A soul mate to me, is a bond that is romantic, family centric, platonic, and all things. It is love…to me, that can never be replaced, matched, or even come close to. It isn’t the sort of bond that is sex centric, but rather, the bond itself is erotic and very much replaces physical pleasure. It is the kind of bond that makes romantic relationships with other people impossible or next to impossible because you would never really be able to put that romantic interest ahead of your soul mate. . I don’t think everybody has a soul mate. I don’t think it’s a cosmic or magical thing. To me, it is a rare, special thing that really only exists for a select group of very lucky people.
-j2annon
Thursday, May 26, 2011
IDEKWTF
I spend a lot of my day wondering exactly what orientation I am, sexually. Because I appreciate women, and I appreciate men, and I have no problem with either but... there are times when romance just seems like too much fucking work to bother.
It's not that I'm not sexual because I am. I have needs and desires but I don't think they're the same as everyone else. I don't masturbate because I enjoy it. I do it because it fills a need that my body has. I don't even do it frequently. By my estimation I only do it when I'm ovulating and my hormones are running high. I don't even think of anyone or anything in particular. It's like the act doesn't reach my mind because in my mind I could be thinking about what I'll do for my next homework assignment or wondering where I left my glasses because I'm always fucking leaving them in weird places but it never matters what I'm thinking about because my body always reacts the same.
It's not just when I'm by myself, though. When I do have sex with someone else I can think about just about anything without it bothering me. Sometimes I just run through my mental cheque book or start thinking about what I should write next. I do focus on my actions, yeah. I pay enough attention to notice when something is liked or not and to make sure my partner enjoys themselves but... I don't enjoy it mentally.
Physically, sure, I guess. A body is a body and you touch a body and it'll do something but I never find it enough for my mind. Aside from the fact that the act is disturbing in a way. Grunts and sweat, wet slapping sounds, the occasional mouth-plunger noise.... I just don't like it. Which is weird beyond belief because I like kissing and I like cuddling and touching and I enjoy that a lot but I would be content to never go further. In fact I think I'd be happy if I found someone who was content to not have intercourse. I mean, I like making people I care for feel good and I like discovering what noises they can make or where they like to be touched but for me I just like the intimacy of being able to touch them without hinderance.
I could care less about getting off, really, I just enjoy being close to someone and I don't need to have sex to be intimate with someone.
I think that's kind of why I have a tendency to date women instead of men even though I do find men more appealing. It's because I can have sex with a woman, be close to her, touch her, and intimately know her without having to involve my own genitals. I like touching and loving and caring and I'll let someone do so to me if it fills a need for them; if it makes them happy.
Sometime I think I'm gay. I know pretty much everybody who only sort of knows me thinks I am gay. Like my sister is convinced I am and maybe she's right. Sometimes I think I'm straight but there's no one who agrees with me. Possibly because I flirt with women. Sometimes I think I'm bisexual. And I know there's some people who agree with me there. But I don't really know because I'm not particularly attracted to any person. Sure, I recognize when someone is attractive but I'm never really drawn to anyone. I'm never actually attracted to anyone.
Some of my friends I find beautiful, regardless of gender. But I'm never sexually attracted to anyone. I'm drawn to some people's minds. I want to get to know them but mostly it's the mystery. Because I don't know everything about them and these people that I am drawn to have a tendency to keep details to themselves and there's that challenge of figuring them out without them having to tell me or of manipulating them into telling me.
But even when I find out I'm still fascinated by them. I could watch them silently, contently, for long stretches of time. Just doing whatever it is they do.
I especially love surprising them by knowing things they've never told me. Especially things I shouldn't know. Like getting a friend's mobile number without asking her or knowing where another friend lives without them ever having specifically said.
But even still.... I'm never actually physically attracted to someone. No one has ever "turned me on".
And I know that's not... right? per se. That I should want someone sexually. But I just don't. I want people intellectually or intimately. But never sexually.
Idekwtfti.
Maybe this is why none of my relationships work out. Whatever.
It's not that I'm not sexual because I am. I have needs and desires but I don't think they're the same as everyone else. I don't masturbate because I enjoy it. I do it because it fills a need that my body has. I don't even do it frequently. By my estimation I only do it when I'm ovulating and my hormones are running high. I don't even think of anyone or anything in particular. It's like the act doesn't reach my mind because in my mind I could be thinking about what I'll do for my next homework assignment or wondering where I left my glasses because I'm always fucking leaving them in weird places but it never matters what I'm thinking about because my body always reacts the same.
It's not just when I'm by myself, though. When I do have sex with someone else I can think about just about anything without it bothering me. Sometimes I just run through my mental cheque book or start thinking about what I should write next. I do focus on my actions, yeah. I pay enough attention to notice when something is liked or not and to make sure my partner enjoys themselves but... I don't enjoy it mentally.
Physically, sure, I guess. A body is a body and you touch a body and it'll do something but I never find it enough for my mind. Aside from the fact that the act is disturbing in a way. Grunts and sweat, wet slapping sounds, the occasional mouth-plunger noise.... I just don't like it. Which is weird beyond belief because I like kissing and I like cuddling and touching and I enjoy that a lot but I would be content to never go further. In fact I think I'd be happy if I found someone who was content to not have intercourse. I mean, I like making people I care for feel good and I like discovering what noises they can make or where they like to be touched but for me I just like the intimacy of being able to touch them without hinderance.
I could care less about getting off, really, I just enjoy being close to someone and I don't need to have sex to be intimate with someone.
I think that's kind of why I have a tendency to date women instead of men even though I do find men more appealing. It's because I can have sex with a woman, be close to her, touch her, and intimately know her without having to involve my own genitals. I like touching and loving and caring and I'll let someone do so to me if it fills a need for them; if it makes them happy.
Sometime I think I'm gay. I know pretty much everybody who only sort of knows me thinks I am gay. Like my sister is convinced I am and maybe she's right. Sometimes I think I'm straight but there's no one who agrees with me. Possibly because I flirt with women. Sometimes I think I'm bisexual. And I know there's some people who agree with me there. But I don't really know because I'm not particularly attracted to any person. Sure, I recognize when someone is attractive but I'm never really drawn to anyone. I'm never actually attracted to anyone.
Some of my friends I find beautiful, regardless of gender. But I'm never sexually attracted to anyone. I'm drawn to some people's minds. I want to get to know them but mostly it's the mystery. Because I don't know everything about them and these people that I am drawn to have a tendency to keep details to themselves and there's that challenge of figuring them out without them having to tell me or of manipulating them into telling me.
But even when I find out I'm still fascinated by them. I could watch them silently, contently, for long stretches of time. Just doing whatever it is they do.
I especially love surprising them by knowing things they've never told me. Especially things I shouldn't know. Like getting a friend's mobile number without asking her or knowing where another friend lives without them ever having specifically said.
But even still.... I'm never actually physically attracted to someone. No one has ever "turned me on".
And I know that's not... right? per se. That I should want someone sexually. But I just don't. I want people intellectually or intimately. But never sexually.
Idekwtfti.
Maybe this is why none of my relationships work out. Whatever.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Sharing Is Daring.
SOmetimes my biggest fear isn't sharable because that is what the fear is about. Not that I can't share something but that the burden of knowing my fears or bad memories or nightmares is too much for the person I entrust them to. I know it's ridiculous and I know it's stupid but I can't help it. I don't mind sharing things when people ask questions. I don't mind sharing the facts of my life with people but it's the things that make me press my lips together against my front teeth, it's the things that ball up tight and acidic in the middle of my spine, it's the things that make me feel breathless and empty that I don't like to share.
I don't mind telling people that my mother was a prostitute. I don't mind telling that my father has been hooked on speed and other various drugs my entire life. I don't like sharing my fear of becoming an addict. I don't like sharing what my mother being a prostitute makes me feel deep in the back of my head where sometimes a pressure builds and is painful to even think about. I don't like sharing these things because it means that the person I tell them to now has to hold them up to and they're so heavy and thick that it just seems like too much to ask someone.
