Today was a long day, and I just now got to work. I was up late, as usual last night, --got off work around 8:30 pm, was trying to work off some extra hours that I missed the day before, and got about two down, if I'm lucky. I got home, and watched the rest of the first season of Jericho, which was disappointing, so I can see why they wanted to cancel it. Despite it being a grand series, I can see where people might have begun losing interest.
Anyway, I like it. Teaches you some very important post-apocalyptic skills.
So anyway, I went to bed around 2 am, woke up at 8:30 am, drove to Blue Springs, --that's half an hour for all of you, who have no idea how far Blue Springs is from Independence, in the middle of rush hour morning traffic, it actually took a bit longer. Then I helped my 79 year old grandfather fix the brakes and left steering axle on my ancient car. The parts only cost around $30, but the labor took about four and a half hours. So we finished everything by about 1:30, then I made a quick sandwich and ate lunch with them, took some leftovers for dinner at work, and ran off again, after of course thanking and re-iterating how much I love them, repeatedly for ten minutes.
I drove all the way back to Independence, and managed to speed more effectively since I wasn't exactly afraid my brake pads would fall out on the highway, or that the axle over my left wheel would crack and drop the left side of the car on the road, flipping me, and most likely, successfully ending my life.
I got back to my house at 2:20 pm, showered, quickly, and threw my hair into some messy conglomeration on top of my head, and put on as little make-up as I could to make myself presentable. I also picked out Someone's favorite blouse, because I was going to probably be about five minutes late, and did want to cushion as much irritation as possible.
I left at 2:50 and sped the whole way, shrieking to Pat Benatar, and made it to work eight minutes late... the clock in my car is set incorrectly apparently, because it lied and told me I was only five minutes late. Then again, I did have to go around and take things out of the passenger side of the car, and that probably took an extra minute.
When I got in, Someone told me that he was frustrated because he had begun to think that I might be taking advantage of our unique position; him being the supervisor, me being a subordinate, and us having a ...thing. Dunno how to label the circumstances just yet, and I'll probably be somewhat evasive where the subject is concerned for sometime.
I was offended, but he made amends by coming back down later and smoothing me out like a sheet on a mattress... I only pouted for about 20 minutes altogether.
And hopefully, next time we get some time together, he'll punish me.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Sunday, July 15, 2012
A Certain Psycho
For all intents and purposes, the subject of the title shall be henceforth named "Dumbass."
Why are all the veteran members of Darkness.com forums falling all over themselves trying to be nice to Dumbass, and going so far as to be sure to be nice to him on FB and Twitter? WTF is wrong with you?
YOU, you people. You know who you are, and all your postulating and excuses will not save you from my disdain. Shame on you all.
Dumbass has threatened the man you supposedly all think is your BFF for life, --numerous times. And yet you just keep humoring Dumbass, and placating his obviously deteriorated brain.
Sire has given Dumbass money, support, friendship, --the genuine kind, not the stuff you all claim to have, --and actual consideration, for many years before Dumbass went off his meds and made it his personal mission to destroy Darkness.com and the man who owns it, --in his own twisted mind, Dumbass really believes he is capable of this.
And your continued association with this vile Creature, is like supporting his whole movement.
Dumbass has ripped Sire off in many ways, stabbing him in the back, using money for convention that Sire gave him, for purposes not intended, --not to mention, blatantly insulting him and causing Darkness to close open membership. But do you care? Of course not.
It's not like Sire pays for the upkeep and maintenance of Darkness.com out of his own pocket or anything. For you ungrateful cunts.
Oh wait, that's right, he does! He pays for YOU FUCKS to go behind his back and commiserate with that cocksucking fucktard, the Dumbass that Goeth by Another Name, --for his hard-earned money. He recently had a rough time, financially, --and rather than sell Darkness and be back in the black, he keeps it open, and continues to maintain it for who?
For you fuckers who can't pry your lips from around Dumbass's cock long enough to take a good, long look at exactly who you're sucking off. This is the guy who stalks his ex-wife, makes videos of himself harassing her on the phone, and abused meds for years, --verbally abused his kids, --and his ex-wife's, and performed various acts of self-abuse and suicide attempts in his own home, around his kids, who are probably scarred for life.
This is the person who you can't unhook yourselves from.
How do I know these things? I dated and lived with his brother, who's an asshole and a leech, --and STILL manages to be a better man than Dumbass, --who stole from his grieving, recently widowed mother, and his own brother, who had just been divorced, while they were living together and trying to pick up the pieces and get their lives together. Then along comes the proverbial spider, and STEALS from his own mother, and his brother, --just a few months after his father died.
Every time you message, or respond to that putrid cocksucker, you're not just stabbing me in the back, --publicly and Internet-wide defamed by Dumbass, along with plenty of other members you call friends, --but you're stabbing Sire, Dumbass's mother, and his brother, --because by continuing to support his lunacy, you're even lower than he is.
You're lower because you're fucking unoriginal.
