I will tear you limb from limb, and revel in my power over you. I will break your fragile bones and suck the marrow from the center. I will cut slivers from your organs and eat them at my leisure. I will fucking kill you and never spare you a second thought.
Discarding bodies and discarding lovers are so similar I find the comparison almost pointless to draw. So much blood. Those glassy, lifeless eyes. The ache that returns, so savagely, after the briefest period of their absence. It fades, it flows, it finds its way home and then drowns you, polishing off a bottle of bourbon and leaving your lungs choked with brine and your veins thick with lust.
I can taste ash, like the men of Pompeii, just before Vesuvius buried them forever.
She hemorrhages in my dreams, the way they all do, jet black blood that oozes, colored and clouded and coagulated with disease. It flows, not swiftly and not willingly. Only by virtue of the number of wounds I've inflicted. Horrors in numbers too great to discern, the rotting of worlds to the conqueror worm.
I will make war on your body in ways that will leave you surrounded, beseiged, utterly without hope as famine sets in and the ransacking waits, hungry, eager to taste sweet meat. The horde I will raise to strike against your walls will be unstoppable, interested only in pillage, in the slaughter, in the bloodrage.
And you will breathe your last somewhere in the lingering time between dark and light, overlooking the sea with the salt in your pores and the breath of the ocean in your hair. The place where all my jilted lovers go to die.
Death is only a matter of a little pain.
You're doomed,
-S.R.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Curiosity
I could crave the heat of your body as I have craved so many physical things, could become addicted to the way you make my synapses fire, fill my brain and blood with chemical euphoria like heroin and leave me gasping, shuddering, sweating, exhausted like night terrors.I could beg you to tame me when our hips rock in tandem, your fingernails dig into my back and come away bloody, my teeth find the soft, sweet flesh of your throat and leave you trembling.
I can see the way your body would arch, you toes would curl, your eyes would slam shut as your mouth hung open, can feel your breath in my ear carrying pleas of "harder", "fuck me", "hurt me". I know what you would look like covered in scratches, bruises, welts, sweat, saliva, cum and how you would lie there, chest heaving as your lungs hauled in oxygen to slow your racing heart.
I know these things, like I know Whitman and Shakespeare and Milton. Like I know the way you'd shudder when I read you their words and mine. I know them like I know your face, the subtle movement of your tongue when you wet your lips before I kiss you. I know them, and I don't know anything.
I can imagine you exceeding imagination. Defying everything I have come to expect and leaving me open-mouthed, gaping stupidly, wondering how I never thought of this before.
More than anything, I want to know.
Spilling out into infinity,
-S.R.
I can see the way your body would arch, you toes would curl, your eyes would slam shut as your mouth hung open, can feel your breath in my ear carrying pleas of "harder", "fuck me", "hurt me". I know what you would look like covered in scratches, bruises, welts, sweat, saliva, cum and how you would lie there, chest heaving as your lungs hauled in oxygen to slow your racing heart.
I know these things, like I know Whitman and Shakespeare and Milton. Like I know the way you'd shudder when I read you their words and mine. I know them like I know your face, the subtle movement of your tongue when you wet your lips before I kiss you. I know them, and I don't know anything.
I can imagine you exceeding imagination. Defying everything I have come to expect and leaving me open-mouthed, gaping stupidly, wondering how I never thought of this before.
More than anything, I want to know.
Spilling out into infinity,
-S.R.
It's Frost Approaching
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack fol de daddy o
Whack fol de daddy o
There's whiskey in the jar
I ran amok in stories where the last true heroes linger and I cast aside my worries for the bright, gold dawn of Heaven. Where I came upon a beggar, an old man dyin' slowly. I stole away his misery and sent him away from me. T'was far from a miracle that I breathed away his pain, oh, for I live on naught but suffering. No joy or love sustains me. I threw off my cloak of velvet, trudged on through the desert and into the Night of Chaos. Whirling all around me, the endless dark surrounds me, upon a fabled road in walk with Satan's steps beneath me.
Staggering I came upon a poor, beleagured woman. I asked her why she wept and she said her lover had been stolen. Brought away from light of day, whereupon he was murdered. I kissed her 'neath a twisted bower, pushed myself inside and left her with a promise of a future life to love.
On I walked, past naked Fear who writhed in violent passion with the uncoiled snake of Hatred. I heard a mournful wail escape the frenzy of the rape. Tolling through the hours, I espied Hell in the distance, and took a long road 'round the gates that I would not be tempted. I stood upon the Edge and gazed out into the Twisting Nether. Sat upon the crumbling stone, there to await my lover.
Decades passed, my beard grew long, my eyes have lost their luster. Still I sit with silent patience, waiting on another. I still recall the fragrance as she whispered me a promise. To meet upon this lonesome ledge if ever we were parted. Long and long and long ago, I wrote my final story. I closed my eyes and left the world to find her without hurry. I walked a thousand thousand miles and waited day and nightly. To hear her footsteps drawing near, but was I led here blindly? For in the guise of woman often comes the devil to the ear. If I have been forsaken by the one I chose to die for...what's to stay my body from decaying here without her?
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack fol de daddy o
Whack fol de daddy o
There's whiskey in the jar
Shall I be remembered? Shall I be forgiven? What Hell awaits me when I make the long trip back to Heaven? I turned away from Light and then turned away from Darkness. Shall I be ever trapped between, imprisoned in the Twilight? I stand to start my journey. As she stands up behind me. She too has grown without me. Hand in hand we stand to gaze, but nothing strikes our fancy.
Let's away to Heaven, Love, they barred you entrance without me. And off upon the fabled road, now smooth to travel easy. I took her back to Asphodel, I turned my back on bristling Hell, and stepped into the daylight. With a greeting wave to Uriel, we stepped through the Gates.
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack fol de daddy o
Whack fol de daddy o
There's whiskey in the jar
Constant. Eternal. A peal of thunder cracks on jagged mountains. Tears, like fat raindrops, spill from the Eyes of God. I am without you. I am without. Pleas ring off the valley walls, but I am deaf to voices. Deaf to courage and cowardice. Deaf to all but despair. I am without you. I am without.
Det är frosten som nalkas,
-S.R.
Whack fol de daddy o
Whack fol de daddy o
There's whiskey in the jar
I ran amok in stories where the last true heroes linger and I cast aside my worries for the bright, gold dawn of Heaven. Where I came upon a beggar, an old man dyin' slowly. I stole away his misery and sent him away from me. T'was far from a miracle that I breathed away his pain, oh, for I live on naught but suffering. No joy or love sustains me. I threw off my cloak of velvet, trudged on through the desert and into the Night of Chaos. Whirling all around me, the endless dark surrounds me, upon a fabled road in walk with Satan's steps beneath me.
Staggering I came upon a poor, beleagured woman. I asked her why she wept and she said her lover had been stolen. Brought away from light of day, whereupon he was murdered. I kissed her 'neath a twisted bower, pushed myself inside and left her with a promise of a future life to love.
On I walked, past naked Fear who writhed in violent passion with the uncoiled snake of Hatred. I heard a mournful wail escape the frenzy of the rape. Tolling through the hours, I espied Hell in the distance, and took a long road 'round the gates that I would not be tempted. I stood upon the Edge and gazed out into the Twisting Nether. Sat upon the crumbling stone, there to await my lover.
