Slide open the little perforated hatch.
I've been insane with mirth reading over my friends page. I don't know why you're amusing me so, but I'll chalk it up to the vial of vile. My face is actually aching from making that upside down frown shape, whatever that's called. I think it all started with this: It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again. Don't get lost in there, now.
Ask me your questions about my personal life like you know me so well. My days off are never that; stuffed full of interviews and "appearances" and project meetings. Cue the voluptuous panic of self-examination before the assembled.
"He's an unlikeable man, underneath it all. He came on like a brushfire, no apologies, no regrets. He was loud, inappropriate, embarrassing, overstated, too big for one skin. Everything about him is too big. He took it all from everyone and spat it back in their faces with a repugnant, glistening coating of bile. He also stole everyone's candy and threw their cats on the floor when he found out they had eye infections. He had hands like a milliner and a face like an 18th century count that was too kindly portrayed by his portrait artist. Prickabod Crane, Super Sadist. He fucked like a king at the peak of his reign; even making you come was a power trip. He used and discarded people as soon as they were drained and even his old friends only came back to be near the spectacle for a while. Obligatory quote: The skin is no longer his, he wore it because it grew from him, but then it dried and slipped off and he and everyone could look at it."
I slip out of things too easily, twist meanings, stretch for semantics. Someone once told me that the fact that I don't lie doesn't count because I shape shift to fit different meanings. I guess that's true. I know it's also true that I don't exorcise my demons through art and expression. I exercise them. I take them out for a trot around the grounds and then I put them back where I can call on them again and again.
I have a strange relationship with the concept of "one other." It's in small flaming whispers around my nearest and dearest that Dita and I are not sexually exclusive. But we are emotionally exclusive, or have been. That got blown out of the water recently by our mutual transgressions. At almost exactly the same time. The fact that there wasn't one left weeping behind a door should be some small consolation, but it's still not the most pleasant of memories to recall, especially as they're fresh wounds. Still shining.
I'm codependent. I need one other. Sex is sex, love is love, but they only meet in one person. Given the fact that it's never really just sex anymore, and the fact that I'm old enough to give a fuck these days, I've got to bring them both together. It's nice that we're past the fault that we tripped over initially. But I sidewind like a snake. Just because I've shed a skin doesn't mean I won't cross the same path again. We made our promises, took our vows, sighed our sighs. So here it is again, plain, unprompted and without her previous knowledge. The gates are locked and there's only one key. If you want to touch me, see her. If you can't do that, you can't do that.
Charmed life, take two.
MM
Ask me your questions about my personal life like you know me so well. My days off are never that; stuffed full of interviews and "appearances" and project meetings. Cue the voluptuous panic of self-examination before the assembled.
"He's an unlikeable man, underneath it all. He came on like a brushfire, no apologies, no regrets. He was loud, inappropriate, embarrassing, overstated, too big for one skin. Everything about him is too big. He took it all from everyone and spat it back in their faces with a repugnant, glistening coating of bile. He also stole everyone's candy and threw their cats on the floor when he found out they had eye infections. He had hands like a milliner and a face like an 18th century count that was too kindly portrayed by his portrait artist. Prickabod Crane, Super Sadist. He fucked like a king at the peak of his reign; even making you come was a power trip. He used and discarded people as soon as they were drained and even his old friends only came back to be near the spectacle for a while. Obligatory quote: The skin is no longer his, he wore it because it grew from him, but then it dried and slipped off and he and everyone could look at it."
I slip out of things too easily, twist meanings, stretch for semantics. Someone once told me that the fact that I don't lie doesn't count because I shape shift to fit different meanings. I guess that's true. I know it's also true that I don't exorcise my demons through art and expression. I exercise them. I take them out for a trot around the grounds and then I put them back where I can call on them again and again.
I have a strange relationship with the concept of "one other." It's in small flaming whispers around my nearest and dearest that Dita and I are not sexually exclusive. But we are emotionally exclusive, or have been. That got blown out of the water recently by our mutual transgressions. At almost exactly the same time. The fact that there wasn't one left weeping behind a door should be some small consolation, but it's still not the most pleasant of memories to recall, especially as they're fresh wounds. Still shining.
I'm codependent. I need one other. Sex is sex, love is love, but they only meet in one person. Given the fact that it's never really just sex anymore, and the fact that I'm old enough to give a fuck these days, I've got to bring them both together. It's nice that we're past the fault that we tripped over initially. But I sidewind like a snake. Just because I've shed a skin doesn't mean I won't cross the same path again. We made our promises, took our vows, sighed our sighs. So here it is again, plain, unprompted and without her previous knowledge. The gates are locked and there's only one key. If you want to touch me, see her. If you can't do that, you can't do that.
Charmed life, take two.
MM