Why are all the veteran members of Darkness.com forums falling all over themselves trying to be nice to Dumbass, and going so far as to be sure to be nice to him on FB and Twitter? WTF is wrong with you?
YOU, you people. You know who you are, and all your postulating and excuses will not save you from my disdain. Shame on you all.
Dumbass has threatened the man you supposedly all think is your BFF for life, --numerous times. And yet you just keep humoring Dumbass, and placating his obviously deteriorated brain.
Sire has given Dumbass money, support, friendship, --the genuine kind, not the stuff you all claim to have, --and actual consideration, for many years before Dumbass went off his meds and made it his personal mission to destroy Darkness.com and the man who owns it, --in his own twisted mind, Dumbass really believes he is capable of this.
And your continued association with this vile Creature, is like supporting his whole movement.
Dumbass has ripped Sire off in many ways, stabbing him in the back, using money for convention that Sire gave him, for purposes not intended, --not to mention, blatantly insulting him and causing Darkness to close open membership. But do you care? Of course not.
It's not like Sire pays for the upkeep and maintenance of Darkness.com out of his own pocket or anything. For you ungrateful cunts.
Oh wait, that's right, he does! He pays for YOU FUCKS to go behind his back and commiserate with that cocksucking fucktard, the Dumbass that Goeth by Another Name, --for his hard-earned money. He recently had a rough time, financially, --and rather than sell Darkness and be back in the black, he keeps it open, and continues to maintain it for who?
For you fuckers who can't pry your lips from around Dumbass's cock long enough to take a good, long look at exactly who you're sucking off. This is the guy who stalks his ex-wife, makes videos of himself harassing her on the phone, and abused meds for years, --verbally abused his kids, --and his ex-wife's, and performed various acts of self-abuse and suicide attempts in his own home, around his kids, who are probably scarred for life.
This is the person who you can't unhook yourselves from.
How do I know these things? I dated and lived with his brother, who's an asshole and a leech, --and STILL manages to be a better man than Dumbass, --who stole from his grieving, recently widowed mother, and his own brother, who had just been divorced, while they were living together and trying to pick up the pieces and get their lives together. Then along comes the proverbial spider, and STEALS from his own mother, and his brother, --just a few months after his father died.
Every time you message, or respond to that putrid cocksucker, you're not just stabbing me in the back, --publicly and Internet-wide defamed by Dumbass, along with plenty of other members you call friends, --but you're stabbing Sire, Dumbass's mother, and his brother, --because by continuing to support his lunacy, you're even lower than he is.
You're lower because you're fucking unoriginal.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
"Deep into the Darkness Peering..."
Once upon a time, there was... a girl. She is bright and dark, and tan, and blonde, and overweight enough that she will often be told she "could be very pretty" if only she'd lose weight, by family members. This, compounded by an abusive childhood, some of it sexual, some of it physical, and the largest portion verbal and emotional, --these things, make her somewhat sexually "adventurous" and not at all inhibited. The past makes her insecure and desperate for love, and when she finds love, she usually finds it is her own love, poured into someone who doesn't want it, and will not give her theirs. She loves strong, and she loves true, and most importantly, she loves free. It doesn't take money, or even any particular quality to earn it from her. Approaching her 26th birthday in less than two weeks, this quality is still mostly alive in her, maybe a little damaged, but it's there.
Her first great love was a man we all know because she talks about him in a carefree way, because... she has no man to scare away with talk of another great man, by which she will measure all men. We won't say his name here, but we'll tell you hers in just a moment. He loved her fiercely, and she holds him firmly in her heart; a reminder that it is, or once was, possible for her to be loved fiercely. She has many flaws, and she is ashamed of them, but... hides them as well as the next person. And this great first love saw past them, which to her, was tantamount to divine power. He loved her through her panic attacks, pregnancy, abortion, anxiety, anger, and depression, and he loved her after he met her mother. And she grew up with him before they inevitably, --like all good partnerships do, --dissolved.
Years later, this man tells a Friend about his ex, Ashley, --this is our girl, --and although she is busy being attracted to someone else, she is also willing to pursue this friend. Well, the friend is probably a good man to her ex, the great man who inspires goodness in others, but the Friend is not a good man to her. He uses her like a condom, pulls her off, and throws her away. Ashley does not get over this Friend easily, because she did not expect to be hurt by any Friend of her great man, --not someone this man knew and trusted with her heart. But maybe that was karma, because she had once broken her great man's heart, and now... she deserved to be broken too? Ashley wonders when she will stop getting what she deserves, and tries to be as nice as she can, so that it will stop.
This is where things become shadier. Those that know the prequel will wonder what is going on. And I will explain it in the epilogue.
