MSN and productivity at work

swan_pr: oh shit… did you hear that? another bake sale at the church… fuck! we're gonna hear about her fuckin streussel all week

roxy: ugh… and what was that about wesley snipes on the kitchen table with annabella whateshername? "I could see myself there" ewwwwwww

swan_pr: well, now we know she likes black dudes with fat cocks :p

roxy: as IF

swan_pr: yeah… she and steve prolly don't have any. anyways, she'll confess on sunday. forgive me father for I have sinned. I have thougth of wesley's cock this week while making my streussel

roxy: lollllll FUCK ME FATHER FUCK ME NOW!!!!

swan_pr: hehe… with the crucifix, take it BITCH

roxy: steve wants to jump in

swan_pr: nah, he's jerkin off watching

roxy: flames of hell licking his ass

swan_pr: they're fine, absolved every sunday. fucking anglicans 

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The obvious often eludes me. Trapped in my head. Trapped in my words. Buried under layers of dust that flew out of my whirlwinds to finally rest upon what makes sense. For real. What is obvious.

Percieved responsabilities. Chris, from Inane thoughts and Insane ramblings, pointed me to the right direction from his comment on a previous post. The direction I may have been avoiding. Or the direction I just didn't know was there all along. Not that clear to me. 

I was able to dance around it. To feel it overpower me at times. For how long… When did I stop believe I was worth something, anything… When did my sense of self totally disintergrate… When did I start becoming who I thought I should be… Not because of someone, but because of what I perceived was right, expected, reasonable…

There lies the biggest responsability. Accepting that this is not anybody's fault. No one came to me with a contract, no one put a gun to my head. I. Perceived. Wrong. 

Thus cultivating that image through other people's eyes. Thus making me less tangible as a human being, more real as an image of what I should be for them. My perception. Not theirs. 

August 25th 2005. First post. First step. I can't say I've come a long way, that would be an understatement. I've been reacquainted with who was living inside but was hiding. Just standing by, watching the show, thinking she couldn't jump in, didn't fit in. Because of what she perceived.

Who needs fucking therapy when you can blog?

She, and others

I'd watch the door to see her walk in every night. She usually came in on Tuesdays and Fridays. I would wait for her to take a seat, and then change my section with another girl to work in hers.

The bingo hall seemed to come alive to me. I would walk to her and sell her cards. She would always smile and ask how I was and give me nice tips. The first time I saw her, I blushed violently and a co worker asked me what was wrong. I couldn't answer, couldn't talk. My eyes followed her across the hall and all I knew about desire was thrown out the window. I didn't know much at 15, but enough to recognize this as something I would not experience often. 

She wore a fur coat and when she'd take it off, that was the best moment of the evening. She had long brown hair, sleek and shiny. Her body was a sea of unkowns that I wanted to touch. Not a small woman. With wonderfull breasts and an ass my hands were hungry for. Once I was close enough that despite the thick layer of smoke I smelled her perfume. Ysatis.

For weeks I went to sleep fantasizing about her, her body, her skin, her mouth on mine, her hands showing me where to put mine, her voice in my ear, asking me to, telling me to. 

I will always remember her, although I forgot her name a long time ago. And through the years I've lusted after a few women without shame, but without doing anything about it.  But what I think I've learned early on is that falling in lust can be as consuming as falling in love.

That need, desire, hunger, that nothing can quench.  Lust can be as fullfilling but also as damaging as love. The loss, the end, when there is nothing to do but to part. But to feel so real, so alive, so powerful, so whole, even for a moment, can be worth the pain. Yes we are animals, yes, we aspire to higher thinking when in fact all we really want is a good fuck once in a while. And so what?

Some days I think all this is accessorial. Nothing more than instant gratification that will lead to nothing good. But that instant when eyes meet, when fingers spark fires, when everything is senses, is an instant I feel alive. Without effort life comes to me. Once in a while, I enjoy that.

Floor plan

The edges are blurred and I wonder, no, I ponder. I still have questions, too many with answers stapled to their backs.

I have many things going for me. I have many things I keep close to my heart that surely one day will destroy me.

Beyond the scratch at the roof of my mouth that I can't stop tonguing. Maintaining the scratch.

I've seen myself at the very end of this moment, on the verge of making that final step, one too many times. I know I will not make it. Not that step.

I was in town on Friday. Walked to the bar. Stayed outside, had a smoke, made a call, chatted with the friendly bartender who was having a cigarette. Did not go in.

He says "Come in, come in!" I say "Nah, I don't like walking in alone. In fact I don't like", "walking in at all" he finishes my sentence. And I say yeah…

Looked at my shoes. Looked around. Kissed goodbye. Can't walk in at all. Some places I shouldn't have gone in. Some places I deny myself access to.

But I have it backwards I know. The places where I am lost in are the ones I ate the keys for. The ones I won't go in are exactly where I need to be.