I don't think I'll ever get a psychiatrist. Not because I'm uncomfortable with the thought of talking to one but because I don't want them to make my experiences into excuses. Because they're just not. My dysfunction is something I own. My weirdness, my quirks, and eccentricities make up who I am. They are part of me just as much as my experiences are and I don't want someone going: Oh well, you know, she was molested as a child and that's why she's obsessed with sex. Because it's just not fucking good enough to think that. I was molested as a kid. I do have a preoccupation with sex. The two may be linked but that doesn't mean I have an event to blame, an excuse for how I act. I act the way I do because I so choose. The end.
Sure, I could blame my parents, blame my siblings, blame my relatives for how I act but that makes my actions not my own and I just won't fucking hear that. Because my actions are my own and I won't let anyone else have them. If I blame something then it just means that that part of me is no longer mine and that is unacceptable.
I don't mind telling people that my mother was a prostitute. I don't mind telling that my father has been hooked on speed and other various drugs my entire life. I don't like sharing my fear of becoming an addict. I don't like sharing what my mother being a prostitute makes me feel deep in the back of my head where sometimes a pressure builds and is painful to even think about. I don't like sharing these things because it means that the person I tell them to now has to hold them up to and they're so heavy and thick that it just seems like too much to ask someone.
I don't think I'll ever get a psychiatrist. Not because I'm uncomfortable with the thought of talking to one but because I don't want them to make my experiences into excuses. Because they're just not. My dysfunction is something I own. My weirdness, my quirks, and eccentricities make up who I am. They are part of me just as much as my experiences are and I don't want someone going: Oh well, you know, she was molested as a child and that's why she's obsessed with sex. Because it's just not fucking good enough to think that. I was molested as a kid. I do have a preoccupation with sex. The two may be linked but that doesn't mean I have an event to blame, an excuse for how I act. I act the way I do because I so choose. The end.
Sure, I could blame my parents, blame my siblings, blame my relatives for how I act but that makes my actions not my own and I just won't fucking hear that. Because my actions are my own and I won't let anyone else have them. If I blame something then it just means that that part of me is no longer mine and that is unacceptable.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Like Grown Ups Do (Unsettling Content)
Today I was watching Law and Order: Special Victims Unit and the two elderly people I live with were sitting there next to me and neither of them seemed as interested in the program as I.
I was sitting there durring a commercial and it got me thinking. Why do I like this program? It's unpleasant and never happy and it's uncomfortable to the other people in the room as I since I only ever watch it on the T.V.
But I don't really know why I asked this because I know why I watch these kind of shows.
I'm obsessed with them.
I'm obsessed with sexual assault. But it's not a kink or any sort of physical thing for me. It's sort of cathartic to watch police officers run about and try to solve these crimes because it never happened for me or those I know that these sort of things have happened to.
I watch these types of shows because it helps me live with what happened to me.
There is a lot of things I've heard about my childhood but I've blocked so much of it out that I don't feel comfortable relying on other's heresy. I know what is said is at least partially true because I'll have dreams or moments where I remember something from when I was little that I don't actively know. I have memories of seeing my mother get fucked by strangers. I have memories of strange people coming in to my room at night when I lived with her and doing things. Most of my memories are very vague and convoluted because I've spent so long trying to forget them that they're not quite reliable anymore but...
I remember one instance when I was older that I've never been able to forget.
There had been some emergency that called away both my father and my mum and they hadn't been able to find anyone to watch us so they left us with the only option available: my uncle Dale. He was nice, if a bit strange at times but he wasn't so odd for a member of our family. He lived with my other uncle, Steven, who I loved intensely. Steven collected Star Trek memorabilia and those little plaster houses from the Dollar Store, just to give you an idea of what 'normal' constituted in the family.
Anyway, we stayed over and during the day it was fine. We played at a creek and I was mostly left alone, as most people do with me. I was very into myself from a young age. By that I don't mean that I loved myself and only paid attention to myself but that I spent most of my time in the imaginary world in my head. So my two brothers played with each other and I joined in sort of. My uncle always seemed to like my brothers better so I didn't really mind. I didn't know him too well and he was no Uncle Steven so I didn't really pay any mind to him.
But come that evening is when the strange started. I didn't think it at the time, probably because I was young and because I didn't know any better. But when he took each of us alone into his room to pat down with powder (I assume it was baby powder or something similar) it was strange and it should have sounded an alarm but it didn't. It sounded so reasonable when he took me in there after one of my brothers to "check for ticks" and apply this powder for some reason. He was an adult and as such I trusted him, as most children trust adults of their family.
I remember being confused because I could check myself in the mirror for ticks but I trusted him because I didn't know what a tick was or what they looked like. I know he convinced me to kiss him under some line about doing things like "grown ups". Applying the powder and checking for ticks constituted an all-body search.
An all over the body search.
But he treated me like a "grown up"
I was happy. I was fucking happy because adults never treated me like a grown up. I was small, blond, and had one of those little girl voices and no one took me seriously. Usually they just ignored me or pandered to me.
It ended quickly because one of my brothers was waiting for his tick-check but it didn't stop there.
Later, when we were watching a movie, he sat me in his lap and asked me again if I wanted to learn to kiss like the grown ups do. I was eager because I was small and young and he's my uncle and family means safe, right?
So he showed me what a grown up kiss was and he touched me and made me touch him.
And I think this is about the last time I ever really trusted my family or adults in general.
Because in the back of my head I knew he did something wrong. That he wasn't supposed to do that with little girls like me and the older I got the more revolted I was at what he had done.
The more it made me hate my family and it even got me to start to distrust my brothers and pull away from them. Before this it had always been big brother, me, then little brother against everyone else but I couldn't trust them anymore.
They were there for the second come around of this. They were sitting right there in the room and they did nothing. Not even my older brother who I know has gone through enough bad-touch moments to know better.
I couldn't trust them. I couldn't like them. They had betrayed me. My whole family. I know this sounds a bit melodramatic but that's just the sentiment I have. I can't trust them because they made me damaged.
They have damaged me so much and I doubt there is recovery from this ever. There only seems to be coping. But I don't know if I want to cope with the things that happened to me while I was growing up. Sometimes I just want to drown myself in recklessness so that I can at least pretend not to care about myself. I hate my family and I hate myself and I hate the world because we all let this happen to me and it just makes me so angry all the time.
All this anger and hurt and rage and pain and guilt just makes me feel like I don't quite belong to the human race because there's no way the rest of them burn in their center with this massive craving to destroy everything because it all just makes it hurt and the destruction will make them feel alive and whole. It seems perverted to want to set everything on fire just to be able to appreciate how alive it was.
I love life and I love existence and I love the passion and energy that is humanity but I spend so much of my life inside this contradiction.
I hate everyone and everything but in the same breath I love them all and I feel so much. I don't understand how I don't feel at ends. I suppose, though, that it's simply my nature. I hate and I love in the same breath because I feel as if with every breath I live that I die. I revel in this contradiction. It feels so human and I need that sometimes because there are moments where I'd rather see the world burn than continue on with this mass of sickening and depraved individuals that make up the glorious race I am apart of.
I was sitting there durring a commercial and it got me thinking. Why do I like this program? It's unpleasant and never happy and it's uncomfortable to the other people in the room as I since I only ever watch it on the T.V.
But I don't really know why I asked this because I know why I watch these kind of shows.
I'm obsessed with them.
I'm obsessed with sexual assault. But it's not a kink or any sort of physical thing for me. It's sort of cathartic to watch police officers run about and try to solve these crimes because it never happened for me or those I know that these sort of things have happened to.
I watch these types of shows because it helps me live with what happened to me.
There is a lot of things I've heard about my childhood but I've blocked so much of it out that I don't feel comfortable relying on other's heresy. I know what is said is at least partially true because I'll have dreams or moments where I remember something from when I was little that I don't actively know. I have memories of seeing my mother get fucked by strangers. I have memories of strange people coming in to my room at night when I lived with her and doing things. Most of my memories are very vague and convoluted because I've spent so long trying to forget them that they're not quite reliable anymore but...
I remember one instance when I was older that I've never been able to forget.
There had been some emergency that called away both my father and my mum and they hadn't been able to find anyone to watch us so they left us with the only option available: my uncle Dale. He was nice, if a bit strange at times but he wasn't so odd for a member of our family. He lived with my other uncle, Steven, who I loved intensely. Steven collected Star Trek memorabilia and those little plaster houses from the Dollar Store, just to give you an idea of what 'normal' constituted in the family.