Decades passed, my beard grew long, my eyes have lost their luster. Still I sit with silent patience, waiting on another. I still recall the fragrance as she whispered me a promise. To meet upon this lonesome ledge if ever we were parted. Long and long and long ago, I wrote my final story. I closed my eyes and left the world to find her without hurry. I walked a thousand thousand miles and waited day and nightly. To hear her footsteps drawing near, but was I led here blindly? For in the guise of woman often comes the devil to the ear. If I have been forsaken by the one I chose to die for...what's to stay my body from decaying here without her?
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack fol de daddy o
Whack fol de daddy o
There's whiskey in the jar
Shall I be remembered? Shall I be forgiven? What Hell awaits me when I make the long trip back to Heaven? I turned away from Light and then turned away from Darkness. Shall I be ever trapped between, imprisoned in the Twilight? I stand to start my journey. As she stands up behind me. She too has grown without me. Hand in hand we stand to gaze, but nothing strikes our fancy.
Let's away to Heaven, Love, they barred you entrance without me. And off upon the fabled road, now smooth to travel easy. I took her back to Asphodel, I turned my back on bristling Hell, and stepped into the daylight. With a greeting wave to Uriel, we stepped through the Gates.
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack fol de daddy o
Whack fol de daddy o
There's whiskey in the jar
Constant. Eternal. A peal of thunder cracks on jagged mountains. Tears, like fat raindrops, spill from the Eyes of God. I am without you. I am without. Pleas ring off the valley walls, but I am deaf to voices. Deaf to courage and cowardice. Deaf to all but despair. I am without you. I am without.
Det är frosten som nalkas,
-S.R.
A Glossary of Sorts
As you may be aware, I recently decided to upload all of my old blogs (or rather, those that I didn't deem retarded) onto this site, both for the sake of preservation and due to a complete lack of respect for my free time. If, out of curiosity, you happen to read through them you'll find a number of names signed to the bottom. I assure you, these are not cases of plaigarism. These are personas I write under and you could associate them with different moods or different states of mind. I'm sure you'd pick up on it eventually, but just for the sake of clarity I'll include a brief idea for each of them here.
I typically write under the pseudonym Scar Rider (variations of which include: S.R., S. Rider, and the ever-popular and arrogant The Scar Rider). It comes from some vague idea I had years and years ago upon the first time I heard that song "Starrider", which was one of Foreigner's less successful singles. It occured to me that we learn, not so much from the goals we set for ourselves, but by the hardships we endure to get there. Scars, in other words. Its something I've grown fond of and the one I use most because it is the one closest to the real me.
I also use God As Himself (or, occasionally just God as a shortened form) which comes from the idea of God as an actor or a character in a script. Typically it also has to do with rage.
Then there's Nemesis, which is newer. Nemesis was a Greek goddess of Redemption. A concept that fascinates me.
And finally, A Phantom Lullaby, because it sounds fucking sad.
That said, please continue reading and sending me astronomical amounts of money.
All the best,
Scar Rider
I typically write under the pseudonym Scar Rider (variations of which include: S.R., S. Rider, and the ever-popular and arrogant The Scar Rider). It comes from some vague idea I had years and years ago upon the first time I heard that song "Starrider", which was one of Foreigner's less successful singles. It occured to me that we learn, not so much from the goals we set for ourselves, but by the hardships we endure to get there. Scars, in other words. Its something I've grown fond of and the one I use most because it is the one closest to the real me.
I also use God As Himself (or, occasionally just God as a shortened form) which comes from the idea of God as an actor or a character in a script. Typically it also has to do with rage.
Then there's Nemesis, which is newer. Nemesis was a Greek goddess of Redemption. A concept that fascinates me.
And finally, A Phantom Lullaby, because it sounds fucking sad.
That said, please continue reading and sending me astronomical amounts of money.
All the best,
Scar Rider
A Dream of Unrequited Hunger
Originally Posted: 10/14/09
I've seen you all over the place, flitting from shadow to shadow across the imaginary landscape, the vague, hazy outline of a world where dreams dwell. I've seen you clothed in scraps, probably all you could find in the aftermath of the fallout. I've seen you wrapped in blankets made to look like the midnight sky, to keep you concealed, to keep you away from me. I've seen you and wondered what you are, what you do, and what it would be like to touch you.
First you try to fuck it...
I've wandered after you, trying to lay hands on skin that looks like porcelain. Someone carved you from something precious. Someone made you to be perfect. That much is certain. But what I am I to do?
Then you try to eat it....
You know I'm here. Night after night I pursue you and night after night you flee, taking wing through this gray and insubstantial place until you're lost from sight, until I have to return another night to chase you. Why don't you just stand still? Why don't you let me touch you? You see how quickly I become disoriented, distorted, my intentions turn sour.
If it hasn't learned your name you gotta kill it before they see it.
You're elusive, evasive, invasive. You crawled inside me somehow and I have to wonder if I leave part of myself in this place when I'm awake the way I leave my body in the real world when I sleep. Is that how you did it? You waited until I left that lingering connection there and crawled inside, just waiting for me to return? I'm afraid you've slipped into the physical world now and there's nothing but a relfection left of you in the devastated place where we met. I'm afraid I'll never find you. Worse yet, this ugly place has already claimed your life. They'll eat the sweet meat from your bones and leave the rest for carrion, the same as I would have done. The only difference is that I love you, and the others are nothing but cannibals.
Missing vital pieces,
-S.R.
I've seen you all over the place, flitting from shadow to shadow across the imaginary landscape, the vague, hazy outline of a world where dreams dwell. I've seen you clothed in scraps, probably all you could find in the aftermath of the fallout. I've seen you wrapped in blankets made to look like the midnight sky, to keep you concealed, to keep you away from me. I've seen you and wondered what you are, what you do, and what it would be like to touch you.
First you try to fuck it...
I've wandered after you, trying to lay hands on skin that looks like porcelain. Someone carved you from something precious. Someone made you to be perfect. That much is certain. But what I am I to do?
Then you try to eat it....
You know I'm here. Night after night I pursue you and night after night you flee, taking wing through this gray and insubstantial place until you're lost from sight, until I have to return another night to chase you. Why don't you just stand still? Why don't you let me touch you? You see how quickly I become disoriented, distorted, my intentions turn sour.
If it hasn't learned your name you gotta kill it before they see it.
You're elusive, evasive, invasive. You crawled inside me somehow and I have to wonder if I leave part of myself in this place when I'm awake the way I leave my body in the real world when I sleep. Is that how you did it? You waited until I left that lingering connection there and crawled inside, just waiting for me to return? I'm afraid you've slipped into the physical world now and there's nothing but a relfection left of you in the devastated place where we met. I'm afraid I'll never find you. Worse yet, this ugly place has already claimed your life. They'll eat the sweet meat from your bones and leave the rest for carrion, the same as I would have done. The only difference is that I love you, and the others are nothing but cannibals.
Missing vital pieces,
-S.R.
A Tangled Mess of Limbs and Orgasms
Originally Posted: 9/22/09
You're a tall glass of scalding hot water, poured down my throat. You burn like the whiskey I've grown so fond of, but you leave scars behind like fat, violating fingers forced into soft orifices. I could certainly tame you, but I prefer you run wild and fill me with fantasies of rocking hips, grinding along to something that vaguely resembles music, too drunk to care that you're singing off-key while you ride me, too drunk to care that you're riding me. That something slightly trashy, slightly classy, and altogether wonderful.
She steals like a thief but she's always a woman to me.
I'm unsure of how to proceed here, like treading new water or walking knee-deep in a shit bog, barefoot, harvesting human refuse in hopes of making art. None of my skills seem particularly useful right now. I don't think the best of them would impress you. For all my prowess, I can hardly make you bat an eye. What time is it? And silence is my answer.