Another driver from the same trucking company the Great Man, and the Friend work at arrives. He is tall, somewhat wide, but not in a way that is unattractive to her, and his name is Steve, for the benefit of the story. He arrives one afternoon after she's had a very long day of buying a new car battery she doesn't have, getting stranded with her neighbor the first time he ever goes anywhere with her, preparing for (dreading) her sometimes lover's short vacation to the land of inaccessibility, her apartment without air conditioning, and the intense panic attack she had when a wasp chased her around her grandparents' car. It had been a very long day, and Steve, who she believed was trustworthy, since he knew both the Friend, and the Great Man, --offered to take her to an afternoon movie. She acquiesced, knowing she was safe with any friend of His.
The movie was terrible, and halfway through, they both took a break; her to the Ladies, him to the Mens, and all is right with the world, until she leaves the public bathroom and can't find him. She looks high and low, and sees his big truck parked in the same place, with him in it. He is far from her, and waves her over, just poking his upper body out of the open door and motioning. She follows the wave, wondering who this is, if at all, the identity of the person has changed, and where Steve is. She opens the door, and climbs in.
It is not Steve. It is a Thin Man, who is very tan, tanner than her, and he smiles from his position in the drivers' seat. He smiles and smiles at her and starts the truck, pulls out and drives. The Thin Man is looking at her dress, and her thick frame, and appraising it, and he is driving her away and she isn't stopping him because she is nervous and suddenly, very insecure. She buckles her seatbelt, sits back, rolls the window down, and smokes. They are getting on the highway, and the Thin Man, the very tan man, is smiling and smiling. He offers no explanation, and she asks for none.
"My girlfriend doesn't smoke, but it's okay that you do, for a while. At least today," he says suddenly.
Ashley frowns out the open window, hurt that this person stealing her is making her part of some harem.
"She's fifteen," the Thin man grins, proud of his conquest.
Ashley throws her cigarette into the dry grass on the side of the highway and hopes she starts a fire. Policemen are doing something, and they are approaching several cars, about twenty feet apart, with cops pacing around between them. She thinks about signaling them, but doesn't. The Thin Man maybe heard this from her thoughts.
"You can signal S.O.S. with your hands," he made some flourishing gesture, being goofy, and obscene, "do you know how to do it?"
She shook her head, and continued staring out the window. She looked down at the door lock, and made sure it was secure, pushing it down firmly, just in case. She looked into the back, at the shelves above the twin bed. She recognized her comforter, rolled into a tight, messy ball, beside bags of her clothes. She wasn't calm anymore. There was something burning up her throat from her stomach, something horrible that made her want to scream and cry, --seeing her blanket here.
"How did you get inside my apartment?" Ashley asks.
The Thin Man smiles, and ignores her, eyes on the road.
"I hope you didn't break my door," she continues, her voice still steady, despite the mechanics she's working with the seatbelt. Traffic is thick, they aren't moving fast, because this is the All Star week, and even though the motel she works at is slow, it's good to see that people are actually coming for it. He is ignoring her still, and paying attention to the road.
Ashley keeps a handmade knife with her at all times, because she is very sentimental. The Great Man bought it for her at a gun show; it has a curved, claw-like blade and its own little sheath. She has used it on many fish; it is very sharp because Ashley was taught by Him many years ago to keep her knives in the kitchen sharp, and so she did, --lovingly so, keep it sharp. She was using it to cut through the base of the seatbelt, right above the plastic casing that held it above the floorboard. It came free, and she stretched it as far as it would go, --and she did all this, being as nonchalant as possible.
"Is my cat okay? You didn't hurt my cat?" Ashley was close to panicking, just thinking of her cat, her own real love, --not a man at work who had boundaries, --not an ex who had someone new, --not her Sire who had a life altogether separate from her, --but a real living thing who slept with her and depended on her, and whose love she did not have to question. She tied the base into a knot, hiding her hands behind her seat on the right.
The Thin man smiles wider. He ignores her further, squinting at the glare of the ninety-degree sun on the roofs of the many cars in front of him. She unfastens her seatbelt, and out the door Ashley goes, holding tight to the length of the thick, life-saving belt, and her feet quickly find the surface of the dusty incline of bare dirt beside her. He is driving slowly, and he is now speeding up, and before she starts being dragged, she lets go, falling flat on her face. The truck is big, and he can't slam on his brakes nearly as quickly as she can get up, dirty and probably bleeding, and run into oncoming traffic.
A woman with dark skin, a blonde ponytail, and a mutt in the backseat of her tiny red Asian-made-convertible-of-some-sort, --stops. And she smiles, and gathers up Ashley who is breathing is a strangled, screaming, fast way, and begging for her cat. The dog puts his chin on her shoulder when she finally hides her face in the dark safety of her palms, and cries, and cries, and cries.
Ashley wakes up in the front seat later, and it is dark, and the woman gives her a can of Coke, and a cigarette. They don't talk. She says nothing, and Ashley says nothing, and the dog is thrilled to be alive and turning circles in the backseat, barking at passersby, but not loudly, and never once dares to jump over the door, --which would be easier than anything, --and chase anyone.
