teen Mom, because while yes, MTV does pay them for their parenting, they also are pretty aware of how hard it is to deal when you have kids at a young age.
I'm especially ready to see that Amber bitch back in action. She's like... so crazy. But it's not like, ridiculous crazy it's, "I had a kid with an absolute dumbass mama's boy that I really honestly thought I could make it work with, because he's nowhere near as intelligent as I am, maybe he won't catch on..." crazy. That kind. She has issues, but it's because she knows she deserves better than what she ended up with. Gary is just a glorified sperm donor, and honestly, I can't believe she ever lowered herself to the level required to sleep with that pathetic pushover.
Amber needs a real man; not some little bitch boy, who thinks proposing is going to make everything better, and has some naive idea of what life should be like. A real man would tell her what's up real quick: Bitch, you need to settle down, and get out of my face with all your bullshit, or I'm gone, and you'll be back to mooching off your friends and family, and the fucktard who knocked you up." A real man, who will work at a real job, provide real income, and motivate her to get up off the couch and STOP all the bawling about how hard life is, and how sad she is for having an illegitimate kid when she was 16.
MTV is paying all your shit, girl. You need to squash all the whinging, and do you for a while. Stop all the Gary this, Gary that. I know you don't connect with anyone, ever, like you do with the father/mother of your child... but! that doesn't mean it's a connection that has to override everything else in significance and priority.
She's still really young, and I think once she settles down, and gets away from all the stupid friends who agree with every dumb idea that passes into her brain when she's anxious or stressed... she'll be okay.
I'd really like to see some resolution between Maci and Ryan; those two.. I dunno, I think in a weird way, they still really care about one another, but have a hard time meshing, because they're both very arrogant and prideful.
Catelynn and Tyler are great, have been since forever; they might be rushing things a little, but honestly, they're still really young, and I have only the highest hopes for them and their advocating the "adoption option" for teen moms.
In the way that Amber really needs a real, grown up, adult man whose mama doesn't take care of him.... Farrah needs to just be alone for a while. I see her grasping for partnership not because she's lonely (but anyone can see she is, definitely), but because she wants a guy she can depend on. Her parents bother me; I know she tries harder than it seems to make things work with a parent who looks a lot different in person than on camera. I have a mother that is sweet as pie to your face, and goes all Jekyll and Hyde when the door's closed. For the best possible benefit to Farrah, I'd really rather see her as self-sufficient, and wait until she feels more secure, alone, than with a guy.
...and that's my big long pre-season 4 (last season) of Teen Mom rant.
I like reality TV.
I know! Can you believe it? Meee?! The smart, fat girl, who is pretty fuckable and has emotional problems? I should just read books and live with my cats and get useless degrees in philosophy and history! I have no business doing trendy mainstream things... Craziness.
But, I do. I love Teen Mom, because while yes, MTV does pay them for their parenting, they also are pretty aware of how hard it is to deal when you have kids at a young age.
I'm especially ready to see that Amber bitch back in action. She's like... so crazy. But it's not like, ridiculous crazy it's, "I had a kid with an absolute dumbass mama's boy that I really honestly thought I could make it work with, because he's nowhere near as intelligent as I am, maybe he won't catch on..." crazy. That kind. She has issues, but it's because she knows she deserves better than what she ended up with. Gary is just a glorified sperm donor, and honestly, I can't believe she ever lowered herself to the level required to sleep with that pathetic pushover.
Amber needs a real man; not some little bitch boy, who thinks proposing is going to make everything better, and has some naive idea of what life should be like. A real man would tell her what's up real quick: Bitch, you need to settle down, and get out of my face with all your bullshit, or I'm gone, and you'll be back to mooching off your friends and family, and the fucktard who knocked you up." A real man, who will work at a real job, provide real income, and motivate her to get up off the couch and STOP all the bawling about how hard life is, and how sad she is for having an illegitimate kid when she was 16.
MTV is paying all your shit, girl. You need to squash all the whinging, and do you for a while. Stop all the Gary this, Gary that. I know you don't connect with anyone, ever, like you do with the father/mother of your child... but! that doesn't mean it's a connection that has to override everything else in significance and priority.
She's still really young, and I think once she settles down, and gets away from all the stupid friends who agree with every dumb idea that passes into her brain when she's anxious or stressed... she'll be okay.