This movie sucks. Better suck my dick or something.
I like petty things more than I like pretty things. Pretty thing make one covetous, jealous, and entirely too serious. I'm much more lackadaisical, much more reserved. I'd rather sit back with a nice cold beer and watch a pretty thing get gang fucked than have to touch it myself. Petty things, though, petty things are different. Petty things are valuable only to someone who sees their value. Otherwise, their worth is so miniscule it hardly warrants noticing. I scoop those little things up and hold onto them, secure in my possession, secure in our mutual need (and, often as not, mutual distaste) for each other.
I'd like to block you out because your singing is unnerving, its a distraction, and I have work to do. Important work. Not important to the world, but important to me. You could be important to me, someday. Maybe. Right now, though, you're another voice in the din, another muse among many. Or maybe one facet of a muse that's too large to comprehend with the human eye. I haven't decided yet. I hear it isn't size that matters, anyway, it's intent that counts. Whichever, I'm on the wrong side. I'm not very big and I mean only to harm you. I'm incapable of doing good with these hands.
This all seems sort of trite and boring, doesn't it? Kind of unwarranted, at least. I suppose I can see where I think I have a point but, you have to agree, most of what I say is bullshit and silly metaphor. Bleeding words so I don't have to sacrifice part of myself. Or so it appears.
One thing is for certain, I'd really like to fuck you. Not for any particular reason. Nothing comes to mind, at any rate. I'd just enjoy it. Like I enjoy macaroni and cheese, or coffee, or cigarettes. I could probably do without it, but why bother? Far better to get what I want than dwell on the idea of it.
Now that I've gotten myself all worked up, I've got a beating or two to hand out before sleep claims me. She's a tricky mistress, sleep. Always sneaking up on a man and walloping him on the head. Kind of like that uppity nigger in Blazing Saddles. Or she would be if she carried a shovel and hit you accidentally. That, however, is not the case. She's calculating, manipulative, and sexy. Just the way I like my creatures of the night. The only way I'll let them touch me without devouring them on the spot.
Dream deep, little wanderer. The empty sky is wider than you know.
Unflinchingly Yours,
-S.R.
You're a tall glass of scalding hot water, poured down my throat. You burn like the whiskey I've grown so fond of, but you leave scars behind like fat, violating fingers forced into soft orifices. I could certainly tame you, but I prefer you run wild and fill me with fantasies of rocking hips, grinding along to something that vaguely resembles music, too drunk to care that you're singing off-key while you ride me, too drunk to care that you're riding me. That something slightly trashy, slightly classy, and altogether wonderful.
She steals like a thief but she's always a woman to me.
I'm unsure of how to proceed here, like treading new water or walking knee-deep in a shit bog, barefoot, harvesting human refuse in hopes of making art. None of my skills seem particularly useful right now. I don't think the best of them would impress you. For all my prowess, I can hardly make you bat an eye. What time is it? And silence is my answer.
This movie sucks. Better suck my dick or something.
I like petty things more than I like pretty things. Pretty thing make one covetous, jealous, and entirely too serious. I'm much more lackadaisical, much more reserved. I'd rather sit back with a nice cold beer and watch a pretty thing get gang fucked than have to touch it myself. Petty things, though, petty things are different. Petty things are valuable only to someone who sees their value. Otherwise, their worth is so miniscule it hardly warrants noticing. I scoop those little things up and hold onto them, secure in my possession, secure in our mutual need (and, often as not, mutual distaste) for each other.
I'd like to block you out because your singing is unnerving, its a distraction, and I have work to do. Important work. Not important to the world, but important to me. You could be important to me, someday. Maybe. Right now, though, you're another voice in the din, another muse among many. Or maybe one facet of a muse that's too large to comprehend with the human eye. I haven't decided yet. I hear it isn't size that matters, anyway, it's intent that counts. Whichever, I'm on the wrong side. I'm not very big and I mean only to harm you. I'm incapable of doing good with these hands.
This all seems sort of trite and boring, doesn't it? Kind of unwarranted, at least. I suppose I can see where I think I have a point but, you have to agree, most of what I say is bullshit and silly metaphor. Bleeding words so I don't have to sacrifice part of myself. Or so it appears.
One thing is for certain, I'd really like to fuck you. Not for any particular reason. Nothing comes to mind, at any rate. I'd just enjoy it. Like I enjoy macaroni and cheese, or coffee, or cigarettes. I could probably do without it, but why bother? Far better to get what I want than dwell on the idea of it.
Now that I've gotten myself all worked up, I've got a beating or two to hand out before sleep claims me. She's a tricky mistress, sleep. Always sneaking up on a man and walloping him on the head. Kind of like that uppity nigger in Blazing Saddles. Or she would be if she carried a shovel and hit you accidentally. That, however, is not the case. She's calculating, manipulative, and sexy. Just the way I like my creatures of the night. The only way I'll let them touch me without devouring them on the spot.
Dream deep, little wanderer. The empty sky is wider than you know.
Unflinchingly Yours,
-S.R.
Morbid and Torpid
Originally Posted: 9/7/09
Piece me together from the wounds that we've inflicted on each other. Recreate my voice from the sound bytes and snips of memory you can recover. Paint my eyes the myriad colors of your dreams and make my lips from two pear halves, tinged red with embarassment. My chest and arms will come together from bits of duts and clumps of stone. The rest of me will take shape while you breathe a flustered sigh, unsure of where to go from here. Build me again, because you've laid waste to me the way that only you can.
I've been destroyed and devoured and unmade a thousand times. It never gets easier, you never get numb to the way you flesh separating from the bone sends shrieking agony cavorting along your nerves. You can almost learn to enjoy it, the process if not the pain, but you will never become accustomed to it. I won't, at least. I refuse to get used to something so very unhealthy.
I remember being pulled apart. The way the joints burst, twisted, resisted. Finally, as if they just submitted to the inevitable, they tore and split. I could almost hear them sigh, whimsically perhaps, thinking of better days. The skin was stripped, the pulsing maze of muscle and arteries below left exposed. My insides aren't ugly so much as they're confusing. It could be a kind of beauty, or some sort of existential art, but it could also be described as horror. Loosely, at least.
I'm not sure why a simple 'Fuck you' aimed at my face is so offensive. Quite frankly, I've thrown out enough of those in enough directions that one was bound to whip a half-circle and take a dive back at me. Then again, I should know these things always come at me from the place I least expect and, for once, the surprise was enough to render me speechless. I see no sense in fighting. I'm just letting it go. Maybe that's better. Maybe I'm just too tired to bother.
Of all my vices, love and lust are the two most obnoxious. Someone once told me that at least ninety percent of my problems revolve around someone with a vagina. Or someone who allegedly has a vagina. I'm either trying to fuck them, trying not to fuck them, or wrapped up in some semblence of love. One way or another. Honestly, its gotten a little bit tedious. I mean, the sex I don't want to have is usually about as horrifying as I can possibly imagine and the sex I want to have is rarely more thrilling than watching a monkey get gang-stomped by a bunch of angry molestation victims. And love, heart-wrenching and wonderful, is getting to be a pain in the ass. I'd swear off both of them entirely, but that'd be like Old Man Junkie Shuffle swearing off crack. They'll inevitably rot my teeth, cause my skin to itch with preternatural intensity, and force me to steal from and murder my friends, but Thor Be Praised its a hell of a high.
I can't get the smell of your arousal out of my skin.