The woman with the Ponytail drives Ashley to a motel, and checks her in. On the way over, Ashley looks up at the dark sky, the bright stars, the brighter moon, and drinks her soda and smokes. She is calmer now, and knows there will be tears later, police, explanations to be made. She knows that she'll have questions for Great Man and his Friend, --and she won't know how to ask, and she wonders if they'd be honest.
The Ponytail is checking her in, making an explanation, --the clerk shakes his head in seeming disbelief, but she can tell from outside, watching through the window, that he doesn't care, and isn't really surprised. She knows, because she is a motel clerk, and knows how easy it is to be skeptical and desensitized. Ashley has never checked in a crying woman without making sure that the problem was heard, understood, and the woman was hugged at least once. This is her guilty secret that no one else at her job knows.
She goes upstairs, and gives Ponytail all her important numbers, and Ashley eventually begins to drift off; her head is on Ponytail's lap, and Dog is curled up against the small of her back. Ponytail is rallying everyone, who will hopefully find her out here, in this alien world she is in now. She doesn't know where she is, but she trusts Ponytail completely, because she has Dog. And Dog would not be so happy to be with Ponytail if she was not at least, in some measure, trustworthy.
Ashley is still scared of what's happened to her cat, and the rest of the future, --the questions and the answers, and the story she'll have to tell. The changes she'll be forced to make to her life, because fear and paranoia will find her when the surreal edges come back into focus, and reality will slap her hard in the face, wake her up, and demand things of her. She is afraid of the future, and the possibility that her sometimes lover might not want her anymore, or see her differently. Afraid, but lethargy has crept in now, and she is falling asleep.
Besides. Everyone else is afraid of the future too.
The End.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
No one kidnapped me today. I have been having extremely intense dreams lately, because of the heat, I guess. Only the people who know me will know which parts of this story are completely true. Last night, I dreamed that a guest at my motel tried to rape me, and instead, just ended up strangling me and slapping me around.
I remembered all of this dream, because it scared me, and took me about 45 minutes to figure out if it really happened or not. It took me an hour and a half to write it, and I had to stop at one point because I started to have another panic attack, --which would make two in one day for me.
I'm going to go for a short drive now, pick up something to drink, and smoke, and listen to a little music and bask in my car's AC. Rough sleep has hurt my back, my heart, my mind, and maybe my soul. Maybe... just a scratch.
Her first great love was a man we all know because she talks about him in a carefree way, because... she has no man to scare away with talk of another great man, by which she will measure all men. We won't say his name here, but we'll tell you hers in just a moment. He loved her fiercely, and she holds him firmly in her heart; a reminder that it is, or once was, possible for her to be loved fiercely. She has many flaws, and she is ashamed of them, but... hides them as well as the next person. And this great first love saw past them, which to her, was tantamount to divine power. He loved her through her panic attacks, pregnancy, abortion, anxiety, anger, and depression, and he loved her after he met her mother. And she grew up with him before they inevitably, --like all good partnerships do, --dissolved.
Years later, this man tells a Friend about his ex, Ashley, --this is our girl, --and although she is busy being attracted to someone else, she is also willing to pursue this friend. Well, the friend is probably a good man to her ex, the great man who inspires goodness in others, but the Friend is not a good man to her. He uses her like a condom, pulls her off, and throws her away. Ashley does not get over this Friend easily, because she did not expect to be hurt by any Friend of her great man, --not someone this man knew and trusted with her heart. But maybe that was karma, because she had once broken her great man's heart, and now... she deserved to be broken too? Ashley wonders when she will stop getting what she deserves, and tries to be as nice as she can, so that it will stop.
This is where things become shadier. Those that know the prequel will wonder what is going on. And I will explain it in the epilogue.
Another driver from the same trucking company the Great Man, and the Friend work at arrives. He is tall, somewhat wide, but not in a way that is unattractive to her, and his name is Steve, for the benefit of the story. He arrives one afternoon after she's had a very long day of buying a new car battery she doesn't have, getting stranded with her neighbor the first time he ever goes anywhere with her, preparing for (dreading) her sometimes lover's short vacation to the land of inaccessibility, her apartment without air conditioning, and the intense panic attack she had when a wasp chased her around her grandparents' car. It had been a very long day, and Steve, who she believed was trustworthy, since he knew both the Friend, and the Great Man, --offered to take her to an afternoon movie. She acquiesced, knowing she was safe with any friend of His.
The movie was terrible, and halfway through, they both took a break; her to the Ladies, him to the Mens, and all is right with the world, until she leaves the public bathroom and can't find him. She looks high and low, and sees his big truck parked in the same place, with him in it. He is far from her, and waves her over, just poking his upper body out of the open door and motioning. She follows the wave, wondering who this is, if at all, the identity of the person has changed, and where Steve is. She opens the door, and climbs in.