Anyway, we stayed over and during the day it was fine. We played at a creek and I was mostly left alone, as most people do with me. I was very into myself from a young age. By that I don't mean that I loved myself and only paid attention to myself but that I spent most of my time in the imaginary world in my head. So my two brothers played with each other and I joined in sort of. My uncle always seemed to like my brothers better so I didn't really mind. I didn't know him too well and he was no Uncle Steven so I didn't really pay any mind to him.
But come that evening is when the strange started. I didn't think it at the time, probably because I was young and because I didn't know any better. But when he took each of us alone into his room to pat down with powder (I assume it was baby powder or something similar) it was strange and it should have sounded an alarm but it didn't. It sounded so reasonable when he took me in there after one of my brothers to "check for ticks" and apply this powder for some reason. He was an adult and as such I trusted him, as most children trust adults of their family.
I remember being confused because I could check myself in the mirror for ticks but I trusted him because I didn't know what a tick was or what they looked like. I know he convinced me to kiss him under some line about doing things like "grown ups". Applying the powder and checking for ticks constituted an all-body search.
An all over the body search.
But he treated me like a "grown up"
I was happy. I was fucking happy because adults never treated me like a grown up. I was small, blond, and had one of those little girl voices and no one took me seriously. Usually they just ignored me or pandered to me.
It ended quickly because one of my brothers was waiting for his tick-check but it didn't stop there.
Later, when we were watching a movie, he sat me in his lap and asked me again if I wanted to learn to kiss like the grown ups do. I was eager because I was small and young and he's my uncle and family means safe, right?
So he showed me what a grown up kiss was and he touched me and made me touch him.
And I think this is about the last time I ever really trusted my family or adults in general.
Because in the back of my head I knew he did something wrong. That he wasn't supposed to do that with little girls like me and the older I got the more revolted I was at what he had done.
The more it made me hate my family and it even got me to start to distrust my brothers and pull away from them. Before this it had always been big brother, me, then little brother against everyone else but I couldn't trust them anymore.
They were there for the second come around of this. They were sitting right there in the room and they did nothing. Not even my older brother who I know has gone through enough bad-touch moments to know better.
I couldn't trust them. I couldn't like them. They had betrayed me. My whole family. I know this sounds a bit melodramatic but that's just the sentiment I have. I can't trust them because they made me damaged.
They have damaged me so much and I doubt there is recovery from this ever. There only seems to be coping. But I don't know if I want to cope with the things that happened to me while I was growing up. Sometimes I just want to drown myself in recklessness so that I can at least pretend not to care about myself. I hate my family and I hate myself and I hate the world because we all let this happen to me and it just makes me so angry all the time.
All this anger and hurt and rage and pain and guilt just makes me feel like I don't quite belong to the human race because there's no way the rest of them burn in their center with this massive craving to destroy everything because it all just makes it hurt and the destruction will make them feel alive and whole. It seems perverted to want to set everything on fire just to be able to appreciate how alive it was.
I love life and I love existence and I love the passion and energy that is humanity but I spend so much of my life inside this contradiction.
I hate everyone and everything but in the same breath I love them all and I feel so much. I don't understand how I don't feel at ends. I suppose, though, that it's simply my nature. I hate and I love in the same breath because I feel as if with every breath I live that I die. I revel in this contradiction. It feels so human and I need that sometimes because there are moments where I'd rather see the world burn than continue on with this mass of sickening and depraved individuals that make up the glorious race I am apart of.
Friday, May 6, 2011
I'd Like To Know 1
"If you were dying, if you were murdered, in the very last seconds, what would you say?"
This is such a startlingly interesting question that I just have to try to answer to the best of my ability. (It's a quote from Sherlock, a BBC series about Sherlock Holmes.)
Now, first, just to get into it I have to know how it is I'm going to die. Because I know that it would depend on how I felt at the time and what was happening to me.
First premise: I have to be murdered, as specified in the quote. Who would my murderer be? How would they go about it? Would it involve torture? Mentally? Physically? For the sake of accuracy this is going to end up to be more than one post, possibly over a period of time so that I can get into my head each case.
First I'll focus on a death similar to the one described in the show. *****If you haven't watched it and plan to continuing to read would be a huge spoiler for episode one: A Study in Pink*****
I'm going to switch to a sort of narrative description to make sure I can answer as honestly and accurately as I could.
I'm standing, resisting the urge to pace, to move about even if it doesn't mean escape. I roll my bottom lip in and squint harder at the man before me, knowing that inspecting the identical pills would be useless otherwise the test would be easy. If there was a difference. It would be a matter of observation. But these... the way they've been separated depends entirely on which mnemonic device this fucking cabbie from hell-- Correction: from London would use. My mind, because it is idiotic and totally dependent for memory recall on association flashes to my mum talking to herself as she goes to unlock the door 'left it unlock'. And this makes me think of the lug nuts on her red Jeep wrangler. The act of washing the car was highly therapeutic. Though, any act such as washing or tidying always seems to be relaxing. My favorite had been to clean my gun, though I hadn't done it much-- Fuuuuuuuuuck
This fucking cabbie has a fucking gun. Why the fuck does everyone think that a gun is like the God of Weapons. Personally I'd be more terrified with a javeline. Or possibly like a shark tooth or a particularly rusty broken pipe. Am I really sitting-- standing here criticizing what type of weapon this loon with a pistol is using to coerce me into taking a pill that may or may not be poison. I wonder if people actually fall for this. Think that there isn't some extra trick. Obviously, this loon is marginally intelligent but not smart enough to realize that killings sprees are ultimately impractical.
See? And this is why I have no respect for murderers. They go about it and get caught and how terribly droll it is that there is so little creativity in this department of humanity. It's as if they're all smart enough to outwit another life but not smart enough to fucking realize that killing is just so damn time-wasting. The idea of concealment and the efforts one must go through and the strategy behind not becoming a suspect is just too much damn effort. Aside from that one never knows what a person will do with his life.
But fucking shit why don't I just take the fucking shoot me option. There is no way any being, outside of some impossible murder mystery would offer to take the other pill unless there was no way for them to die. Possibly a resistance to the poison? An antidote? More likely that it's only poisonous to some; like poison ivy. Shit, this bitch better not be making me consume some fucking horseradish poison ivy cocktail cause that would be totally fucking uncool.
Heh.
I'm pretty sure, self, that he's already surpassed the line of 'uncool'. Possibly even erased it for all of fucking time. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. At least there's more of a chance of survival with the gun. A fifty fifty shot with a pill just seems so damn anticlimactic. Plus there's no fire involved. And I don't want to seem a wuss for taking a pill instead of going down fighting. Speaking of... this guy is like ancient and English. I don't think he would know how to fight. I wonder if I can dodge a bullet.
This is going to be a fun test.
How about you give me the gun? Make sure to aim for my face; I want to make some bitches cry at least.
No. No, Tesk, that's terrible. What kind of last words are those? Aim for my face? Why not say lower my chance of survival even less, plzkthxbai BANG.
Ugh.
Well, what the fuck do I say?
"Well, shit. I'm just gonna go the gun option."
I shrug and try to think of something to say that would be decently befitting the ending of one such as I.
"Could you like make sure twenty bucks makes it into my coffin? I've got this bet going with a friend. Why am I telling you this? You're just going to fucking leave. Ugh. My brain sometimes. Anyway, shoot me, then."
I'd make a lunge or a fall to avoid the bullet and if it missed, awesome, I live. I call the police. If I get hit and die then it could go a few ways:
This is such a startlingly interesting question that I just have to try to answer to the best of my ability. (It's a quote from Sherlock, a BBC series about Sherlock Holmes.)
Now, first, just to get into it I have to know how it is I'm going to die. Because I know that it would depend on how I felt at the time and what was happening to me.
First premise: I have to be murdered, as specified in the quote. Who would my murderer be? How would they go about it? Would it involve torture? Mentally? Physically? For the sake of accuracy this is going to end up to be more than one post, possibly over a period of time so that I can get into my head each case.