I can't get the sound of your raging out of my mind.
I'm spilling over the edges around me, cascading down the slope toward the earth far below. If the impact doesn't kill me, pray to whatever gods you embrace that the flood doesn't reach your doorstep. Because then, nothing will stop me.
Placated only by monstrosity,
-S.R.
Piece me together from the wounds that we've inflicted on each other. Recreate my voice from the sound bytes and snips of memory you can recover. Paint my eyes the myriad colors of your dreams and make my lips from two pear halves, tinged red with embarassment. My chest and arms will come together from bits of duts and clumps of stone. The rest of me will take shape while you breathe a flustered sigh, unsure of where to go from here. Build me again, because you've laid waste to me the way that only you can.
I've been destroyed and devoured and unmade a thousand times. It never gets easier, you never get numb to the way you flesh separating from the bone sends shrieking agony cavorting along your nerves. You can almost learn to enjoy it, the process if not the pain, but you will never become accustomed to it. I won't, at least. I refuse to get used to something so very unhealthy.
I remember being pulled apart. The way the joints burst, twisted, resisted. Finally, as if they just submitted to the inevitable, they tore and split. I could almost hear them sigh, whimsically perhaps, thinking of better days. The skin was stripped, the pulsing maze of muscle and arteries below left exposed. My insides aren't ugly so much as they're confusing. It could be a kind of beauty, or some sort of existential art, but it could also be described as horror. Loosely, at least.
I'm not sure why a simple 'Fuck you' aimed at my face is so offensive. Quite frankly, I've thrown out enough of those in enough directions that one was bound to whip a half-circle and take a dive back at me. Then again, I should know these things always come at me from the place I least expect and, for once, the surprise was enough to render me speechless. I see no sense in fighting. I'm just letting it go. Maybe that's better. Maybe I'm just too tired to bother.
Of all my vices, love and lust are the two most obnoxious. Someone once told me that at least ninety percent of my problems revolve around someone with a vagina. Or someone who allegedly has a vagina. I'm either trying to fuck them, trying not to fuck them, or wrapped up in some semblence of love. One way or another. Honestly, its gotten a little bit tedious. I mean, the sex I don't want to have is usually about as horrifying as I can possibly imagine and the sex I want to have is rarely more thrilling than watching a monkey get gang-stomped by a bunch of angry molestation victims. And love, heart-wrenching and wonderful, is getting to be a pain in the ass. I'd swear off both of them entirely, but that'd be like Old Man Junkie Shuffle swearing off crack. They'll inevitably rot my teeth, cause my skin to itch with preternatural intensity, and force me to steal from and murder my friends, but Thor Be Praised its a hell of a high.
I can't get the smell of your arousal out of my skin.
I can't get the sound of your raging out of my mind.
I'm spilling over the edges around me, cascading down the slope toward the earth far below. If the impact doesn't kill me, pray to whatever gods you embrace that the flood doesn't reach your doorstep. Because then, nothing will stop me.
Placated only by monstrosity,
-S.R.
A Soft Spot in the Chest Cavity
Originally Posted: 7/29/09
When I asked if you wanted a fucking piece of me, I meant do you want my heart. I don't need it, its too damned heavy to carry. If you won't eat it, I'm just going to toss it anyway. Go ahead, take it, its on me. If you aren't 100% satisfied, I'll refund your money and you can keep the kidneys and the shipping cost. I can't refund the time you'll lose taking it for a test drive, but life is all about taking risks. Maybe, this once, I'm a risk that'll pay off. Maybe I'm a risk that won't leave you in a wheelchair, incontinent, and cumbersome to your loved ones. Maybe.
Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe all that shit they say about me in the tabloids is true and I'm just clocked in to fight and fuck and bail out. Collect my paycheck and see you for the class reunion. This is a job for me, after all. Cut me some slack, though. I'm never late, I never call in sick, and I'm always good for a few drinks, a few laughs, a few minutes of wasting your breath. Too few? Fuck you.
Or maybe we're both wrong. Maybe I'm no pauper and I'm not prince. What's left? Gunshots, bloodpsatter, your lifeless eyes staring up, frozen in mute horror. You knew what I was going to do, and you couldn't stop me. Let them catch me. Let them throw me away forever. Let them take my life. "Any last words?" "Jesus, my bad." And that's it. I'm in heaven. Ready to fuck you up for eternity. You can't escape, you can't hide away behind the authorities. I'm a monster and I can never be stopped.
Then again, speculation is just taking a shot in the dark at your family reunion. Someone with your blood in their veins is catching a bullet, but who and where? It doesn't matter. What matters is the attempt. The nervous twitch of a hand when you ask the question, the tense, agonizing silence before she answers, the look in her eyes, the way your stomach churns and rises when she opens her mouth to speak, the rejection or acceptance. That's what matters. The aftermath is just formalities. Just paperwork to keep you busy so the Bossman don't catch you slackin' off again and git you fired. How long it takes you to finish that pile of work and move on is your business, but profits are rising in this hustle-and-bustle style that means the longer you delay the harder you'll have to work to please your customers.
I'm talking about relationships and what a pointless waste of time they are when I'm not in one. And what an even more worthless waste of time they are when I am. I really think its the whole seriousness that bothers me. The need to blow little details out of proportion. Yes, I vaguely recall our first date. Should I be required to? No. Yes, I remembered today is the day you wanted to drag me along to see your grandmother. Do I want to go? Absolutely not. Yes, I know you like the black shirt. Why am I not wearing it? Fuck you, that's why.
When you're friends, it doesn't matter. You can be completely comfortable around a person, say what you like, do as you please, wear what you will. When you take on the mantle of being that same person's significant other it becomes a whole new pile of assholes. Why, you ask? I don't know. Suddenly your crude humor isn't funny anymore. Suddenly your love of the sauce is unacceptable. Suddenly your lifelong struggle with a chronic failure to jump at every fucking whim is a crime. Here's a whim you can jump at, bitch: Suck my dick.
I'm not directing this anywhere. Its just commentary. Seriously, though, why does it change everything? Why is it suddenly so god damned formal? What happens to the inside jokes, the secret handshakes, the laughter for no real reason, the staying up late and talking? Where does that go? Does the sex replace it? I don't think so. The sex becomes less and less extraordinary. So what happens to that shit? Why do you suddenly have to pretend to be a re-made man (or woman, I guess) to impress someone who should know better? These are legitimate questions, and I think I have the answer. Play along.
The answer, of course, is that you're fucking retarded. I don't think you have to do those things. I think that when a relationship is new it feels fragile. It feels like a baby. So you lie to it. You tell it the world is beautiful and you're amazing and the sex is astronomical. You tell it you don't like to drink and the word 'nigga' is not in your vocabulary. You don't like to laugh at handicapped people. You don't cheat on your girlfriends or do irresponsible things, or forget just about everything she says to you. You do memorize her every curve. You call her everyday just to tell her you're thinking of her. You kiss her and say its the only time you've ever kissed someone like that. You lie through your god damned teeth. So does she. She's a liar, too.
Then you settle in. You start to feel comfortable. The real you creeps back in. You speak your mind, you get pants-shittingly drunk, you forget absolutely everything she says because, frankly, is was boring the first time. You confess that you hate his favorite band and, furthermore, his mother is a neurotic bitch. You become yourselves. Then you break the fuck up. The cycle begins anew.