It is not Steve. It is a Thin Man, who is very tan, tanner than her, and he smiles from his position in the drivers' seat. He smiles and smiles at her and starts the truck, pulls out and drives. The Thin Man is looking at her dress, and her thick frame, and appraising it, and he is driving her away and she isn't stopping him because she is nervous and suddenly, very insecure. She buckles her seatbelt, sits back, rolls the window down, and smokes. They are getting on the highway, and the Thin Man, the very tan man, is smiling and smiling. He offers no explanation, and she asks for none.
"My girlfriend doesn't smoke, but it's okay that you do, for a while. At least today," he says suddenly.
Ashley frowns out the open window, hurt that this person stealing her is making her part of some harem.
"She's fifteen," the Thin man grins, proud of his conquest.
Ashley throws her cigarette into the dry grass on the side of the highway and hopes she starts a fire. Policemen are doing something, and they are approaching several cars, about twenty feet apart, with cops pacing around between them. She thinks about signaling them, but doesn't. The Thin Man maybe heard this from her thoughts.
"You can signal S.O.S. with your hands," he made some flourishing gesture, being goofy, and obscene, "do you know how to do it?"
She shook her head, and continued staring out the window. She looked down at the door lock, and made sure it was secure, pushing it down firmly, just in case. She looked into the back, at the shelves above the twin bed. She recognized her comforter, rolled into a tight, messy ball, beside bags of her clothes. She wasn't calm anymore. There was something burning up her throat from her stomach, something horrible that made her want to scream and cry, --seeing her blanket here.
"How did you get inside my apartment?" Ashley asks.
The Thin Man smiles, and ignores her, eyes on the road.
"I hope you didn't break my door," she continues, her voice still steady, despite the mechanics she's working with the seatbelt. Traffic is thick, they aren't moving fast, because this is the All Star week, and even though the motel she works at is slow, it's good to see that people are actually coming for it. He is ignoring her still, and paying attention to the road.
Ashley keeps a handmade knife with her at all times, because she is very sentimental. The Great Man bought it for her at a gun show; it has a curved, claw-like blade and its own little sheath. She has used it on many fish; it is very sharp because Ashley was taught by Him many years ago to keep her knives in the kitchen sharp, and so she did, --lovingly so, keep it sharp. She was using it to cut through the base of the seatbelt, right above the plastic casing that held it above the floorboard. It came free, and she stretched it as far as it would go, --and she did all this, being as nonchalant as possible.
"Is my cat okay? You didn't hurt my cat?" Ashley was close to panicking, just thinking of her cat, her own real love, --not a man at work who had boundaries, --not an ex who had someone new, --not her Sire who had a life altogether separate from her, --but a real living thing who slept with her and depended on her, and whose love she did not have to question. She tied the base into a knot, hiding her hands behind her seat on the right.
The Thin man smiles wider. He ignores her further, squinting at the glare of the ninety-degree sun on the roofs of the many cars in front of him. She unfastens her seatbelt, and out the door Ashley goes, holding tight to the length of the thick, life-saving belt, and her feet quickly find the surface of the dusty incline of bare dirt beside her. He is driving slowly, and he is now speeding up, and before she starts being dragged, she lets go, falling flat on her face. The truck is big, and he can't slam on his brakes nearly as quickly as she can get up, dirty and probably bleeding, and run into oncoming traffic.
A woman with dark skin, a blonde ponytail, and a mutt in the backseat of her tiny red Asian-made-convertible-of-some-sort, --stops. And she smiles, and gathers up Ashley who is breathing is a strangled, screaming, fast way, and begging for her cat. The dog puts his chin on her shoulder when she finally hides her face in the dark safety of her palms, and cries, and cries, and cries.
Ashley wakes up in the front seat later, and it is dark, and the woman gives her a can of Coke, and a cigarette. They don't talk. She says nothing, and Ashley says nothing, and the dog is thrilled to be alive and turning circles in the backseat, barking at passersby, but not loudly, and never once dares to jump over the door, --which would be easier than anything, --and chase anyone.
The woman with the Ponytail drives Ashley to a motel, and checks her in. On the way over, Ashley looks up at the dark sky, the bright stars, the brighter moon, and drinks her soda and smokes. She is calmer now, and knows there will be tears later, police, explanations to be made. She knows that she'll have questions for Great Man and his Friend, --and she won't know how to ask, and she wonders if they'd be honest.
The Ponytail is checking her in, making an explanation, --the clerk shakes his head in seeming disbelief, but she can tell from outside, watching through the window, that he doesn't care, and isn't really surprised. She knows, because she is a motel clerk, and knows how easy it is to be skeptical and desensitized. Ashley has never checked in a crying woman without making sure that the problem was heard, understood, and the woman was hugged at least once. This is her guilty secret that no one else at her job knows.
She goes upstairs, and gives Ponytail all her important numbers, and Ashley eventually begins to drift off; her head is on Ponytail's lap, and Dog is curled up against the small of her back. Ponytail is rallying everyone, who will hopefully find her out here, in this alien world she is in now. She doesn't know where she is, but she trusts Ponytail completely, because she has Dog. And Dog would not be so happy to be with Ponytail if she was not at least, in some measure, trustworthy.