I'd really like to see some resolution between Maci and Ryan; those two.. I dunno, I think in a weird way, they still really care about one another, but have a hard time meshing, because they're both very arrogant and prideful.
Catelynn and Tyler are great, have been since forever; they might be rushing things a little, but honestly, they're still really young, and I have only the highest hopes for them and their advocating the "adoption option" for teen moms.
In the way that Amber really needs a real, grown up, adult man whose mama doesn't take care of him.... Farrah needs to just be alone for a while. I see her grasping for partnership not because she's lonely (but anyone can see she is, definitely), but because she wants a guy she can depend on. Her parents bother me; I know she tries harder than it seems to make things work with a parent who looks a lot different in person than on camera. I have a mother that is sweet as pie to your face, and goes all Jekyll and Hyde when the door's closed. For the best possible benefit to Farrah, I'd really rather see her as self-sufficient, and wait until she feels more secure, alone, than with a guy.
...and that's my big long pre-season 4 (last season) of Teen Mom rant.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Aaaaaaah!
Sam made my ringtone the first 20 seconds or so of Cherry Pie by ICP...
I feel all special. I love that song, and I love that segment. I can't wait to see if he can make me scream like that. I'm still listening to Nightcall by Kavinsky & Lovefoxxx; I love this song. I swam today, laid in the sun, and my thighs got burned, but they'll tan eventually, so no worries. Except maybe melanoma, but fuck it; I'd rather die pretty than pale and gross.
Sam has yet to be introduced; he's my Dom, FYI. Currently collar shopping, 'cept mine is going to be a super-cute little anklet instead of an obnoxious collar or bracelet. Ideally, in my opinion, it would be an ID bracelet, inscribed with,
"Private Property, Trespassers Will Be Shot"
but he likes,
"Beware of Owner."
Whatever he picks, I know it'll be spectacular.
He got off the phone with me about...hmmm, ten minutes ago, and I miss him already.
BUT!
In other, less sissified, girly news, --I've been playing the first Bioshock and kicking major ass. I'm still in the first map area; haven't gotten Telekinesis yet from the Dandy Dentist's place, but I do have the fire shit coming out of my hand, and super-duper-electric awesomeness. Only got about five trophies so far, and...
I HAVE YET TO KILL A BIG DADDY OR A LITTLE SISTER!
Where are these fuckers? I saw one, headed down a tunnel parallel to mine while I was hunting that fucked up plastic surgeon prick, Steinman, or whatever, and now... I'm trying to get telekinesis to move some debris, then go kill his ass.
But I'm tired now, no more video games until tomorrow. When I beat this, I'll be playing Bioshock 2, and maybe after that, I'll trade in Arkham City (which just irritates me) and Resident Evil (the latest, dunno which it is because I HAVEN'T EVEN OPENED IT YET) to get Diablo 3. Besides, I heard the latest Resident Evil blows anyway. I miss Diablo 2 but my fucking desktop won't play it. -mutters-
I feel all special. I love that song, and I love that segment. I can't wait to see if he can make me scream like that. I'm still listening to Nightcall by Kavinsky & Lovefoxxx; I love this song. I swam today, laid in the sun, and my thighs got burned, but they'll tan eventually, so no worries. Except maybe melanoma, but fuck it; I'd rather die pretty than pale and gross.
Sam has yet to be introduced; he's my Dom, FYI. Currently collar shopping, 'cept mine is going to be a super-cute little anklet instead of an obnoxious collar or bracelet. Ideally, in my opinion, it would be an ID bracelet, inscribed with,
"Private Property, Trespassers Will Be Shot"
but he likes,
"Beware of Owner."
Whatever he picks, I know it'll be spectacular.
He got off the phone with me about...hmmm, ten minutes ago, and I miss him already.
BUT!
In other, less sissified, girly news, --I've been playing the first Bioshock and kicking major ass. I'm still in the first map area; haven't gotten Telekinesis yet from the Dandy Dentist's place, but I do have the fire shit coming out of my hand, and super-duper-electric awesomeness. Only got about five trophies so far, and...
I HAVE YET TO KILL A BIG DADDY OR A LITTLE SISTER!