You know what I say? Fuck all that. Stop lying to each other and get on with being people. No one is perfect for you because no one is perfect. Your ideal match will still have some character flaws. Character flaws you'll just have to get used to. This fairytale bullshit has to end. It has to end. Do you hear me? It is ridiculous. You'll find someone you get along with. Someone with the same crazy tendencies you hated about your mother or father. Someone you love unflichingly because, despite the occasional thought of murdering them in the shower, they're incredible. They're a part of you. They're your other half.
Until then, life is all bitches, money, and taking the risk of catching infections. You do it. We all do it. We thrive on the challenge. We thrive on the uncertainty. And when we find that special someone, we thrive on the periodic fights, the sobering backhand, and the strength that comes with knowing someone far crazier than you has your back.
That's love, folks, and god damn is it beautiful. Flawed, Odin's Beard, is it flawed, but nothing else compares. Not even a beer, a sandwich, and a warm place to sleep on a rainy night in a strange place. Unless, of course, that special someone is right beside you. Then, well, you'd better just prepare for death because it never gets any better.
Sentimental, but you can kiss my ass.
Alone when you're not here,
-S.R.
When I asked if you wanted a fucking piece of me, I meant do you want my heart. I don't need it, its too damned heavy to carry. If you won't eat it, I'm just going to toss it anyway. Go ahead, take it, its on me. If you aren't 100% satisfied, I'll refund your money and you can keep the kidneys and the shipping cost. I can't refund the time you'll lose taking it for a test drive, but life is all about taking risks. Maybe, this once, I'm a risk that'll pay off. Maybe I'm a risk that won't leave you in a wheelchair, incontinent, and cumbersome to your loved ones. Maybe.
Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe all that shit they say about me in the tabloids is true and I'm just clocked in to fight and fuck and bail out. Collect my paycheck and see you for the class reunion. This is a job for me, after all. Cut me some slack, though. I'm never late, I never call in sick, and I'm always good for a few drinks, a few laughs, a few minutes of wasting your breath. Too few? Fuck you.
Or maybe we're both wrong. Maybe I'm no pauper and I'm not prince. What's left? Gunshots, bloodpsatter, your lifeless eyes staring up, frozen in mute horror. You knew what I was going to do, and you couldn't stop me. Let them catch me. Let them throw me away forever. Let them take my life. "Any last words?" "Jesus, my bad." And that's it. I'm in heaven. Ready to fuck you up for eternity. You can't escape, you can't hide away behind the authorities. I'm a monster and I can never be stopped.
Then again, speculation is just taking a shot in the dark at your family reunion. Someone with your blood in their veins is catching a bullet, but who and where? It doesn't matter. What matters is the attempt. The nervous twitch of a hand when you ask the question, the tense, agonizing silence before she answers, the look in her eyes, the way your stomach churns and rises when she opens her mouth to speak, the rejection or acceptance. That's what matters. The aftermath is just formalities. Just paperwork to keep you busy so the Bossman don't catch you slackin' off again and git you fired. How long it takes you to finish that pile of work and move on is your business, but profits are rising in this hustle-and-bustle style that means the longer you delay the harder you'll have to work to please your customers.
I'm talking about relationships and what a pointless waste of time they are when I'm not in one. And what an even more worthless waste of time they are when I am. I really think its the whole seriousness that bothers me. The need to blow little details out of proportion. Yes, I vaguely recall our first date. Should I be required to? No. Yes, I remembered today is the day you wanted to drag me along to see your grandmother. Do I want to go? Absolutely not. Yes, I know you like the black shirt. Why am I not wearing it? Fuck you, that's why.
When you're friends, it doesn't matter. You can be completely comfortable around a person, say what you like, do as you please, wear what you will. When you take on the mantle of being that same person's significant other it becomes a whole new pile of assholes. Why, you ask? I don't know. Suddenly your crude humor isn't funny anymore. Suddenly your love of the sauce is unacceptable. Suddenly your lifelong struggle with a chronic failure to jump at every fucking whim is a crime. Here's a whim you can jump at, bitch: Suck my dick.
I'm not directing this anywhere. Its just commentary. Seriously, though, why does it change everything? Why is it suddenly so god damned formal? What happens to the inside jokes, the secret handshakes, the laughter for no real reason, the staying up late and talking? Where does that go? Does the sex replace it? I don't think so. The sex becomes less and less extraordinary. So what happens to that shit? Why do you suddenly have to pretend to be a re-made man (or woman, I guess) to impress someone who should know better? These are legitimate questions, and I think I have the answer. Play along.
The answer, of course, is that you're fucking retarded. I don't think you have to do those things. I think that when a relationship is new it feels fragile. It feels like a baby. So you lie to it. You tell it the world is beautiful and you're amazing and the sex is astronomical. You tell it you don't like to drink and the word 'nigga' is not in your vocabulary. You don't like to laugh at handicapped people. You don't cheat on your girlfriends or do irresponsible things, or forget just about everything she says to you. You do memorize her every curve. You call her everyday just to tell her you're thinking of her. You kiss her and say its the only time you've ever kissed someone like that. You lie through your god damned teeth. So does she. She's a liar, too.
Then you settle in. You start to feel comfortable. The real you creeps back in. You speak your mind, you get pants-shittingly drunk, you forget absolutely everything she says because, frankly, is was boring the first time. You confess that you hate his favorite band and, furthermore, his mother is a neurotic bitch. You become yourselves. Then you break the fuck up. The cycle begins anew.
You know what I say? Fuck all that. Stop lying to each other and get on with being people. No one is perfect for you because no one is perfect. Your ideal match will still have some character flaws. Character flaws you'll just have to get used to. This fairytale bullshit has to end. It has to end. Do you hear me? It is ridiculous. You'll find someone you get along with. Someone with the same crazy tendencies you hated about your mother or father. Someone you love unflichingly because, despite the occasional thought of murdering them in the shower, they're incredible. They're a part of you. They're your other half.
Until then, life is all bitches, money, and taking the risk of catching infections. You do it. We all do it. We thrive on the challenge. We thrive on the uncertainty. And when we find that special someone, we thrive on the periodic fights, the sobering backhand, and the strength that comes with knowing someone far crazier than you has your back.
That's love, folks, and god damn is it beautiful. Flawed, Odin's Beard, is it flawed, but nothing else compares. Not even a beer, a sandwich, and a warm place to sleep on a rainy night in a strange place. Unless, of course, that special someone is right beside you. Then, well, you'd better just prepare for death because it never gets any better.
Sentimental, but you can kiss my ass.
Alone when you're not here,
-S.R.
The Merits of Rejection
Originally Posted: 7/7/09
I was thinking today, and that never turns out well. Here's some shit I came up with.
I once told a woman
That I was in love with her.
She, very politely, told me to
Go fuck myself,
A piece of advice that has
Been more helpful
Than any I've received since.
Rejection has its merits. I say this first because its the thesis upon which everything hereafter is based and, well, that's how I was taught to write. Allow me to be more specific when I say what I mean by rejection, though. I don't mean being rejected for a personal loan, or being rejected by a prestigious college, or being rejected from joining the ranks of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders (besides, fuck Dallas). I mean rejection in a personal sense. Boy (or girl) likes girl (or boy) admits it and is soundly turned away. That kind of rejection.
If you're a normal person, it inspires you to try harder. Maybe you want to change some aspect of yourself and that rejection spurs you to do it. Maybe you want to manipulate that person into thinking you've changed, believing you are, now that they've cast you aside like rubbish once, more to their liking. Actually, that one seems most likely. Courting is, after all, an elaborate series of lies. You paint yourself perfect. Once the object of your affection is yours, then you reveal the slithering pit of snakes that is your personality. By then, its too late for them.
