Signs and Portents
After a very grueling month in Richmond, I am finally off of work for two weeks and enjoying Cleveland, Ohio in the spring. I am staying with the very sexy and beautiful Vivian Ireene Pierce, helping her with getting about six months worth of superheroine-in-peril fetish content shot for her website and her online store. I am also here with sexy internet models Gabrielle DelMonaco and Elizabeth Huntington. Elizabeth is currently working on her master's degree in environmental science at Kent State, and Gabrielle was kind enough to host me at her home for the week that Vivian and I are working on content. All three ladies are as kind as kind can be.
I have some new costumes for Vivian to try out and about twenty new comic ideas that I am offering to her in exchange for some Easter dinner and some mental and emotional relief from the terrors of the year 2009. It has occured to me that if I do not find equilibrium in my life and soon, things will take a life of their own and I'll be just a tragic reminder instead of a lasting memory. On the one level, I do not care. On the other level, I know that libras oftentimes swing from one imbalance to another, going wildly overboard one year and then strengthening and tightening control almost to the snapping point the year afterwards.
Gabrielle is kind, warm, gentle, and nurturing. She also loves her wine and loves her guy.
Elizabeth is smart, emotionally wild, fights endlessly to save animals and nature, and loves to show her fine, fine ass to men.
Vivian Ireene Pierce will always be.... Vivian Ireene Pierce. We can ask no more, we can expect no less.
I hope Easter brings about the peace and emotional bandaging that my damaged soul needs. It has been eight years now since I have observed Easter. The holiday is not an important one to me because of the religion, but if I do not fix the small things in my life, I'm never going to be able to fix the larger things. Easter first, then everything else.
The leg, as always, sends tiny reddish-purple tendrils filled with bacteria and poison spreading up my leg to painfully remind me that my time is slowly running out. They're like hate-filled letters addressed to my heart, scriptures saying "Just let us win, and this will all be over for both of us." I, always the stubborn bastard, ignore the letters and instead burn them over a candle with malicious glee, watching vellum and sepia curl and smoke under the indifferent corona of an amber-yellow flame. I have never listened to anyone in my life. I see no reason to obey the spectres of microscopic hostile living organisms swelled to capacity in my leg. If they want me dead, they'll have to take the heart. I'll spite the whole world just long enough to survive past all my friends. It's what makes me so unlovable.
The Pennsylvania Turnpike is awesome. I have now completed the three prophecies for finding my true home, as dictated by Billy Joel. Home can be the Pennsylvania Turnpike (2009). Indiana's early morning dew (2005). High up in the hills of California (1991).
Home, he reminds us, is just another word for you.
I have some new costumes for Vivian to try out and about twenty new comic ideas that I am offering to her in exchange for some Easter dinner and some mental and emotional relief from the terrors of the year 2009. It has occured to me that if I do not find equilibrium in my life and soon, things will take a life of their own and I'll be just a tragic reminder instead of a lasting memory. On the one level, I do not care. On the other level, I know that libras oftentimes swing from one imbalance to another, going wildly overboard one year and then strengthening and tightening control almost to the snapping point the year afterwards.
Gabrielle is kind, warm, gentle, and nurturing. She also loves her wine and loves her guy.
Elizabeth is smart, emotionally wild, fights endlessly to save animals and nature, and loves to show her fine, fine ass to men.
Vivian Ireene Pierce will always be.... Vivian Ireene Pierce. We can ask no more, we can expect no less.
I hope Easter brings about the peace and emotional bandaging that my damaged soul needs. It has been eight years now since I have observed Easter. The holiday is not an important one to me because of the religion, but if I do not fix the small things in my life, I'm never going to be able to fix the larger things. Easter first, then everything else.
The leg, as always, sends tiny reddish-purple tendrils filled with bacteria and poison spreading up my leg to painfully remind me that my time is slowly running out. They're like hate-filled letters addressed to my heart, scriptures saying "Just let us win, and this will all be over for both of us." I, always the stubborn bastard, ignore the letters and instead burn them over a candle with malicious glee, watching vellum and sepia curl and smoke under the indifferent corona of an amber-yellow flame. I have never listened to anyone in my life. I see no reason to obey the spectres of microscopic hostile living organisms swelled to capacity in my leg. If they want me dead, they'll have to take the heart. I'll spite the whole world just long enough to survive past all my friends. It's what makes me so unlovable.
The Pennsylvania Turnpike is awesome. I have now completed the three prophecies for finding my true home, as dictated by Billy Joel. Home can be the Pennsylvania Turnpike (2009). Indiana's early morning dew (2005). High up in the hills of California (1991).
Home, he reminds us, is just another word for you.