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For instance, "this is nonsense" is about as convincing as premature ejaculation, when it's followed by removing me from your friends list, all together, and therefore, barring me from reading your journal. See, that's just what I'm trying to point out. You're merely paying lip service to my desire to get to know you better. You're dropping little
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Apples don't belong cooked in anything... not cooked, not dried. They're juicy when they're born, and that's the way they should die. Fuck an apple pie. Fuck pie, in general... unless it's warm, filled with cherries, and topped with vanilla ice cream. Even then... it's shady.
I'm not going to shred you. As a matter of fact, I believe you. My mother is always in some form of denial, always has been, and you just can't raise healthy children, that way... though I don't know if I would have survived, growing up on my own. Much like a butterfly, I tend to "metamorph", independently of my environment. When I was young, I was a chubby, insecure mama's boy. Then, she betrayed me by turning out to be more of a character in some theatrical production that she thought I should be born into. There is no help for her. She is an incarnation of Clive Barker's mind. If I were going to heartlessly slaughter anybody in the world, it would be her. Butterfly in the sky...
though I will suggest that your independence comes across as more of a dogma that actual self-confidence. I only say so because I did the same thing for a number of years, though my resources had more to do with being good to each other, and loyal. I had, and still have, this ever-evolving oratory about who I was and how I became who I was, but the creeping realization that I was boring myself sort of helped me see the error in voicing the source of my self-confidence, as, in actuality, it was somewhat groundless, and didn't mean jack shit to anybody else. Then, I started hearing voices in my head, and realized that my emotions were not private property which I could lay claim to. My final conclusion is that we should all be good and loyal to each other. :|
To be honest, there are aspects of art that interest me. I try to delineate between "art" and "the aesthetic", because art can be reduced to mere rearrangement. Naturally, there are many aspects of the aesthetic that appeal to me. If you're going to read to me out of a fucking handbook, on the other hand (no pun intended), I would much rather be getting some hands-on experience (okay, this is getting creepy).
I have no doubt in my mind that "hours of sustained sexual stimulis" is nothing short of phenomenonal, but I find that illustrious fantasies are best left unfulfilled... they harbor aesthetic value only. In other words, they're good to jerk off to. The more primal fantasies, on the other hand, are certainly worth pursuing. Beside all of that, it is my contention that all of that garbage about a power struggle is just fucking that: garbage. If you want to hear my lecture on how your preoccupation with dominance and submission makes you a shallow, vaccuuous cunt, I would be honored to orate.
I love dancing, too... but I call it raving, or moshing (depending on the music). Most music is composed with the intention of interacting with an audience on purely emotional, or mental strata, and that is precisely how I approach most rock, folk, etc., unless I opt to sing along.
In the mean time, I am almost certain that my hands are aching for some experience, so if you want to box in some of your underwear when you send me my small business/starving artist grant, I would be grateful.
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Shit, I hope she's worth all the drama. Userpic's pretty, in any case. I at least give you good blowjobs, but I'm not seein' her give it up. Hmmph. Gods willing, your 'Lindsay' is actually 62-yr ol Fred Palmer, out of Shittown, Iowa, sitting with just his colostomy bag and your journal to keep him company. Worst case scenario, she's some really nice girl who thinks I'm a freak.
Peach pie, my man - deep dish, hot, with real vanilla ice cream - none of this plastic 'French Vanilla!" shit. :::puuuurrr:::
You opinions about my inner life are only slight more worthless than you are. And I'd like to seeyou at the business end of a heavy flogger, laced into a gorgeous satin corset. I started making corsets out of jealousy, and make them now out of spite. I wear them, of course, out of vanity.
Three hang in my closet, their laces trailing on the floor of my beautiful wardrobe, calling to me. My slavecollar hangs on the wall, unloved, unused. I miss the good old days, when my mind and personality were totally consumed by submission. Life is so much easier when you have a Jesus. Having stepped back from it to preserve any sense of self, I look at D/s like an old cocaine addiction. I'd love to go back, but it would eat me.
I'm not sending money, I'm sending toys. And don't hold your breath - I am neither universally kinky nor prompt. I don't ususally wear underwear, which means three things:
1. My honey pot is clean and healthy
2. I am incessantly washing my favorite pair of jeans, since I cannot, circumstances being what they are, wear them more than once wthout washing them .
3. I was going to say something clever, but all I remember is what the Ventura Beach looks like at night. When I ran away from home, Ventura, California is the first place I went. I worked bagging groceries and rented a room. Everything I owned fit in that one room, and my car was a heavy old bicycle.
I remember riding my bike out onto the silent streets, past the rows of citrus trees, the quiet farm fields. I turned onto the south pathway, jut a curving concrete trail running along the beach for miles. I stood under a lamp and looked ot at the beach at night - I had ridden out under the moon. I struggled with the bag of firewood I had stolen from the grocery store, it's rough bark pungent in the soft, salty air, dragged the bike into the beach grass, hid it, and trudged in the sand down to the water's edge. I lit a fire, took off my clothes, and laid in the sand, looking at the sky and the cold moon over the waves. I am confused that for some reason I miss you.
I will be cruel and focused and ON! later - tonight I am a little sad, and a little lonely, and worried about tomorrow. I need to get some sleep. This was a bad day.
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You aren't worth it if you keep it up, so tone it down a little, or bring your sister if you can't handle it.
Hope things go well between you and your Lindsay scorned.
I thought of you for a moment at work yesterday. A guy was having dialysis - his blood running from his arms, through a filter, and back again via thick, clear hoses. Red ropes running from a robot to his body. You would have appreciated it, but maybey you would have enjoyed the live sonogram of a guy's heart I saw more. (The valves flapping like fish, the beat transposed into sound. From within the body, the heartbeat sounds like a horse galloping through sticky mud.)
I just needed some rest, and to get into the new job so I wouldn't be so afraid of it. I feel so much better, having met my preceptor and discovered that she is very experienced - but also very patient and kind. Not too patient, tho, which is a relief. Thank you for your concern.
May I practice drawing blood on you? I need a victim willing to put up with abuse, and so far you've been great...
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::::laughing hysterically::::
"up here?"
As if your pathetic little journal was anything other than the muck on the bottom of the rotting canal that is the...
Oh, nevermind, I like being able to read your poetry. "up here", though, is a bit of a stretch, even for you.
I just love how you're absolutely horrible to me and then admonish me for cruelty. No schitzophrenia here, no sir, no way.
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