First I'll focus on a death similar to the one described in the show. *****If you haven't watched it and plan to continuing to read would be a huge spoiler for episode one: A Study in Pink*****
I'm going to switch to a sort of narrative description to make sure I can answer as honestly and accurately as I could.
I'm standing, resisting the urge to pace, to move about even if it doesn't mean escape. I roll my bottom lip in and squint harder at the man before me, knowing that inspecting the identical pills would be useless otherwise the test would be easy. If there was a difference. It would be a matter of observation. But these... the way they've been separated depends entirely on which mnemonic device this fucking cabbie from hell-- Correction: from London would use. My mind, because it is idiotic and totally dependent for memory recall on association flashes to my mum talking to herself as she goes to unlock the door 'left it unlock'. And this makes me think of the lug nuts on her red Jeep wrangler. The act of washing the car was highly therapeutic. Though, any act such as washing or tidying always seems to be relaxing. My favorite had been to clean my gun, though I hadn't done it much-- Fuuuuuuuuuck
This fucking cabbie has a fucking gun. Why the fuck does everyone think that a gun is like the God of Weapons. Personally I'd be more terrified with a javeline. Or possibly like a shark tooth or a particularly rusty broken pipe. Am I really sitting-- standing here criticizing what type of weapon this loon with a pistol is using to coerce me into taking a pill that may or may not be poison. I wonder if people actually fall for this. Think that there isn't some extra trick. Obviously, this loon is marginally intelligent but not smart enough to realize that killings sprees are ultimately impractical.
See? And this is why I have no respect for murderers. They go about it and get caught and how terribly droll it is that there is so little creativity in this department of humanity. It's as if they're all smart enough to outwit another life but not smart enough to fucking realize that killing is just so damn time-wasting. The idea of concealment and the efforts one must go through and the strategy behind not becoming a suspect is just too much damn effort. Aside from that one never knows what a person will do with his life.
But fucking shit why don't I just take the fucking shoot me option. There is no way any being, outside of some impossible murder mystery would offer to take the other pill unless there was no way for them to die. Possibly a resistance to the poison? An antidote? More likely that it's only poisonous to some; like poison ivy. Shit, this bitch better not be making me consume some fucking horseradish poison ivy cocktail cause that would be totally fucking uncool.
Heh.
I'm pretty sure, self, that he's already surpassed the line of 'uncool'. Possibly even erased it for all of fucking time. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. At least there's more of a chance of survival with the gun. A fifty fifty shot with a pill just seems so damn anticlimactic. Plus there's no fire involved. And I don't want to seem a wuss for taking a pill instead of going down fighting. Speaking of... this guy is like ancient and English. I don't think he would know how to fight. I wonder if I can dodge a bullet.
This is going to be a fun test.
How about you give me the gun? Make sure to aim for my face; I want to make some bitches cry at least.
No. No, Tesk, that's terrible. What kind of last words are those? Aim for my face? Why not say lower my chance of survival even less, plzkthxbai BANG.
Ugh.
Well, what the fuck do I say?
"Well, shit. I'm just gonna go the gun option."
I shrug and try to think of something to say that would be decently befitting the ending of one such as I.
"Could you like make sure twenty bucks makes it into my coffin? I've got this bet going with a friend. Why am I telling you this? You're just going to fucking leave. Ugh. My brain sometimes. Anyway, shoot me, then."
I'd make a lunge or a fall to avoid the bullet and if it missed, awesome, I live. I call the police. If I get hit and die then it could go a few ways:
- I die immediately. Probably with one last "Well, fuck"
- I die slowly from a gut wound or shoulder wound. I try to write "Fucking cab driver" in blood on the floor.
- I bleed profusely and write the above mentioned and live. I use many cusses and probably end up calling all cab drivers cunts for the rest of my life.
- I get shot in the head but retain "life" and go through the rest of my days in a near-vegetable brained or bodied way.
- I die but before I go I call the police and tell them all I know.
- I die but try to call the police but I've got no signal/battery/phone.
Or it could go like in the show and a mother fucking flame comes out of the lighter-pistol and I'm so damned disappointed that my death show-down ends so anticlimactically while glad that I lived without the unnecessary bullet hole. I end up with one weird as fucking ass story to tell if anyone asks. And more than possibly kick the cabbie in the nuts twice and brain at least once with his lighter-pistol.
I really don't
I don't care if it hurts.
This is not relevant to
The situation at hand.
Why must you
Continually press this--
Oh, well, yes, You are.
So human. So much.
And I'm not, I suppose?
Why must you throw
Your hands up and huff
About me making everything
Harder when I'm not the one
Who sits there and adds these
Silly limitations to life.
It's not important.
Well, of course I would know
That's not the point.
I fail to understand how you
Can see and still not comprehend.
This is just utter shit while I felt like writing to waste time waiting.
This is not relevant to
The situation at hand.
Why must you
Continually press this--
Oh, well, yes, You are.
So human. So much.
And I'm not, I suppose?
Why must you throw
Your hands up and huff
About me making everything
Harder when I'm not the one
Who sits there and adds these
Silly limitations to life.
It's not important.
Well, of course I would know
That's not the point.
I fail to understand how you
Can see and still not comprehend.
This is just utter shit while I felt like writing to waste time waiting.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Just shit... Utter shit... And vague references to porn.
RIght now I'm sitting in a public library (Oh so thrilling, I know) but the that's not what I got to thinking about. Inevitably, after a while, I find myself thinking about, reading about, talking about, or googling porn or pornographic things. I know, not weird, right? But It reminded me of something. Why is it so difficult for people to discuss porn or sex? I always feel very awkward talking about it but that just makes me want to do it more. Why do people avoid talking about fucking? Sex? Flagellation? Fellatio? Why do so many words involving sex start with F? Do we just like it? Do we think F's are sexy? Are they sexy? Is it because it looks like they've got a hard on? Why do people shy away from the word vagina? pussy? penis? cock? labia? Why is it so damn taboo to be open about sexuality?
Why is a girl who appreciates the female form automatically a lesbian? Why is it so... gay for men to want anal stimulation? Why do people assume that lesbian is synonymous with slut? Why do people care more about tightness or girth than about charm or skill? I don't understand the stigma. Why are girl's honors tied to their virginity but they get mocked if they actually are a virgin? Why is it so terrible for a boy to have never had sex or to abstain? Why must men be aggressors?
How come some women expect men to save them when they are capable of doing it themselves? Why is there a "weaker" sex? How come my femininity is tied to skirts and lipstick and not to a natural acceptance of my female form?
Why is a girl who appreciates the female form automatically a lesbian? Why is it so... gay for men to want anal stimulation? Why do people assume that lesbian is synonymous with slut? Why do people care more about tightness or girth than about charm or skill? I don't understand the stigma. Why are girl's honors tied to their virginity but they get mocked if they actually are a virgin? Why is it so terrible for a boy to have never had sex or to abstain? Why must men be aggressors?
How come some women expect men to save them when they are capable of doing it themselves? Why is there a "weaker" sex? How come my femininity is tied to skirts and lipstick and not to a natural acceptance of my female form?
Relations. The Problem with them is that they're forwarded. Thus the Re before the lation.
Every car that passes is another let down.
Is this why I run so far?
There is only so much distance
I can put between myself.
My skin is heated by the
High sun alone in space.
Traffic slugs along as
I wiz by.
He says that I really have
Nothing to say and I can't
Quite find the correct place
To disprove his argument.
There is so little that someone
Else hasn't said before me.
But I can't quite stop myself
From whispering words that
Have been shouted with
Bras blazing and groins hairy.
I don't quite see what's wrong
In being afraid of losing myself
To being a slave to an out-dated idea
Of Man being served by Wife.
The Problem with Narrative; Re: In My Mind My Stories Aren't Bound By Contemporary Length Boundaries
Sometimes if I haven't written in a while it builds up in my throat like some sort of acid reflux. I'll be sitting somewhere and in my mind is this complex and seemingly over-reaching plot that I'm designing and it burns my insides that I haven't told it yet. But at then sometimes the most I want to do is tell it to myself. I let the story unfold in my mind in spectacular three dimension and it is absolutely fantastic and it bothers me so damn much that when I go to write I can take pages just to describe this characters face or the location but it would be useless. There are so many details in life and I find myself ever disappointed at the lack of reach that language can provide.