My mouth is bleeding and I swallow, thinking that's all I'm good for. If I get sick, I will get sick of me. Because that's all I do. Make sure no one but myself is to blame. 

I erase myself from your lives, your eyes, your thoughts. I want to be invisible, so that the only responsability I will bear will be of never having been true. To myself.

I write and I think and I understand. But still chose to fucking poke the scratch again and again and again. I'm beyond pain. My tolerance has reached incredible heights. I don't even know what's real anymore.

The only emotion I hear from my words is the sound of the keyboard, my nails sliding off the keys once in a while and hitting backspace. I have no more to say tonight. I need.

So it is said. I need.

 

Ramblings

I just don't see the point of doing anything. Whatever I do, I seem to be taking the wrong steps. I feel like I'm the end of my rope right now. Again.

I'm mostly pissed off about what I write. I'm whinny. I'm negative. I'm lonely. I'm nothing. Fuck. (yeah, that sounds like a great idea)

As I have written not long ago, I can't seem to dig, to understand, to grasp my shit. Zen Master, you are helping of course… I think I just need to stop, breath, and jump. Just do something for christ's sake. If I can't see straight it's because I've dug deep enough. And no amount of procrastination will replace action. Every day something happens that tells me I should. I somehow chose to ignore all the signs and stagnate. Smell my own stink. And enjoy it.

On a lighter note, I'm going back to the gym starting tomorrow. I was fairly active all summer, but not enough to wake up my muscles. I have gained only 3 pounds since January, I'm proud of that. I just need a little tightening.

Baggage claim

-You're doing it again?

-Yes, but on my own terms this time.

 

What does "on my own terms" mean when I don't have a fucking clue what it is I'm looking for? How to get it? How to use it?

I go for the dark, the complicated and of course the unattainable. Because there is comfort in the security of assured failure. Uncertain succes does not apply to 'my own terms'.

I go for the dark, the complicated and of course the unattainable. Because isn't this what I know best? Doesn't it leave me without obligations, consequences, responsability?

Will I ever believe it? If I tell myself often enough, will I ever accept this as truth?

That everything that I am right now I want to embrace. That my arms aren't wide enough to take me all in. I do not want to reject anything that I am anymore. But I can't handle it yet.

Some things about ourselves we will always loath, always despise. And no matter how hard we work on them, they just won't go away.

These things I want to learn to accept. I want to love.

On my own terms. 

Blind slumber

Going through the motions. Every day looking like its predecessor. It's highly possible that the next will join the ranks. And as I drag my lazy ass from today to tomorrow, I am amazed at how easy it is to do, say or feel absolutely nothing. To not think. And the deeper I fall into this state, the worst I feel. On one hand I tell myself, it's ok, take break, just drop everything and float. Follow the line. On the other, I feel guilty, lazy and small. For falling asleep again.

The I-shoulds that I used to turn into I-dids are now becoming fuck-its. Any attempt to focus is killed by shut-ups and don't-think-about-its. The wind has died. The drive is gone. But it was all fabricated. Rested on artifice. Conditions. Compromises. Another kind of sleep.

I am confronted once again with a stranger. Two people lived side by side, one watching the other die. The dead is haunting me. The living is hiding in shame. Will I go for the trinity? As the third player is poking her head out, I'm starting to feel jilted by my own mind. 

I should go on a trip, far away. Let them fight it over. I was about to write, I'm so tired. Then I realized, what the fuck am I a tried of? I do nothing. I let everything slip, slide, go. I don't try to grasp. I don't try to hold. Tired of what? I'm actually afraid, that's what I think. Afraid of seeing my mind go. Of never being able to recover what I started. The beautiful that I bred. The wonderful that was showing signs of blooming.

Afraid that I am not worth all this. That I'm being selfish for trying to be a better me. All this time spent in my mind, to clean it up, to understand it better, is surely too egocentric. I don't deserve that amount of time and effort. I can get by on sitcoms and crappy softcovers. 

It's just too easy like this. And too hard for the rest. But there is always a catch for taking the easy way out. And I can see it. So I need to stay awake. Eyes opened. No caffeine this time, no Rockstar, no Monster. No fake help. Poke me once in a while will ya?

Goodbye

Saying goodbye… to a pile of shit. 

 

G.O.W.

If I was the Oracle, I'd fuck Kratos. Preferably after a killing spree, drenched in blood. Out of breath, still on a high from the battle. Hands gripping my hair, ripping my clothes, grabbing my thighs, leaving trails of blood on my skin, his teeth in my neck, on my breasts and… hem… ahhhh… well, as I said, if I was the Oracle.

Kratos

Haven't played in while and got lost on the rooftops of Athens tonight. Stupid. After half an hour I finally found my way. I was just too lazy to get to the computer and read the walkthrough.

Now all I hear is the soundtrack and helpless villagers. Whom I've killed of course. Life orbs 🙂