If you're someone else, rejection gives you a better idea about the kind of person you're attracted to and, more importantly, the kind of person that is attracted to you. That lesson is a little harder to learn. Just because one busty blonde has decided your ability to burp the Star Spangled Banner isn't endearing doesn't mean another one will think likewise. I didn't say, however, that rejection would tell you everything. Just that it will make your options a little less vague.
For most of us, probably all of us, rejection is a fear. It isn't a paralyzing, pants-shitting phobia, but it is something we're afraid of encountering. That makes your average person cautious. When you invest in someone, or something, only to have them snort derisively at your pathetic wooing, it hurts. That's a merit, right? Caution? I think so. Recklessness is good most of the time. Especially when you're young. You learn from your mistakes, exhalt in your triumphs, and become a better, stronger, (faster?) person. Other people, though, are indeed paralyzed with the fear of rejection. These people will agonize over a crush, or a pet they want mommy to buy them, or any number of things, for months or years and never say a word. The hints are there but, let's face it, your love interest isn't a mind reader. Then they're hopelessly crushed when that love slips into the hands of another. When these people make the news, they're usually socipaths. However, I think there is a larger group of shy, rejection phobes who aren't the stalker-killer type.
Which brings me to a related topic. Let's all grow some balls. Seriously, folks, we all need to. In times past, men didn't fear rejection because they simply asked a woman out and the woman said yes. Otherwise, she'd be beaten and cast out of her family to become an old hag and/or prostitute. That's how I imagine it, at any rate. The socially accepted behavior for most of our species' history was that men approached women and women, for the most part, were basically useless property. Except when it came to fucking and cooking. Even then, more than a few of them were incapable of functioning properly and needed a sound reminder of their place in the world.
These days, gender lines are blurred and that tradition, much like slavery and the guillotine, isn't worth clinging to. You can't knock your wife around for making shitty coffee and women can't wait around for Prince Charming to grow some hair on his sack and ask them to the ball. Also, more often than not, Prince Charming is either gay or confined eternally to the Purgatory that is Friend Space. Guys have the same problem, though. We all seem to be so locked into this Pussy Pounding Competition (an actual pasttime in China, I'm told) that we rarely pursue a girl we aren't sure of bedding, thus damning Princess...whatever the gender equivalent of Charming would be, to Friend Space. Not that being friends is a bad thing. It only blows when you're condemned there.
I think that fear of rejection comes into play there. You go after a girl you're not sure of and she tells you to suck the snot off the tip of Castro's spider-veined cock and you look like a sissy in front of all the tiny-dicks you call your friends. Or "Bros", if you prefer. Likewise, I think being rejected a time or two will let you take these things a little less seriously and act a little bit more like a human being than a jackal. Who gives a shit what those Varsity Basketball players think? Those guys peaked at seventeen. Life after highschool (or maybe college) for most of them is a downhill slope of failure. And so what if she rejects you? Big fucking deal. It isn't the end of the world. Find someone she hates and nail her instead, if you're the vindictive type. Better yet, her best friend. Unless her best friend is a guy. No, even then. He's probably into it.
This is, I admit, one of those places in life where I'm something of a hypocrite. I don't really go for the gold myself. But do you want to end up like me? Surely not, good sir, surely not. Also, a lot of you (meaning everyone else on the planet) are more upset by your fear of rejection, or your experiences with rejection, than I am. I don't take many things seriously enough to be upset by them, at least not when it comes to interactions with other people. Letting someone else dictate how I feel seems like a waste of time to me. Actually, try it my way before you decide to grow enormous testicles and ask out that secret crush. Just relax, lay back, have a beer or a smoke or something, and enjoy the ride. Someone wise once said, "Life is a highway," so ride her all night long.
Another thing, just breifly. Think about the last time you had a little crush on someone. You know how you wanted to hide it but, at the same time, you kept dropping little hints you felt hepless to prevent? Cut it the fuck out. Look, that person is never going to pick up on it. Never. Seriously. Especially if they feel the same way and they, like you, are too shy and emotionally stunted to do something about it. They're going to think one of two things, either you're fucking weird and they should stay away from you, or you've turned into some kind of wacky metrosexual Bizzaro version of yourself. Your friends, though, will see it almost imemdiately and laugh at you. They laugh mercilessly at you because friends are like pet tigers. Pet tigers in that, they're cute and cuddly until you display some kind of weakness, and then they eat your flesh because it tastes good. Lovingly, of course.
There you have it. Either learn to live with rejection, its merits and its upsets, or learn to love masturbation and writing scathing Facebook Notes. Those are your options, and now is the time to pick one. Join us next week for, "Fisting: Ejaculation Aid or Indicator of Rage Issues?"
That's all folks,
-S.R.
I was thinking today, and that never turns out well. Here's some shit I came up with.
I once told a woman
That I was in love with her.
She, very politely, told me to
Go fuck myself,
A piece of advice that has
Been more helpful
Than any I've received since.
Rejection has its merits. I say this first because its the thesis upon which everything hereafter is based and, well, that's how I was taught to write. Allow me to be more specific when I say what I mean by rejection, though. I don't mean being rejected for a personal loan, or being rejected by a prestigious college, or being rejected from joining the ranks of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders (besides, fuck Dallas). I mean rejection in a personal sense. Boy (or girl) likes girl (or boy) admits it and is soundly turned away. That kind of rejection.
If you're a normal person, it inspires you to try harder. Maybe you want to change some aspect of yourself and that rejection spurs you to do it. Maybe you want to manipulate that person into thinking you've changed, believing you are, now that they've cast you aside like rubbish once, more to their liking. Actually, that one seems most likely. Courting is, after all, an elaborate series of lies. You paint yourself perfect. Once the object of your affection is yours, then you reveal the slithering pit of snakes that is your personality. By then, its too late for them.
If you're someone else, rejection gives you a better idea about the kind of person you're attracted to and, more importantly, the kind of person that is attracted to you. That lesson is a little harder to learn. Just because one busty blonde has decided your ability to burp the Star Spangled Banner isn't endearing doesn't mean another one will think likewise. I didn't say, however, that rejection would tell you everything. Just that it will make your options a little less vague.
For most of us, probably all of us, rejection is a fear. It isn't a paralyzing, pants-shitting phobia, but it is something we're afraid of encountering. That makes your average person cautious. When you invest in someone, or something, only to have them snort derisively at your pathetic wooing, it hurts. That's a merit, right? Caution? I think so. Recklessness is good most of the time. Especially when you're young. You learn from your mistakes, exhalt in your triumphs, and become a better, stronger, (faster?) person. Other people, though, are indeed paralyzed with the fear of rejection. These people will agonize over a crush, or a pet they want mommy to buy them, or any number of things, for months or years and never say a word. The hints are there but, let's face it, your love interest isn't a mind reader. Then they're hopelessly crushed when that love slips into the hands of another. When these people make the news, they're usually socipaths. However, I think there is a larger group of shy, rejection phobes who aren't the stalker-killer type.
Which brings me to a related topic. Let's all grow some balls. Seriously, folks, we all need to. In times past, men didn't fear rejection because they simply asked a woman out and the woman said yes. Otherwise, she'd be beaten and cast out of her family to become an old hag and/or prostitute. That's how I imagine it, at any rate. The socially accepted behavior for most of our species' history was that men approached women and women, for the most part, were basically useless property. Except when it came to fucking and cooking. Even then, more than a few of them were incapable of functioning properly and needed a sound reminder of their place in the world.