Not that it cannot describe our environments.
If I felt like it I could take the time right now to describe the folded maroon sheet that hangs over the window in the room I'm in; blocking out the ever bright and inquisitive morning sun. I could tell how it was hung from corners carelessly picked that create a type of triangle that hangs with an extra corner facing down. I could take the time to describe the entirety of the darkened room in which I sit but it would take so much time and patience. And that's the real problem. While I may want to express the absolute wonders of the world around me or the world inside my head that I've just made up because I've got five minutes and nothing to do but wait no one would take the time to read it.
I surely wouldn't. It's silly and useless and just extra.
Not that it cannot describe our environments.
If I felt like it I could take the time right now to describe the folded maroon sheet that hangs over the window in the room I'm in; blocking out the ever bright and inquisitive morning sun. I could tell how it was hung from corners carelessly picked that create a type of triangle that hangs with an extra corner facing down. I could take the time to describe the entirety of the darkened room in which I sit but it would take so much time and patience. And that's the real problem. While I may want to express the absolute wonders of the world around me or the world inside my head that I've just made up because I've got five minutes and nothing to do but wait no one would take the time to read it.
I surely wouldn't. It's silly and useless and just extra.
Monday, May 2, 2011
To Taste the Rain
The window is open,
glass sheet hanging out
into a torrent of rain,
Streaming with water so thick it overflows.
I sit in our afternoon carriage,
Our bay of windows facing no sun
So we never know how much time had passed.
Thinking with your name on my lips
My hand hangs out into the rain
Soaked while getting more wet
And trying to dry; guttatim
in sheets of falling water.
You once asked me why
I never closed my windows.
Your lips filiform as I shivered,
Sick from exposure and
High on your mel-meaning care.
I told you I hated being alone,
That windows made it easier
For others to be with me.
You sat down in front of me,
Smiling so bright.
Your eyes reflected me back,
A dark spot in your Earthy green souls.
You chided me and told me to
fling away my autophobic ways,
while placing your knees against mine
We sat vis-a-vis style and
let our emotions be the horse
that pulled us where we needed to go.
I pull my hand out of the rain
as the memory fades to lust
and place my dripping fingers
against my lips.
I don't taste the cold rain,
I taste you.
Closing my eyes;
I let myself be that dark spot
In your Earthy green soul again.
glass sheet hanging out
into a torrent of rain,
Streaming with water so thick it overflows.
I sit in our afternoon carriage,
Our bay of windows facing no sun
So we never know how much time had passed.
Thinking with your name on my lips
My hand hangs out into the rain
Soaked while getting more wet
And trying to dry; guttatim
in sheets of falling water.
You once asked me why
I never closed my windows.
Your lips filiform as I shivered,
Sick from exposure and
High on your mel-meaning care.
I told you I hated being alone,
That windows made it easier
For others to be with me.
You sat down in front of me,
Smiling so bright.
Your eyes reflected me back,
A dark spot in your Earthy green souls.
You chided me and told me to
fling away my autophobic ways,
while placing your knees against mine
We sat vis-a-vis style and
let our emotions be the horse
that pulled us where we needed to go.
I pull my hand out of the rain
as the memory fades to lust
and place my dripping fingers
against my lips.
I don't taste the cold rain,
I taste you.
Closing my eyes;
I let myself be that dark spot
In your Earthy green soul again.
Sticky Sweets For My Sweets
I'll be your villain, Sweets.
Watch me ruin your plans.
Watch me soil your Sheets.
Watch me make you shiver.
Watch you look at me in disgust, Sweets,
but we both know
(don't we, Sweets?)
that your disgust is for you.
Because you can't help it, Sweets.
You're in love with me.
You're attracted to me, Sweets.
I used my villainous viles on you.
(Don't you love it, Sweets?)
You're falling.
You're losing yourself, Sweets.
I am gaining power now.
Rapidly in your mind, Sweets,
cause I already own your heart.
This is a sticky situation, Sweets.
You see we're perfect, totally perfect.
The more we fall in love, Sweets.
The more we must fight.
We are so perfect, Sweets.
Watch me ruin your plans.
Watch me soil your Sheets.
Watch me make you shiver.
Watch you look at me in disgust, Sweets,
but we both know
(don't we, Sweets?)
that your disgust is for you.
Because you can't help it, Sweets.
You're in love with me.
You're attracted to me, Sweets.
I used my villainous viles on you.
(Don't you love it, Sweets?)
You're falling.
You're losing yourself, Sweets.
I am gaining power now.
Rapidly in your mind, Sweets,
cause I already own your heart.
This is a sticky situation, Sweets.
You see we're perfect, totally perfect.
The more we fall in love, Sweets.
The more we must fight.
We are so perfect, Sweets.
The Lullaby
I started to edit this for grammar and spelling as well as to better the writing but I much prefer it in its natural state because it shows how much in just a short year or two I've grown when it comes to these things.
A crystal wine glass was met by a silver spoon
the tinking of their meeting rung out.
The low chatter around the bedecked hall quieted.
A small, almost gaunt, pale man stood up
and coughed lightly.
He smiled weekly around the group,
the grief almost palpable in his eyes.
"Tonight," he said, "we have congregated
together to celebrate the joining of..."
and here he trailed off,
unsheathing his front teeth enough
to lightly bite at his already swollen lip,
"of two blessed people," he continued on
with solemnity that did not fit the occasion.
"Now, in my home, we have a tradition.
Whenever two people join their lives together
my people tell a story to ensure the success
of the union."
The pale man visibly shook as he set down his glass,
and turned to the two smiling people
both sitting at the head of the hall.
"A long time ago, back when deities swarmed the Earth
and man knew not what civilization truly looked of
There Was A Couple, two people whom loved each other
more than any creature had seen love before."
Here the pale man reached his green silken clad arm down,
resting it gently on the shoulder of the man sitting next to him.
His eyes had yet to leave the man sitting at
the head of the hall with his happy new wife.
"The first full moon after they had joined their lives
together, a pack of wolves stumbled upon the two,
laying together as sleep was setting in.
The wolves looked upon the couple with
Jealousy in their eyes.
The love the two shared looked much more pleasing
than any game they could hunt.
The wolves become frenzied.
driven mad at the sight of the two lovers, loving.
They began to howl, such a wanting howl.
A cry that any caring soul would rush to answer.
They cried out and ran around the shelter
the lovers shared."
The man was now nervously tugging on a tress of his pale locks,
the thumb on his resting arm now rubbing gently against
the material of the dark skinned man sitting next to hims' shirt.
"one of the couple, disturbed from her rest,
turned and peered out the window, seeing not
the wolves that circled her home,
only hearing this cry,
so seducing to her. She quietly dressed and left her bed.
He husband, awoken from sleep by the
cooling of her bed side, turned to the window,
hearing the howling melody in the night air.
He looked upon the scene, just in time to see
the frenzied wolves fall upon his newly wife.
He screamed out and begged, begged whichever
god would listen, begged for her to be spared
the teeth of the wolves, he would do anything
to spare her the sharp teeth of these creatures."
The man coughed harder this time, doubling
over from the strength of them.
"The deities of the night took pity upon the new lover,
knowing the couple to hold such love as nothing
they could conceive. They trapped the newly wife's
essence, in the light of the full moon, saving her
from perishing. As punishment to the jealous wolves,
they were locked, forever in the moonlight with her,
to protect and assist her for eternity.
The man was over wrought with grief, even still,
knowing that if his love were moonlight,
he could never hold her again.
The man covered his face with the pelt
of an already fallen wolf, saying that if his love
would be alive by the light of the moon,
then he would die by the dark of the night
and join her in the moon."
The man ran his hand over his face then through his hair,
stopping at the back of his neck to rub.
"The deities were outraged by his lack of thanks,
they decreed, as a form of payment for
his lack of respect that he would forever haunt
the dark inside a newly joined couple's bed room,
his wife would stand outside their room on the first full moon
of their joining, and if, by unlikely chance,
he heard her calling to him, singing for him,
and went to her, they would be joined as the
dark and the light of the moon, forever,"
The pale man let his head tilt down,
causing his white hair to cascade over his body.