Ashley is still scared of what's happened to her cat, and the rest of the future, --the questions and the answers, and the story she'll have to tell. The changes she'll be forced to make to her life, because fear and paranoia will find her when the surreal edges come back into focus, and reality will slap her hard in the face, wake her up, and demand things of her. She is afraid of the future, and the possibility that her sometimes lover might not want her anymore, or see her differently. Afraid, but lethargy has crept in now, and she is falling asleep.
Besides. Everyone else is afraid of the future too.
The End.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
No one kidnapped me today. I have been having extremely intense dreams lately, because of the heat, I guess. Only the people who know me will know which parts of this story are completely true. Last night, I dreamed that a guest at my motel tried to rape me, and instead, just ended up strangling me and slapping me around.
I remembered all of this dream, because it scared me, and took me about 45 minutes to figure out if it really happened or not. It took me an hour and a half to write it, and I had to stop at one point because I started to have another panic attack, --which would make two in one day for me.
I'm going to go for a short drive now, pick up something to drink, and smoke, and listen to a little music and bask in my car's AC. Rough sleep has hurt my back, my heart, my mind, and maybe my soul. Maybe... just a scratch.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Scared?
The most feared thing in the world is not the dark, or even dying. Not really.
It's the fear of choice. We're all desperately terrified that what we do matters. Everything we do.
Everything we do. Every thing.
So. What have we done?
What have you done? What have I done?
And on what scale will these things be measured? Good against bad? Right against wrong?
When you enter the Hall of Two Truths, will you stand before Osiris and the judges, and will your heart weigh more than Maat's golden feather? Are you afraid of being Devoured by Ammit?
It's the fear of choice. We're all desperately terrified that what we do matters. Everything we do.
Everything we do. Every thing.
So. What have we done?
What have you done? What have I done?
And on what scale will these things be measured? Good against bad? Right against wrong?
When you enter the Hall of Two Truths, will you stand before Osiris and the judges, and will your heart weigh more than Maat's golden feather? Are you afraid of being Devoured by Ammit?
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Untitled
Angels are non-existent.
All the good boys die before they grow up.
Good girls cry until they're not good anymore.
And angels still don't exist.
2007
Cops: Part 2
I've talked about police before. I am not afraid of policemen, for a variety of reasons. I was thinking about this again tonight because currently, three K-9 unit cars are sitting outside my workplace. And all that occurs to me is "they're taking some off, and we're better off without them."
I've been arrested, pulled over, and had to pay a couple really massive fines, --all on different occasions in my lifetime. I was arrested and charged with felony weapon possession when I was 15, and went two years on probation, --I was pulled over last year because I accidentally ended up in the wrong lane at a red light one night when I was insanely tired, and thank god, the car that pulled in to turn was a cop's, because if it hadn't been, I might've been killed, and I had to pay fines, two years ago in Texas for disorderly conduct and delaying public transportation. I was cussing out a school bus driver. Long story.
All these things, and it has never occurred to me to hate the police.
When I was a kid, my mother had the police called on her constantly. The policeman who came to our duplex in Sugar Creek, a small town in Missouri, were always kind to me and my brothers, and I remember them bringing us a stuffed animal now and then too. When I was little, the stuffed animals that I got from the cops who came to our house were my prized possessions. The police were then, and continue to be, a protective authority in my life. I felt safe in a cop's arms when I was a kid; I felt safe with a cop holding my hand, and I felt even safer on the few occasions they took my mom off to jail, and drove us to our grandparent's house.
I've been arrested, pulled over, and had to pay a couple really massive fines, --all on different occasions in my lifetime. I was arrested and charged with felony weapon possession when I was 15, and went two years on probation, --I was pulled over last year because I accidentally ended up in the wrong lane at a red light one night when I was insanely tired, and thank god, the car that pulled in to turn was a cop's, because if it hadn't been, I might've been killed, and I had to pay fines, two years ago in Texas for disorderly conduct and delaying public transportation. I was cussing out a school bus driver. Long story.
All these things, and it has never occurred to me to hate the police.
When I was a kid, my mother had the police called on her constantly. The policeman who came to our duplex in Sugar Creek, a small town in Missouri, were always kind to me and my brothers, and I remember them bringing us a stuffed animal now and then too. When I was little, the stuffed animals that I got from the cops who came to our house were my prized possessions. The police were then, and continue to be, a protective authority in my life. I felt safe in a cop's arms when I was a kid; I felt safe with a cop holding my hand, and I felt even safer on the few occasions they took my mom off to jail, and drove us to our grandparent's house.
Guys Who Like Fat Chicks
Women who constantly post about how great it is to have curves, according to MEN who like FAT chicks, --are deranged. These men who like fat chicks are the same sort of specimen who enjoys dating a cancer patient. If your "man" is with you because you are a Jenny Craig candidate, and you're celebrating this fact, --you need to re-examine your situation. He is dating you or marrying you, or whatever, because of how you look. How is that any better than a guy who'd rather date a skinny girl? Both types of people are shallow. Guys that date ANY girl based on appearance, are shallow. Be over the whole "I like a woman with meat on her bones" thing. Men who say that make me want to puke. It's not meat, you fucktard, --it's fat. I am not "meaty", I am fatty. And what kind of thing is that to say to ANY woman, ever?