Where are these fuckers? I saw one, headed down a tunnel parallel to mine while I was hunting that fucked up plastic surgeon prick, Steinman, or whatever, and now... I'm trying to get telekinesis to move some debris, then go kill his ass.
But I'm tired now, no more video games until tomorrow. When I beat this, I'll be playing Bioshock 2, and maybe after that, I'll trade in Arkham City (which just irritates me) and Resident Evil (the latest, dunno which it is because I HAVEN'T EVEN OPENED IT YET) to get Diablo 3. Besides, I heard the latest Resident Evil blows anyway. I miss Diablo 2 but my fucking desktop won't play it. -mutters-
Reasons: Part 2
Beverly twitched her foot a few times, and stared at her hem. She resisted the urge to look around at the other women in the lobby. But she could hear one crying; she could smell the one guy here who wore cologne. Beverly thought, at least there was one who was willing to man up, to pay for what he'd done; at least in the monetary sense. He might be a shit, but at least he was standing up and facing the after-care, the... 'clean up' as it were.
She had other reasons for not having children; the world was a shit place, too many people in it, and many of them criminals. But one reason kept her coming back, back to the box, to turn over the little glass globe, the crystal thought in her head. If thoughts were crystal balls, she thought, this one would be mud-colored, because it was definitely a bad one. It was a big bad theory that she kept in another locked box, inside the other. It was a reason she'd never spoken aloud, not in the many arguments she'd had with the quasi-religious relatives, or the dwindling number of friends.
There was a reason, a superficial one that was obvious, that... hid the real one beneath, --it was like a cloth cover, and she doubted very much that it was the type of cloth that could be seen through, by anyone really. Who would honestly, try to? And that was the thing; who really, short of a daring psychiatrist or two, wanted to think about these things, these, shining, dirty bad theories that she kept tightly squirreled away? And yet, she was sure that more than one woman had arrived at this conclusion, and worse, these women had probably had daughters of their own.
The cloth cover, the obvious and sometimes entirely false reason was this: Men left. The nuclear family was the best setting to raise healthy normal children, but the men of this generation left, they weren't good for partnering with, and certainly bad prospects for breeding with the intent of a family unit in the future. Oh sure, they bred; they bred non-stop, creating a new generation of manic depressive teenagers who might as well have 'DADDY ISSUES' stamped in big blocky red letters on their foreheads. For all she knew, some of them probably did. The times were a marvel; how once hidden defaults and disorders became trendy accessories, to be taken into the schools for show and tell. You show me your emotional disorder, I'll show you mine... later on we'll cut ourselves and listen to techno or the sound of some androgynous guy wailing about -his- problems. That sort of self-absorbed shit.
She has been there, it was just a phase, sure, and one she found herself sinking into less and less as she left her own adolescence. Beverly imagined her adolescence, and often thought of a voluptuous girl, crying in the dusty, dirty Midwestern small town somewhere in a gully, where she'd fallen. A dirty girl-child who was developing too quickly, knew too much, and via natural intuition, became something new. Something bad, that which Beverly happened to like very much. But her adolescent self was always crying, because despite Beverly's moments of triumph, she was ...lonely, as this other species. This new breed; this flaw of evolution. Being the only one of her kind, like an alien, Beverly was set apart and immediately outcast by everyone in infinitesimal ways... she was even injured, and often, by kindness. Kindness can be a killer, for some.
© 2012 Ashley Harness
(And if you don't think I'll sue you, you're wrong.)
She had other reasons for not having children; the world was a shit place, too many people in it, and many of them criminals. But one reason kept her coming back, back to the box, to turn over the little glass globe, the crystal thought in her head. If thoughts were crystal balls, she thought, this one would be mud-colored, because it was definitely a bad one. It was a big bad theory that she kept in another locked box, inside the other. It was a reason she'd never spoken aloud, not in the many arguments she'd had with the quasi-religious relatives, or the dwindling number of friends.
There was a reason, a superficial one that was obvious, that... hid the real one beneath, --it was like a cloth cover, and she doubted very much that it was the type of cloth that could be seen through, by anyone really. Who would honestly, try to? And that was the thing; who really, short of a daring psychiatrist or two, wanted to think about these things, these, shining, dirty bad theories that she kept tightly squirreled away? And yet, she was sure that more than one woman had arrived at this conclusion, and worse, these women had probably had daughters of their own.