"but to hear her call, he would have to hear
it, over the singing, the calling, the lullaby of one
newly wedded lover to the other and convince
one of the newly wedded lovers to move
a shadow from the dark of their bed outside...
So his wife, forever sits outside a new lover's
window, with her pack of moon light wolves,
howling with them for her love,
and he, haunts the all newly wed lover's
bed shadows, urging one of the couple to
leave their love's side, so he may be joined with
his own."
The pale man took a big breath, wheezing air and
standing as tall as his small frame allowed.
"However, there is a catch, for the deities
at the time were not kind but spiteful.
any lover, that went out to the wife in her
moon hunt to let his trapped soul be with hers
would be turned into one of her moon wolves,
stuck forever in the hunt for love as deep as theirs,
and that person would be damned to all eternity,
standing outside their lover's window,
howling to be let back in,
but their lovers will not open the window,
because no one lets inside their home a wolf,
especially a moon wolf, a creature that consumes
love out of jealousy."
The pale man smiled sadly and raised his glass,
tipping his head slightly causing his pale locks
to catch the light that shone in through the window,
"may neither of you become the wolf in hunt.
and may each other's lullabies of love be so strong
as to over power that of the strongest love known
to all living creatures alike."
everyone took a sip of their drinks as the man
coughed lightly again and swayed.
the man he had been sitting next to stood,
and gripped lightly his elbow, a look of concern
on his dark face.
"and, lastly," Said the pale man almost breathlessly,
"please forgive my long toast, I must admit I have been-"
He coughed again and swayed more, the dark complected man
frowned and held more securely onto the small,
pale man's body.
"I have been remiss in my censor or what I am to and not to
say. At one point, I know, my toast was to be short and sweet,
it seems I have missed my mark."
The pale man's knees gave slightly and the dark haired gypsy
of a man that had been holding him up hoisted
his small, fragile frame into his arms and strode quickly
outside the open doors into the dark, moonless night.
This is an old dream: The Lifeless Child
It is breaking through.
It's Breaking through the door!
slowly pushing on it and moving it. The door isn't solid anymore but moves and grooves and flows.
It's getting through, god, it's getting through!
The wood splinters and drips down to the floor. I can see through the door now, enough has melted away.
I can feel the hands on the other side pushing in as I'm pushing back. I'm sliding back on the slick floor as my hands and body and arms push at what's left of the door, brushing against flesh so cold and hard as if it were turgid sea weed.
I can't hear myself mumble words of panic bit I know I am.
Ash gray hands with dead black and green fingernails claw at me through the breaks in the door.
I'm soaked now and it's WET. It doesn't seem to dry, it's always wet. I could see the lake now, that cheery green water front from which this thing had drowned itself out of. I screamed so hard it hurt.
The image of the lake was replaced by something much more frightening. That face, it's face. It looked dry, but I could tell it was wet, soaked through.Its grin greeted me. Tiny, far spaced, brown teeth and the glimpse of a swollen black-and-puke-green tongue.
I jumped away from the door and scrambled back but it was faster than me.
I could hear the grinding of bone against bone and the soft rubbing of dry muscle and tendons snapping. It moved in a sort of jerk dip that came off as childlike and tottering.
I could smell it's breath, molded, soggy, crackers, rancid milk, and the rot-flesh smell of newly old corpses.
A flashback memory: I'm falling, pushed into a set of catacomb graves and landing on a body, laid fresh not a weak ago. Screaming, I remembered screaming and crying and falling down in the dark trying to get away, trying to find my way out in the dark. Giving up, curling up and shaking.
Sobbing not able to take my eyes away from the direction of the body I'd landed on even though I couldn't see anything but the dark.
Backing up into a whole, too small, too small the hole's too small for an adult. Oh god I want out.
Screaming and sobbing and begging to be let out. Shaking and clinging to myself.
I'm there again in that dusty old tomb trembling and crying and pleading for it to leave. I can hear it now it's talking. That voice, my, my, my oh shhi--
"I just wanted to play, daddy. I just wanted to laugh and run with all the others."
I was mumbling again still shaking and backing away and begging and pleading for forgiveness.
I could hear how close it was now, so close I could feel the water dripping from it. It leans down so close. Too close. I'm still dragging myself away but it's not moving, how?. Oh god oh god oh god.
"Why can't I live?" I stop dragging myself away and I hold my breath. It leans farther in and tilts it's head. "Why did I have to die?" It's voice is so soft, so curious, too patient. It brought that hand up and reached out to me with a tiny little claw of a hand. I reached my own hand to it. Mirroring it's, transfixed. So transfixed.
It brings it's other hand up, its grin widening, squinting those glistening, lifeless eyes.
It rams a shining razored wire through my cheek into my gums and out the bottom of my jaw.
The only thing I can do is chuckle. I laugh and fall back, my head resting on the stone pillow in one of the corpse cuby holes and laugh softly as it lowers it's grinning mouth to me and kisses me softly and says: "I love you, daddy." I'm drowning slowly, quickly, drowning.
I break and die and close my eyes to rest. Too tired, far too tired. I give up, I wont, I can't, you can't make me. Then of course, it said something more, something far worse. Something heart breaking.
"I forgive you, daddy. We all do, father of mine own life."
I screamed and slammed my eyes open struggling to sit up feeling something small, something warm in my lap. I pick it up and cradle it. Weeping violently and clinging to this small warm thing as it rasps and struggles and reaches one tiny week hand up. I smile bitterly and wrap my fingers around its little hand.
It finally is overcome, is undone. There is no more life left in it and it turns gray and green. I watch with wide, horror struck, eyes as its tiny body shifts and grows and becomes hard and cold.
Slime oozes out of its mouth, covering it in a disgusting wetness.
I whimper and crawl out of the hole, crying profusely and clutching the fastly morphing thing to me. I stand and stumble, struggling to keep it up.
It gets bigger and heavier. I scramble to hold it and walk towards where I think the stairs to be.
There's a wet cracking crunching noise followed by pain and a small shriek of despair as I fall. Holding it close as it clutches back, wrapping limbs around my neck and hips. I can feel my leg give out and bleed.
It's Breaking through the door!
slowly pushing on it and moving it. The door isn't solid anymore but moves and grooves and flows.
It's getting through, god, it's getting through!
The wood splinters and drips down to the floor. I can see through the door now, enough has melted away.
I can feel the hands on the other side pushing in as I'm pushing back. I'm sliding back on the slick floor as my hands and body and arms push at what's left of the door, brushing against flesh so cold and hard as if it were turgid sea weed.
I can't hear myself mumble words of panic bit I know I am.
Ash gray hands with dead black and green fingernails claw at me through the breaks in the door.
I'm soaked now and it's WET. It doesn't seem to dry, it's always wet. I could see the lake now, that cheery green water front from which this thing had drowned itself out of. I screamed so hard it hurt.
The image of the lake was replaced by something much more frightening. That face, it's face. It looked dry, but I could tell it was wet, soaked through.Its grin greeted me. Tiny, far spaced, brown teeth and the glimpse of a swollen black-and-puke-green tongue.
I jumped away from the door and scrambled back but it was faster than me.
I could hear the grinding of bone against bone and the soft rubbing of dry muscle and tendons snapping. It moved in a sort of jerk dip that came off as childlike and tottering.
I could smell it's breath, molded, soggy, crackers, rancid milk, and the rot-flesh smell of newly old corpses.
A flashback memory: I'm falling, pushed into a set of catacomb graves and landing on a body, laid fresh not a weak ago. Screaming, I remembered screaming and crying and falling down in the dark trying to get away, trying to find my way out in the dark. Giving up, curling up and shaking.
Sobbing not able to take my eyes away from the direction of the body I'd landed on even though I couldn't see anything but the dark.
Backing up into a whole, too small, too small the hole's too small for an adult. Oh god I want out.
Screaming and sobbing and begging to be let out. Shaking and clinging to myself.
I'm there again in that dusty old tomb trembling and crying and pleading for it to leave. I can hear it now it's talking. That voice, my, my, my oh shhi--
"I just wanted to play, daddy. I just wanted to laugh and run with all the others."
I was mumbling again still shaking and backing away and begging and pleading for forgiveness.