These days, gender lines are blurred and that tradition, much like slavery and the guillotine, isn't worth clinging to. You can't knock your wife around for making shitty coffee and women can't wait around for Prince Charming to grow some hair on his sack and ask them to the ball. Also, more often than not, Prince Charming is either gay or confined eternally to the Purgatory that is Friend Space. Guys have the same problem, though. We all seem to be so locked into this Pussy Pounding Competition (an actual pasttime in China, I'm told) that we rarely pursue a girl we aren't sure of bedding, thus damning Princess...whatever the gender equivalent of Charming would be, to Friend Space. Not that being friends is a bad thing. It only blows when you're condemned there.
I think that fear of rejection comes into play there. You go after a girl you're not sure of and she tells you to suck the snot off the tip of Castro's spider-veined cock and you look like a sissy in front of all the tiny-dicks you call your friends. Or "Bros", if you prefer. Likewise, I think being rejected a time or two will let you take these things a little less seriously and act a little bit more like a human being than a jackal. Who gives a shit what those Varsity Basketball players think? Those guys peaked at seventeen. Life after highschool (or maybe college) for most of them is a downhill slope of failure. And so what if she rejects you? Big fucking deal. It isn't the end of the world. Find someone she hates and nail her instead, if you're the vindictive type. Better yet, her best friend. Unless her best friend is a guy. No, even then. He's probably into it.
This is, I admit, one of those places in life where I'm something of a hypocrite. I don't really go for the gold myself. But do you want to end up like me? Surely not, good sir, surely not. Also, a lot of you (meaning everyone else on the planet) are more upset by your fear of rejection, or your experiences with rejection, than I am. I don't take many things seriously enough to be upset by them, at least not when it comes to interactions with other people. Letting someone else dictate how I feel seems like a waste of time to me. Actually, try it my way before you decide to grow enormous testicles and ask out that secret crush. Just relax, lay back, have a beer or a smoke or something, and enjoy the ride. Someone wise once said, "Life is a highway," so ride her all night long.
Another thing, just breifly. Think about the last time you had a little crush on someone. You know how you wanted to hide it but, at the same time, you kept dropping little hints you felt hepless to prevent? Cut it the fuck out. Look, that person is never going to pick up on it. Never. Seriously. Especially if they feel the same way and they, like you, are too shy and emotionally stunted to do something about it. They're going to think one of two things, either you're fucking weird and they should stay away from you, or you've turned into some kind of wacky metrosexual Bizzaro version of yourself. Your friends, though, will see it almost imemdiately and laugh at you. They laugh mercilessly at you because friends are like pet tigers. Pet tigers in that, they're cute and cuddly until you display some kind of weakness, and then they eat your flesh because it tastes good. Lovingly, of course.
There you have it. Either learn to live with rejection, its merits and its upsets, or learn to love masturbation and writing scathing Facebook Notes. Those are your options, and now is the time to pick one. Join us next week for, "Fisting: Ejaculation Aid or Indicator of Rage Issues?"
That's all folks,
-S.R.
Look What I Made
Originally Posted: 6/24/09
I just want to be piss drunk and pissed off. I'm sick of being sick and tired of being tired. Just tell me that you give a shit and we can move on. All anyone really wants is a little bit of comfort, a little bit of common courtesy, and someone who adores them. That's it. That is the be-all end-all. Someone who adores you. Not a good job making good money, not fancy cars, not success, not wealth, not a huge, loving family. Not a god damn bit of it matters. Happiness isn't drinking, drugs, ciggarettes, laughter, friends, memories, songs, poems, novels, crowds of people watching you, or mind-blowing sex. Happiness is having someone around that comforts you when you're upset, rubs your back when you're hurting, curls up with you and brings you soup when you're sick and, all the while, has this look in their eyes that makes you feel like something more than a pitiful mess of flesh and bone and insecurities. That's happiness, and I'm a miserable fuck.
I want to slap the shit out of every baby I see. I want to kick puppies. I want to rant and rage until I make Bruce Banner's alter ego look like a bitch. I want to smash things and burn things and trash it all until what used to be my life is just shambles and shards of glass and mortar. Blow it all apart and blow this town. I want out. I want away. Up, up, over the hills. Second star to the right. Fuck the moon, I'm shooting for Alpha Centauri.
I want someone that wants me. Fuck all this doting on people that couldn't give a shit. Spending time and energy on people who can't be bothered to return a phone call or go slightly out of their way for me? Done-zo. I'm finished. Here's the towel. I'm tossing it in, and if you think that's a weak way to be than you can come suck the snot off the tip of my dick. Swallow it, cunt, or I'm breaking your jaw.
You know the worst part of it? I don't even know that I want it. I'm circling the drain, here. I'm just whipping around and around in my head. One minute I want to go back to school and the next I just want to eat a bullet. Then I'm fretting over money. Then I just want a drink. Then I want a woman. Then I want to jerk off. Then I curl up around my pillow and wish that I could sleep. Then, then, fuck, then what? Then I realize that you're all just scum and I hate you.
Then I'm dead without you.
Do you see the problem with this? There is no scenario where anything resembling happiness festers. No overflowing pool of giddiness. That's when I start getting existential. I turn into Freud. Or I turn into Castro. Or something. Something blue, bloated and lifeless, thank the merciful gods. A little rest, a little respite. A little brain matter splattered on the wall behind you. Boomshakka, cock back, boomshakka, fuck you. The problem with being a sociopath is that people always think you're crazy.
My eyes are the size of baseballs in my head and my lip is swollen from chewing it. My chest hurts and I can't breathe. I'm tired and sweating and I can't cool off. Can't sleep. Can't eat. Can't find a moment's fucking peace. I can't seem to focus enough to write for more than an hour. Holy shit, I think I'm in love but I can't figure out who the father is, or why I should care in the first place. Maybe Maury knows. Otherwise, this little heartsick monstrosity is just one more dumpster baby. I'm not capable of raising it, Lawdy-garsh no! Toss it in the trash can and head off to the prom.
What the fuck am I talking about?
A better question: who the fuck are you to question me? I didn't ask you to read this, you worm. You fickle fucking parasite. I didn't ask you to peel my skull back and poke around in my brain. You've done this of your own volition. Now, maybe, you can see the error of your ways. Do you really want to know what goes on down here? Down in the Gray, in the Black, in the Mauve? No one ever does, but you cocksuckers keep coming and I keep fending you off with clips and glimpses of things you never should have laid eyes on. Two weeks later someone finds you swinging from the ceiling or sucking on a tailpipe or splashed across the living room wall with a shotgun resting on your balls. No one blames me. I'm just misunderstood. Words are nothing more than letters randomly arranged to form a meaning in your head and I mean to destroy you.
Guilty. Guilty. Filthy little soul. Talking to the dead like they can hear you. The dead don't walk, the dead don't walk. I've told you again and again, they don't fucking walk. They do not walk. DO NOT FUCKING WALK.
It could be swine flu, actually.
I don't feel well, I'm very stressed out, and I sorely miss having someone to live for. Living for yourself is great but, let's face it, I'm kind of a dick. I hate living for me. Other people are so much cooler and more interesting. That's a synopsis, in a manner of speaking. Here's another: Turn around. Gotcha. I'm not behind you. I'm in your computer, driving you mad. Tonight, while you're sleeping, I'll download every R.E.M. album onto your harddrive, delete your other files, and play "Losing My Religion" on loop for the next twelve days. Constantly. Even after you've turned off the computer and murdered your loved ones. I won't stop until everything burns. That's me in the corner. It's begun.