The cloth cover, the obvious and sometimes entirely false reason was this: Men left. The nuclear family was the best setting to raise healthy normal children, but the men of this generation left, they weren't good for partnering with, and certainly bad prospects for breeding with the intent of a family unit in the future. Oh sure, they bred; they bred non-stop, creating a new generation of manic depressive teenagers who might as well have 'DADDY ISSUES' stamped in big blocky red letters on their foreheads. For all she knew, some of them probably did. The times were a marvel; how once hidden defaults and disorders became trendy accessories, to be taken into the schools for show and tell. You show me your emotional disorder, I'll show you mine... later on we'll cut ourselves and listen to techno or the sound of some androgynous guy wailing about -his- problems. That sort of self-absorbed shit.
She has been there, it was just a phase, sure, and one she found herself sinking into less and less as she left her own adolescence. Beverly imagined her adolescence, and often thought of a voluptuous girl, crying in the dusty, dirty Midwestern small town somewhere in a gully, where she'd fallen. A dirty girl-child who was developing too quickly, knew too much, and via natural intuition, became something new. Something bad, that which Beverly happened to like very much. But her adolescent self was always crying, because despite Beverly's moments of triumph, she was ...lonely, as this other species. This new breed; this flaw of evolution. Being the only one of her kind, like an alien, Beverly was set apart and immediately outcast by everyone in infinitesimal ways... she was even injured, and often, by kindness. Kindness can be a killer, for some.
© 2012 Ashley Harness
(And if you don't think I'll sue you, you're wrong.)
Wanton Woman Wanting to Drive Off
So! I have a brand new favorite song, and for some reason, it's making me incredibly just... what's a good word that isn't gross for female arousal? Anyway, to put it the only way know how, --rudely, --it makes me want a dick in me. It's the male machine-y voice, all growl and electronic... Makes my thighs hot and my neck tingle.
I want a nightcall, and to be driven through the hills...
I swam tonight. Shhh. Don't tell. I wasn't supposed to go until tomorrow, which I will, because I need the sun. But I loooove swimming at night. I love how dangerous I feel doing it. Being locked inside the high, black fence, creeping through the water; I feel like an exhibit, which I also love. All caged and beautiful and wet. I love to float on top of the water and pretend to be a dead girl; eyes closed, just letting the water move me.
Melodrama! I know. I'm terrible. I smoked and talked with this horrendous know-it-all woman and her friend (who is so obviously just placating the old wench that I feel sorry for her). Then I got rid of her, nicely, and locked myself in the big cage, in the dark; just me and the fluorescent lights and the empty windows.
I listened to In for the Kill by La Roux on loop, and loved the cold air on my skin, and felt like a water snake, all smooth curves and fangs. I kind of want to go out and drive around for a bit, after I transfer new songs, --specifically, this one, --to my MP3 player.
I want a nightcall, and to be driven through the hills...
I swam tonight. Shhh. Don't tell. I wasn't supposed to go until tomorrow, which I will, because I need the sun. But I loooove swimming at night. I love how dangerous I feel doing it. Being locked inside the high, black fence, creeping through the water; I feel like an exhibit, which I also love. All caged and beautiful and wet. I love to float on top of the water and pretend to be a dead girl; eyes closed, just letting the water move me.
Melodrama! I know. I'm terrible. I smoked and talked with this horrendous know-it-all woman and her friend (who is so obviously just placating the old wench that I feel sorry for her). Then I got rid of her, nicely, and locked myself in the big cage, in the dark; just me and the fluorescent lights and the empty windows.
I listened to In for the Kill by La Roux on loop, and loved the cold air on my skin, and felt like a water snake, all smooth curves and fangs. I kind of want to go out and drive around for a bit, after I transfer new songs, --specifically, this one, --to my MP3 player.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Reasons: Part 1
I wrote this story a while ago; it's a reflection of some of my own feelings regarding my abortion, what it was like, and my feelings about having children. They're not all quite as extreme as Beverly's, but there are some parallels between my character and myself. It's probably a sign of vanity, but I think most writers pour themselves into their players, and I'm no different. I'm not posting all this in one day, because it's long. And that would be annoying, and no one would read it.