I could hear how close it was now, so close I could feel the water dripping from it. It leans down so close. Too close. I'm still dragging myself away but it's not moving, how?. Oh god oh god oh god.
"Why can't I live?" I stop dragging myself away and I hold my breath. It leans farther in and tilts it's head. "Why did I have to die?" It's voice is so soft, so curious, too patient. It brought that hand up and reached out to me with a tiny little claw of a hand. I reached my own hand to it. Mirroring it's, transfixed. So transfixed.
It brings it's other hand up, its grin widening, squinting those glistening, lifeless eyes.
It rams a shining razored wire through my cheek into my gums and out the bottom of my jaw.
The only thing I can do is chuckle. I laugh and fall back, my head resting on the stone pillow in one of the corpse cuby holes and laugh softly as it lowers it's grinning mouth to me and kisses me softly and says: "I love you, daddy." I'm drowning slowly, quickly, drowning.
I break and die and close my eyes to rest. Too tired, far too tired. I give up, I wont, I can't, you can't make me. Then of course, it said something more, something far worse. Something heart breaking.
"I forgive you, daddy. We all do, father of mine own life."
I screamed and slammed my eyes open struggling to sit up feeling something small, something warm in my lap. I pick it up and cradle it. Weeping violently and clinging to this small warm thing as it rasps and struggles and reaches one tiny week hand up. I smile bitterly and wrap my fingers around its little hand.
It finally is overcome, is undone. There is no more life left in it and it turns gray and green. I watch with wide, horror struck, eyes as its tiny body shifts and grows and becomes hard and cold.
Slime oozes out of its mouth, covering it in a disgusting wetness.
I whimper and crawl out of the hole, crying profusely and clutching the fastly morphing thing to me. I stand and stumble, struggling to keep it up.
It gets bigger and heavier. I scramble to hold it and walk towards where I think the stairs to be.
There's a wet cracking crunching noise followed by pain and a small shriek of despair as I fall. Holding it close as it clutches back, wrapping limbs around my neck and hips. I can feel my leg give out and bleed.
Break and die.
I can feel the intake of breathes against my skin but I know there is no exhalation.
I stand back up slowly, using only a perverse sense of desperation to keep from falling back down. Crying out with every step, I lurch forward. Every step and every noise I emit echoes off the walls of the tomb.
I see a light near, just over the other side of a stone coffin and up a set of steps. The light doesn't penetrate this far in, no.
The light barely makes it past the second step, quickly fading and leaving the darkness behind.
I can hear it whisper little words, hatingly sweet little words. Words that make me cry and cringe and hate myself with every syllable. I reach the steps.
At last.
My god, at last.
I climb them, they grate against my skin and tear at me. All the while it clutches tighter, then loosens its grip. It's scared, I don't know why. It's pleading with me. "Please, daddy. please, please, don't make me die. I don't want to, please, Father, sweet kind father, can't I live?"
I scream and climb faster.
If I just reach the light, if I just TOUCH it, WE'll be safe.
It and I.
I cry out in joy, grin and lurch and fall on my back into the light.
I look down in joy, reach my hand up to smooth, that wet head resting against my chest. "It's okay, baby, it's okay, we're safe."
I begin to say.
my hand reaches out and barely touches the strands of that wet hair.
It turns to ash and crumbles. All of it crumbles. Falling away and slowly caught on a breeze. Blowing away and back to the dark.
I'm too shocked to move; to think. I just sit there, trembling and unblinking.
I killed it. I killed it.
I did.
I killed it.
I break down and crumble. Curling into a ball and shake.
I'm drowning.
I killed it.
I can't breath.
I killed it.
I can feel the intake of breathes against my skin but I know there is no exhalation.
I stand back up slowly, using only a perverse sense of desperation to keep from falling back down. Crying out with every step, I lurch forward. Every step and every noise I emit echoes off the walls of the tomb.
I see a light near, just over the other side of a stone coffin and up a set of steps. The light doesn't penetrate this far in, no.
The light barely makes it past the second step, quickly fading and leaving the darkness behind.
I can hear it whisper little words, hatingly sweet little words. Words that make me cry and cringe and hate myself with every syllable. I reach the steps.
At last.
My god, at last.
I climb them, they grate against my skin and tear at me. All the while it clutches tighter, then loosens its grip. It's scared, I don't know why. It's pleading with me. "Please, daddy. please, please, don't make me die. I don't want to, please, Father, sweet kind father, can't I live?"
I scream and climb faster.
If I just reach the light, if I just TOUCH it, WE'll be safe.
It and I.
I cry out in joy, grin and lurch and fall on my back into the light.
I look down in joy, reach my hand up to smooth, that wet head resting against my chest. "It's okay, baby, it's okay, we're safe."
I begin to say.
my hand reaches out and barely touches the strands of that wet hair.
It turns to ash and crumbles. All of it crumbles. Falling away and slowly caught on a breeze. Blowing away and back to the dark.
I'm too shocked to move; to think. I just sit there, trembling and unblinking.
I killed it. I killed it.
I did.
I killed it.
I break down and crumble. Curling into a ball and shake.
I'm drowning.
I killed it.
I can't breath.
I killed it.
In Response; Osama
In response to a Facebook status and comment.
bearing military in the entire world, "didn't have a choice" because fuck if they actually tell us the true story. Again, I don't think you're seeing that I'm saying he deserved it, we should have caught and tortured him for a very long time, if not, till his death, but not by our hands. By natural means. And you don't have to believe that you shouldn't kill him, that's your opinion, but it will never sit in my gut as "the right thing to do" in this situation. Its all political."
You said "we should have caught and tortured him for a very long time, if not, till his death"
But the problem is that we wouldn't have tortured him. Not even for a little bit.
Considering how high of a risk he is, he would have been put into our strongest off-country prison, guarded day and night by our best soldiers and, if he lived long enough, put to stand trial for his crimes against humanity. At best, he would have surved a life sentence and then possibly have been put to death. Or he may have just been put to death but at the same time it's entirely possible he could escape and return to his terrorist group and continue on as he had before.
But we would Never have tortured him. He would have been treated as a high-risk prisoner but an American prisoner. Meaning proper nutrition, healthcare, adequate housing, exercise and everything else Americans believe all people deserve.
He never would have to truly pay for his crimes. He would have lived in a plush cell with room service, always with the chance of escape.
With him dead, yes, his people will be angry, but if he had lived they would have turned him into a cause. They most probably would attack where ever he was kept in the hopes of getting him back. Which would unnecessarily have put soldiers at risk because it would be their duty to protect his cell, both from those attempting to assist in his escape and from those trying to kill him for his crimes.
I do believe it is a dark day when a man is forced to kill another man but it is most definitely a higher crime to torture another man because it most always ends up being a torture for both men and a torture on their societies. One because one of their own is being hurt purposely and maliciously and the other because they now have to bear the burden of knowing that they are allowing, or possibly encouraging, the victimization of another man.
Osama tortured people. He terrorized them and made them feel unsafe in their homes, jobs, and in other countries. It wasn't just the U.S. that he committed crimes against. Killing him doesn't make us as bad as him because we didn't do it to terrorize his family, his faith, or his nation. We killed him in combat; in an effort to bring him to justice for what he has done. What would have made us just as bad as him, maybe even worse than him, is if we had tortured him. Because we would have ended up torturing his family, his faith, and the people who followed him. And the only one of those four things that deserves to pay for his crimes is him."
The status:
"I feel slightly ashamed that people are rejoicing over this death. I'm not saying he didn't deserve it, but that's what makes us better than Terrorists? That we needn't return the killing. I believe in the sacredness of life. We wont forget those who have been lost, but is vengeance really the right path? You want justice, bring him to Guantanamo and make him suffer, death is release and not up to man to determine."
and the comment by the same person later in the conversation caused by the status:
"I don't buy it, I think they got "passionate" and decided to off him then and there. Who else gets the opportunity of knowing they killed the sob who heavily influenced 9/11? I don't buy for a minute that our military, the most advanced, smartest, weapons you-haven't-even-heard-of-
MY RESPONSE:
"Reading through this there was only one thing I could point out with facts that I find faulty. I disagree with the idea that killing the "bad guys" makes us "bad" but I respect your opinion and understand that it is necessary to have differing opinions to help sort of police the other side. If it weren't for people like you, ******, then it's possible that a country as powerful and wide reaching as ours would simply kill everyone who hindered us instead of finding another way. However, that's not why I wanted to comment.