"I like a girl with meat on her bones."
Several men have said this to me. Um, why is that an okay compliment if you're overweight? Just because you're a fat chick, doesn't mean you have to let all sense of self-respect fly out the window. It is not okay to accept this as a compliment.
Hey guys, how about something like,
"You have beautiful... hair, skin, hands, eyes..." Whatever physical thing you like. "You've got a really cute ass," is always good.
The reason fat chicks get picked on, is NOT because they're fat. It is because YOU, other fat bitches, allow people to pick on you. YOU allow it. You present yourself as a negative-confident individual who has given up on life and love and ambition. It's okay if that's how you want to be, but if it's not, get the fuck over that shit, and do something fucking productive. Stop being an easy target, and take some fucking pride in your appearance.
This is coming from a fat bitch. Yes, I'd rather be healthier, and weigh less. But I don't because I'm lazy and I love food, smoking, and drinking. I'm also one sexy motherfucker, and I can suck a dick like nobody's business. I take as little bullshit as I can manage.
I get depressed, I get lonely, and I get very pessimistic from time to time. But!
I get my shit back together and deal with it. And guess what? Skinny people can be pathetic losers too. Trust me, I see quite a few of them every day. They make crackwhores in all shapes and sizes.
"I like a girl with meat on her bones."
Several men have said this to me. Um, why is that an okay compliment if you're overweight? Just because you're a fat chick, doesn't mean you have to let all sense of self-respect fly out the window. It is not okay to accept this as a compliment.
Hey guys, how about something like,
"You have beautiful... hair, skin, hands, eyes..." Whatever physical thing you like. "You've got a really cute ass," is always good.
The reason fat chicks get picked on, is NOT because they're fat. It is because YOU, other fat bitches, allow people to pick on you. YOU allow it. You present yourself as a negative-confident individual who has given up on life and love and ambition. It's okay if that's how you want to be, but if it's not, get the fuck over that shit, and do something fucking productive. Stop being an easy target, and take some fucking pride in your appearance.
This is coming from a fat bitch. Yes, I'd rather be healthier, and weigh less. But I don't because I'm lazy and I love food, smoking, and drinking. I'm also one sexy motherfucker, and I can suck a dick like nobody's business. I take as little bullshit as I can manage.
I get depressed, I get lonely, and I get very pessimistic from time to time. But!
I get my shit back together and deal with it. And guess what? Skinny people can be pathetic losers too. Trust me, I see quite a few of them every day. They make crackwhores in all shapes and sizes.
Friday, July 6, 2012
July
So, around this time, I was supposed to spend a whole day with a guy who was great, and is now non-existent. Instead, I'm sitting here in my room, no fucking air conditioning, listening to old music about how much life sucks...
We had plans. He was going to give me flowers on my birthday, and let me pick out curtains. I was going to obey, and acquiesce to his whims.
And now...
I get a chance, every once in a while, to put my head down on someone else's shoulder, and sometimes, I don't feel so ... broken. I don't mean it the way you think I do. I mean it the way my good friend and ex, Dan, means it: FUBAR'd. Fucked up beyond all repair.
I have baggage, cracks, tears, and I feel hollow sometimes. Like one of those people who can't think without echoing inside. Regurgitating everything else. I am suspicious of people who find me attractive: if you like me, something -must- be wrong with you. As it turns out, he didn't actually like me as much as perhaps, the "idea" of me.
I mean I am broken, fundamentally. Down inside, I gave up, and now I only pretend to live. Maybe other people can tell. Maybe they can't. Maybe I don't really pretend, and this trivia that I fill my daily life with, maybe this is only the best I can do.
I hope not. I hope I'm only ...pending repair.
Does anyone out there have a screwdriver?
We had plans. He was going to give me flowers on my birthday, and let me pick out curtains. I was going to obey, and acquiesce to his whims.
And now...
I get a chance, every once in a while, to put my head down on someone else's shoulder, and sometimes, I don't feel so ... broken. I don't mean it the way you think I do. I mean it the way my good friend and ex, Dan, means it: FUBAR'd. Fucked up beyond all repair.
I have baggage, cracks, tears, and I feel hollow sometimes. Like one of those people who can't think without echoing inside. Regurgitating everything else. I am suspicious of people who find me attractive: if you like me, something -must- be wrong with you. As it turns out, he didn't actually like me as much as perhaps, the "idea" of me.
I mean I am broken, fundamentally. Down inside, I gave up, and now I only pretend to live. Maybe other people can tell. Maybe they can't. Maybe I don't really pretend, and this trivia that I fill my daily life with, maybe this is only the best I can do.