Reasons: Part 1
There were reasons Beverly didn't want to have children; everyone doubted they were good ones. A few people, family members, of course, --because no one knows how to inspire humiliation, or any negative emotion really, better than a relative, and all with the ingenuity that comes from a 'good' intention, --referred to them as 'excuses'. But her reasons were her own, god damn it, and they sat in the back of her mind in a locked cabinet, that was rarely dusty because, anytime she saw or heard from a friend, --amazing how few of those there were these days, --who happened to have kids, she examined its contents, satisfied herself after her perusal, and slammed the lid down hard enough to rattle the few remaining shreds of sanity where they lingered in her brain pan.
Beverly's chief reason, if asked, was that her mother was an insane cunt who abused her both physically and mentally; and for this reason, Beverly was especially afraid to have a girl.
Beverly looked like her mother, everyone said so, and it was too easy to imagine her mother's sneer, super-imposed over her own, when her daughter told her about someone who 'messed' with her. Touched her. It was too easy to hear herself say something about the way her child had dressed, or swung her hips, or invited the attention of an older boy. It was too easy to imagine herself shrugging away sexual abuse, and her worst fears, her worst nightmare was that it was too easy to imagine herself punishing a daughter for something so obviously, so perfectly NOT the child's fault.
Imagining anything was easy, really; Beverly's main attribute was imagination. It got her not very far in life at all; it got her frightened, it got her lots of anxiety attacks over stupid little things. It got her bad dreams, a tendency to cling to men who didn't need her and worse, men she didn't need either. Oh imagination was a talent all right, but also a curse. And one hell of a curse can get a person in a hell of a lot of trouble, if a girl can let it fester long enough, long enough to turn into a cancer that ate away at her mind, body, soul; Beverly was far from a 'bad' person. At least, sometimes she thought so privately.
There were many good attributes that she could think of about herself; she was generous, loyal to a limit that she thought was, nine times out of ten, a decent moral line, --she was kind to people, and had a conscience. She was irrational and easily provoked, --but that was a fairly feminine flaw, and she was still fairly young. Her hormones were still settling, and patience was ever slowly settling in and drawing out.
(Continued... tomorrow, maybe.)
© 2012 Ashley Harness
(And if you don't think I'll sue you, you're wrong.)
Reasons: Part 1
There were reasons Beverly didn't want to have children; everyone doubted they were good ones. A few people, family members, of course, --because no one knows how to inspire humiliation, or any negative emotion really, better than a relative, and all with the ingenuity that comes from a 'good' intention, --referred to them as 'excuses'. But her reasons were her own, god damn it, and they sat in the back of her mind in a locked cabinet, that was rarely dusty because, anytime she saw or heard from a friend, --amazing how few of those there were these days, --who happened to have kids, she examined its contents, satisfied herself after her perusal, and slammed the lid down hard enough to rattle the few remaining shreds of sanity where they lingered in her brain pan.
Beverly's chief reason, if asked, was that her mother was an insane cunt who abused her both physically and mentally; and for this reason, Beverly was especially afraid to have a girl.
Beverly looked like her mother, everyone said so, and it was too easy to imagine her mother's sneer, super-imposed over her own, when her daughter told her about someone who 'messed' with her. Touched her. It was too easy to hear herself say something about the way her child had dressed, or swung her hips, or invited the attention of an older boy. It was too easy to imagine herself shrugging away sexual abuse, and her worst fears, her worst nightmare was that it was too easy to imagine herself punishing a daughter for something so obviously, so perfectly NOT the child's fault.
Imagining anything was easy, really; Beverly's main attribute was imagination. It got her not very far in life at all; it got her frightened, it got her lots of anxiety attacks over stupid little things. It got her bad dreams, a tendency to cling to men who didn't need her and worse, men she didn't need either. Oh imagination was a talent all right, but also a curse. And one hell of a curse can get a person in a hell of a lot of trouble, if a girl can let it fester long enough, long enough to turn into a cancer that ate away at her mind, body, soul; Beverly was far from a 'bad' person. At least, sometimes she thought so privately.
There were many good attributes that she could think of about herself; she was generous, loyal to a limit that she thought was, nine times out of ten, a decent moral line, --she was kind to people, and had a conscience. She was irrational and easily provoked, --but that was a fairly feminine flaw, and she was still fairly young. Her hormones were still settling, and patience was ever slowly settling in and drawing out.