You said "we should have caught and tortured him for a very long time, if not, till his death"
But the problem is that we wouldn't have tortured him. Not even for a little bit.
Considering how high of a risk he is, he would have been put into our strongest off-country prison, guarded day and night by our best soldiers and, if he lived long enough, put to stand trial for his crimes against humanity. At best, he would have surved a life sentence and then possibly have been put to death. Or he may have just been put to death but at the same time it's entirely possible he could escape and return to his terrorist group and continue on as he had before.
But we would Never have tortured him. He would have been treated as a high-risk prisoner but an American prisoner. Meaning proper nutrition, healthcare, adequate housing, exercise and everything else Americans believe all people deserve.
He never would have to truly pay for his crimes. He would have lived in a plush cell with room service, always with the chance of escape.
With him dead, yes, his people will be angry, but if he had lived they would have turned him into a cause. They most probably would attack where ever he was kept in the hopes of getting him back. Which would unnecessarily have put soldiers at risk because it would be their duty to protect his cell, both from those attempting to assist in his escape and from those trying to kill him for his crimes.
I do believe it is a dark day when a man is forced to kill another man but it is most definitely a higher crime to torture another man because it most always ends up being a torture for both men and a torture on their societies. One because one of their own is being hurt purposely and maliciously and the other because they now have to bear the burden of knowing that they are allowing, or possibly encouraging, the victimization of another man.
Osama tortured people. He terrorized them and made them feel unsafe in their homes, jobs, and in other countries. It wasn't just the U.S. that he committed crimes against. Killing him doesn't make us as bad as him because we didn't do it to terrorize his family, his faith, or his nation. We killed him in combat; in an effort to bring him to justice for what he has done. What would have made us just as bad as him, maybe even worse than him, is if we had tortured him. Because we would have ended up torturing his family, his faith, and the people who followed him. And the only one of those four things that deserves to pay for his crimes is him."
Bell of Morality
I found out a bit ago. I guess some time like December or January that the probability that my mother had been murdered when I was a child was something like 90%. I say that because my father admitted to murdering someone to me and to my brother he admitted he had "gotten rid" of our mother (something to this affect my memory is failing at best and failed at normal).
To put the long of it into the short my mother was a whore, an addict, had severe dependency issues and was an all-around moral-less individual. She has left scars so deep and profound on her children that they have created our most defining characteristics. However, the way I remember her leaving, the things she said and what she did left one of the biggest traits that I possess in its wake.
She has been gone since I was a child. I could regale you with tales of her periodic visits in one state or another or of the few early childhood memories I do have that would explain just what type of person she was and what type of experiences she left behind for her children but at the moment I don't think I'm particularly strong enough to.
My parents were never married and hardly constituted as together if one chooses to believe the stories. My older sister was from before my parents got together for the first time. My brother is from after they got together but most assuredly not my father's child. I was born eleven months after my father's girlfriend had given birth to her and my father's first child. The baby boy was given away to a Jewish family in Encino. After me came my younger brother by two and a half years and this spurred my father's girlfriend in to becoming my stepmother. Though, if I'm honest with myself, she was my mum from the start.
To put the long of it into the short my mother was a whore, an addict, had severe dependency issues and was an all-around moral-less individual. She has left scars so deep and profound on her children that they have created our most defining characteristics. However, the way I remember her leaving, the things she said and what she did left one of the biggest traits that I possess in its wake.
My apologies if this is rambling or doesn't quite stay on topic.
Anyway, years passed by and I was something above first grade but bellow third when my mother left. I remember going to an airport and trying not to cry, though I did anyway. I remember she hugged me and said that she was going away for my good-- for my brother and me. She said she was going to Texas to live with some of her family (never verified). I remember being so sad and overwhelmed and not being "big" enough to handle this. I remember my older brother seeming to be angry and sullen and grieving already. He loved her so much. I loved her so much. She was my mother. She was my heart. She was my mother.
I never got over her leaving me. When I was in school on the following Mother's Day I drew a picture of her on one side of a fence and me on the other as my Mother's Day card. My teacher requested I do another with soft words and sad eyes. I drew one for my mum (read: stepmother). As I grew up and started to comprehend the horrors of the world I began to take solace in the fact that my mother left.
I don't ever remember feeling abandoned by her because she had always had a habit of disappearing and reappearing months later (with a new man or, in one instance, a couple who were "kind" enough to look after her). I guess I always expected her to come back eventually. I remember when we moved from our apartment to a house in another city that I worried that mother wouldn't be able to find us again because she didn't know where we lived.
I remember dismissing this shortly because she wasn't to come again. I wasn't to see her anymore. Besides, I had my mum, why should I look for another mother? (I've always held a certain amount of shame and guilt for 'replacing' my mother, especially when I was young. It wasn't until I was seventeen or so that I started to deal with this.)
I used to have day dreams that my mother would come rescue me from the void that I lived in, from the sheer loneliness and purposeless that was my being (most heavily in middle school).
But no matter how much I wished she would appear (preferably a millionaire and happily well-balanced, as she'd never been when I'd known her) I always was comforted by the fact that she had left.
And the older I got the more I was comforted by it. Because it had been a truly selfless and perfect act performed by a deeply flawed and corrupt individual. I never had to convince myself that when she left it was for the best because I had known it was for the best. She caused so many problems and difficulties that it could only be positive for her to leave our lives and allow our (seemingly) more stable and secure father to raise us. To me, at the time, she had been the only real saint there could be. I didn't, and still don't, believe that a 'saintly' individual is one who avoids all 'sin'. I believe a saint should be an individual whose life is full of sin and corruption and yet still performs extreme acts of selflessness that benefit everyone else and are only a detriment to themselves.
To know what it is like to sin and still act with grace is a more wondrous act than any pure individual can comprehend.
She had been the only person I had ever met or heard of who had truly done something completely morally centered. To me, she was my hope. Not in return. She should never return. Ever. But in humanity. I saw so much in humans that was evil and disgusting and there was so little in the way of morality that was truly deserving that I would falter and fail and fall into these detached episodes of utter dejection and hopelessness. I would drift from myself and run entirely without thinking about my day to day actions. I would lean about, completely out of it, and despairing over how wretched humanity was. Until I remembered her and what she had done.
She gave me my standard for morality. To do what is right and true above what is wanted or easier. But it was more than that. She showed me that one didn't need to be constantly upright or "good" in the contemporary sense to be moral. She showed me that one could have faults a-plenty and still do what is entirely right and true. And I don't mean altruistic because that is merely a sham for those whom feel guilt about their own existence.
Because of her I always expected people to be morally good. I still expect people to be good, at their core. Because it wasn't a matter of flaws or problems or pettiness but of knowing what is right and then doing it.
And then, now, at twenty, to learn what I based my standards for humanity is false more than wounded me, it crippled me. I've been unable to do anything useful or what I should. It isn't so much that I don't believe in the moral center that every individual has but it is an utter and unfathomable grief that my own mind hides from itself.
I've only felt tired and empty since this discovery. It's a black mood, indeed. I don't want to think because it will inevitably lead to me thinking about my dead mother, my childish and selfish stepmother, my overly faulted brothers, my egotistical and manipulative sister, and last but never least, my monster of a father.
He killed her. He lied to me. He hurt us all. And he doesn't care at all. He hurt his children. He hurt us. I know I'm being repetitive but it's so hard to grasp even though I know its verity. He ignored us all for my entire life so far. He only ever recognizes us when he wants something or when it benefits him to do so. This would devastate anyone but it hits me so hard all the time because I can't stop believing that it's possible that he will do better; that they all will do better even though I don't expect it to happen. It's like a new heartbreak every time I have to remind myself that my hope is fruitless. That, for some people, right does not constitute an obligation to act a certain way and that seems entirely incomprehensible to me.
Because if it weren't for them I wouldn't have this unshakable moral compass and this unrelenting hope but everyday they still never fail to fail me.
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