I hope not. I hope I'm only ...pending repair.
Does anyone out there have a screwdriver?
Moth
I wrote this for my lovely friend, who once went by "Moth."
~
What is it like to pass as moths do, dying like that?
How does it feel, spent and lying like that?
How would it be to lay, heaving, knowing you once could fly,
but now cannot. How does it feel for a moth to die?
To remember tumbling upwards, high and away,
Now dwindling, fluttering down, where it must stay?
Is it sacred for them; dying I mean, as it is to we?
Do moths everywhere wait, hearts beating, to see?
A lost companion, comrade, lover, child, brother, friend?
Or do they just listlessly, fly on towards their end?
How is it for a moth to lay, twitching in the rain?
Is it a heavy burden? Does the water sting or bring pain?
When their microscopic feathers float away like dust,
Do they feel some sorrow at the loss? They must.
Do they want to tear their wings off on their own?
Angry for not being able to use them to fly home?
...These are the things I think of, sweeping up in the alley at night,
Silvery wings glinting bitterly in the ferocious glare of phosphorus light.
Cigarette ends mingling with shining shards of green glass, my shift ends soon.
I'm crying in the alley... And I'm screaming at the moon.
2007
~
What is it like to pass as moths do, dying like that?
How does it feel, spent and lying like that?
How would it be to lay, heaving, knowing you once could fly,
but now cannot. How does it feel for a moth to die?
To remember tumbling upwards, high and away,
Now dwindling, fluttering down, where it must stay?
Is it sacred for them; dying I mean, as it is to we?
Do moths everywhere wait, hearts beating, to see?
A lost companion, comrade, lover, child, brother, friend?
Or do they just listlessly, fly on towards their end?
How is it for a moth to lay, twitching in the rain?
Is it a heavy burden? Does the water sting or bring pain?
When their microscopic feathers float away like dust,
Do they feel some sorrow at the loss? They must.
Do they want to tear their wings off on their own?
Angry for not being able to use them to fly home?
...These are the things I think of, sweeping up in the alley at night,
Silvery wings glinting bitterly in the ferocious glare of phosphorus light.
Cigarette ends mingling with shining shards of green glass, my shift ends soon.
I'm crying in the alley... And I'm screaming at the moon.
2007
Vampires
Vampires
A very long time ago, when I was still quite new and young,
The world where I imagined myself was beautiful; untouched by the sun.
I could soak up the moonlight, and was proud of my skin.
I wore no garments at all, and if I did they were thin.
My eyes were pearls, which meant I was blind,
I could see everything though, so I did not mind.
The dew was a song I could feel in my hair,
The sky was awash in stars, and roses grew from the air.
I looked o'er the sky once, as I thought, with my mind,
Colors, green, and bright... eyes open, I was disturbed to find.
The tips of the trees were burning with golden fiery light,
And I ran from my garden towards the black night.
A horse as dark as the sky took me far away,
And soon I found myself hidden from the day.
I slept in the blissful blackness that soothed me,
But sadly that peace was not meant to be.
Soon the corners of the sky turned blue,
I ran to my horse, and he took me still further to
Where women pushed pens into my hand
Bid me sign, and find some man.
Men in dark suits, stiff, and crackling white shirts,
Banshees screaming "Work for us, money soothes all hurts!"
I clung to my black horse, rode through such demonic array
We rode and rode, desperately seeking to escape the day.
Gentle hands of city nymphs tore at my ankles and feet,
Bearing the grins of men who knew no defeat.
Whispering sweetly doubts into my head,
Of how they'd hold me until I was dead.
Still I held the mane of my black horse very tight,
We sailed on, towards neverending night.
Sadly, they came very early and tempted my dark charger away,
With the promise of races, luxury, oats, and full bins of hay.
I ran on my own, fleeing, fast towards pure black skies,
And had yet to see where once there were pearls, were now blue eyes.
Poisonous, spindly spiders of women threw magazines at me,
With pointed teeth said "This is how you should be."
Gradually they tore away all that was left of my pride,
My skin was now dark, that I saw it fit to hide.
My hair grew very light, under the constant pressing of the sun.
There was no returning the dark where I'd begun.
With my world awash now in this bright white light,
I screamed in fear of this terrible, loss of my night.
My terror was so great, overwhelming, to me it seemed,
Worse than any opiate nightmare Percy ever dreamed.
My hair once lovely and dark, is dyed "Berry Berry Red,"
Because that is what the magazines said.
I am a thousand wounds, and how they drink from me,
Where once lived peace, now abodes anxiety.
During the day, I hide asleep in my bed,
Shutting out the light that makes me cringe in dread.
I awaken, sleepy and dreamy, and go to my porch to see the moon.
Though I'm trapped in reality, she assures me I'll be home soon.
I suppose that is what the vampires take from me;
My hope, forever reconstructed nightly from my lunacy.
How horrid it is to be like them, an immortal Creature of the Day.
A striving, driven realist, caring only for caste, and for pay.
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