(Continued... tomorrow, maybe.)
© 2012 Ashley Harness
(And if you don't think I'll sue you, you're wrong.)
Monday, May 21, 2012
Locked the Keys in Your Car?
This has nothing to do with me, --we're not friends, you just happen to be staying here, and NOW you want to feed me some bullshit spiel about how the manager lied to you and so on, about putting you in a different room?
I know nothing of this. And since I generally like the manager, I'm probably not going to contradict him for any reason whatsoever. He probably wouldn't move you because you're a trashy piece of shit, and you've remodeled the room back there to match your character.
And WHY is it necessary to invade my personal space, and practically stand on my feet while you tell me this? Your scraggly, toothless fucking self is entirely too close to me.
Anyway! Go back to your room, and leave me out of it.
UPDATE... 5 Minutes Later:
Guest relations calls, says the guy was rude to the agent, hung up on the agent before he could even get two or three words in, because "we" won't change the room. Again, if the manager said no, then the answer is a resounding, firm, declarative NO. And just to back me up, I spoke to the owner, who agreed. If manager says no, answer is still no.
Annnd... I just checked a complete nutcase in... but politeness and soft-spoken girly tones work on anyone, especially when you're as cute as me. Except foreigners, and butch chicks.
I know nothing of this. And since I generally like the manager, I'm probably not going to contradict him for any reason whatsoever. He probably wouldn't move you because you're a trashy piece of shit, and you've remodeled the room back there to match your character.
And WHY is it necessary to invade my personal space, and practically stand on my feet while you tell me this? Your scraggly, toothless fucking self is entirely too close to me.
Anyway! Go back to your room, and leave me out of it.
UPDATE... 5 Minutes Later:
Guest relations calls, says the guy was rude to the agent, hung up on the agent before he could even get two or three words in, because "we" won't change the room. Again, if the manager said no, then the answer is a resounding, firm, declarative NO. And just to back me up, I spoke to the owner, who agreed. If manager says no, answer is still no.
Annnd... I just checked a complete nutcase in... but politeness and soft-spoken girly tones work on anyone, especially when you're as cute as me. Except foreigners, and butch chicks.
...And Now For Something Completely Different
I was at home the other night having a glass of wine, and was teetering on the edge of tired, if not exactly exhausted, when I decided to go looking for a friend and coworker's poetry and miscellaneous written work. He'd seen my blog here, which is now all re-done, and significantly different than what it was before. Well, I found it and enjoyed most of what I found.
...Then later, I felt lazy. I have all this writing floating around on the Internet, and you can't really find it... anywhere! I have one other blog that hasn't been updated since the dawn of time, and was primarily meant for book reviews. And then are the sites I freelance for, occasionally, and an entire collection of stories and poems that have been archived in a forum for YEARS!
Not to mention, I very frequently have something to say about where I work, the customers, and even the co-workers at times, --but since one of them is in my audience, I'll have to behave myself on that front for the most part.
There are a few private projects rolling right now that I can't really share too much of, such as academic forum discussion (though they're pretty damn funny at times), the collaboration anthology I'm working on with a friend, confidential work for past clients (ghostwritten books and articles), and plenty of really bad poetry that will never see the light of day.
In the future, there will be plenty of complaining, plenty of horror, melodrama, and uncomfortable narratives. See you there.
...Then later, I felt lazy. I have all this writing floating around on the Internet, and you can't really find it... anywhere! I have one other blog that hasn't been updated since the dawn of time, and was primarily meant for book reviews. And then are the sites I freelance for, occasionally, and an entire collection of stories and poems that have been archived in a forum for YEARS!
Not to mention, I very frequently have something to say about where I work, the customers, and even the co-workers at times, --but since one of them is in my audience, I'll have to behave myself on that front for the most part.
There are a few private projects rolling right now that I can't really share too much of, such as academic forum discussion (though they're pretty damn funny at times), the collaboration anthology I'm working on with a friend, confidential work for past clients (ghostwritten books and articles), and plenty of really bad poetry that will never see the light of day.
In the future, there will be plenty of complaining, plenty of horror, melodrama, and uncomfortable narratives. See you there.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)