My presence here is just a nuisance. I only want to fly away. Maybe I'll survive today.
I got a hand for you.
Cause I wanna run with you.
I wanna love you the best that, the best that I can.
Irrevocably your problem,
-S.R.
I just want to be piss drunk and pissed off. I'm sick of being sick and tired of being tired. Just tell me that you give a shit and we can move on. All anyone really wants is a little bit of comfort, a little bit of common courtesy, and someone who adores them. That's it. That is the be-all end-all. Someone who adores you. Not a good job making good money, not fancy cars, not success, not wealth, not a huge, loving family. Not a god damn bit of it matters. Happiness isn't drinking, drugs, ciggarettes, laughter, friends, memories, songs, poems, novels, crowds of people watching you, or mind-blowing sex. Happiness is having someone around that comforts you when you're upset, rubs your back when you're hurting, curls up with you and brings you soup when you're sick and, all the while, has this look in their eyes that makes you feel like something more than a pitiful mess of flesh and bone and insecurities. That's happiness, and I'm a miserable fuck.
I want to slap the shit out of every baby I see. I want to kick puppies. I want to rant and rage until I make Bruce Banner's alter ego look like a bitch. I want to smash things and burn things and trash it all until what used to be my life is just shambles and shards of glass and mortar. Blow it all apart and blow this town. I want out. I want away. Up, up, over the hills. Second star to the right. Fuck the moon, I'm shooting for Alpha Centauri.
I want someone that wants me. Fuck all this doting on people that couldn't give a shit. Spending time and energy on people who can't be bothered to return a phone call or go slightly out of their way for me? Done-zo. I'm finished. Here's the towel. I'm tossing it in, and if you think that's a weak way to be than you can come suck the snot off the tip of my dick. Swallow it, cunt, or I'm breaking your jaw.
You know the worst part of it? I don't even know that I want it. I'm circling the drain, here. I'm just whipping around and around in my head. One minute I want to go back to school and the next I just want to eat a bullet. Then I'm fretting over money. Then I just want a drink. Then I want a woman. Then I want to jerk off. Then I curl up around my pillow and wish that I could sleep. Then, then, fuck, then what? Then I realize that you're all just scum and I hate you.
Then I'm dead without you.
Do you see the problem with this? There is no scenario where anything resembling happiness festers. No overflowing pool of giddiness. That's when I start getting existential. I turn into Freud. Or I turn into Castro. Or something. Something blue, bloated and lifeless, thank the merciful gods. A little rest, a little respite. A little brain matter splattered on the wall behind you. Boomshakka, cock back, boomshakka, fuck you. The problem with being a sociopath is that people always think you're crazy.
My eyes are the size of baseballs in my head and my lip is swollen from chewing it. My chest hurts and I can't breathe. I'm tired and sweating and I can't cool off. Can't sleep. Can't eat. Can't find a moment's fucking peace. I can't seem to focus enough to write for more than an hour. Holy shit, I think I'm in love but I can't figure out who the father is, or why I should care in the first place. Maybe Maury knows. Otherwise, this little heartsick monstrosity is just one more dumpster baby. I'm not capable of raising it, Lawdy-garsh no! Toss it in the trash can and head off to the prom.
What the fuck am I talking about?
A better question: who the fuck are you to question me? I didn't ask you to read this, you worm. You fickle fucking parasite. I didn't ask you to peel my skull back and poke around in my brain. You've done this of your own volition. Now, maybe, you can see the error of your ways. Do you really want to know what goes on down here? Down in the Gray, in the Black, in the Mauve? No one ever does, but you cocksuckers keep coming and I keep fending you off with clips and glimpses of things you never should have laid eyes on. Two weeks later someone finds you swinging from the ceiling or sucking on a tailpipe or splashed across the living room wall with a shotgun resting on your balls. No one blames me. I'm just misunderstood. Words are nothing more than letters randomly arranged to form a meaning in your head and I mean to destroy you.
Guilty. Guilty. Filthy little soul. Talking to the dead like they can hear you. The dead don't walk, the dead don't walk. I've told you again and again, they don't fucking walk. They do not walk. DO NOT FUCKING WALK.
It could be swine flu, actually.
I don't feel well, I'm very stressed out, and I sorely miss having someone to live for. Living for yourself is great but, let's face it, I'm kind of a dick. I hate living for me. Other people are so much cooler and more interesting. That's a synopsis, in a manner of speaking. Here's another: Turn around. Gotcha. I'm not behind you. I'm in your computer, driving you mad. Tonight, while you're sleeping, I'll download every R.E.M. album onto your harddrive, delete your other files, and play "Losing My Religion" on loop for the next twelve days. Constantly. Even after you've turned off the computer and murdered your loved ones. I won't stop until everything burns. That's me in the corner. It's begun.
My presence here is just a nuisance. I only want to fly away. Maybe I'll survive today.
I got a hand for you.
Cause I wanna run with you.
I wanna love you the best that, the best that I can.
Irrevocably your problem,
-S.R.
Adventures in Penis Enlargement
Originally Posted: 6/22/09
So, by now all of you have seen those commercials on television with the smiling douchebag dressed as a racecar driver or Santa or a bunch of other things while the narrator spouts off quasi-clever euphemisms about how huge his cock is and how much sex he's having. Or the ones for Enzyte where they have people on the street talking about how their lives have changed based on the product ala Real Sex or Taxicab Confessions. Most people just change the channel or ignore this kind of bullshit. People with tiny dicks shell out hundreds of dollars trying anything they can to make a difference in their lives because, let's face it, women are pretty much all whores with gaping vaginas that require King Dong to please them, right?
Me? I'm just stupid. Therefore, when Chris came to me with a plan to try these products and see how they worked for someone with a healthy libido and a penis the size of my own, I agreed.
We tried Extenze first because you can buy them in gas stations. We each took two. Not a god damned thing happened. We even spent time with his sexy friend, and there was no change whatsoever in any facet of my existence from level of arousal to my color-coded scale of penis size (the largest being Code Green, as I will explore later). Now, being an optimist, I tried to give the product the benefit of the doubt and wait a little longer than I expected it to take. I even went so far as to find stimulation in the seedy world of erotic literature. Beyond a little late-night self-gratification (which I'm told is normal among young people) nothing particularly interesting happened.
Then we purchased a product with a name I have already forgotten from Walmart and things got a little more interesting. Now, before I go any further let me assure you that what follows is potentially obscene. Or, at the very least, a little bit inappropriate. I have very little problem with talking about my sex life or my body. My level of modesty is pretty negligible, and despite my constant joking that I've got a penis the size of cell phone antenna I'm pretty comfortable with my situation. So, onto the family jewels.
We took this thing Saturday night. Now, we were drinking and we had a house full of family and friends, so the decision to experiment with something of this nature was perhaps a little irresponsible. However, you'll be happy to know no children were traumatized in the making of this stupidity. The product allegedly works about an hour after taking it. Bullshit. An hour and a half later I was still essentially flaccid, despite the presence of previously mentioned sexy friend. So we took another one. A few more hours went by and I decided it was time for bed.
I awoke at around 1:15 a.m. with a cock the size of Minnesota. This was full-on Code Green a.k.a. Hulk Dick. I mean, I could have beaten a rhino or a clan of Tusken Raiders to death with this thing and still had enough left in me to Sammy Sosa the shit out of a baseball before I killed an Atlantic City hooker with it.
Try as I might, there was nothing much I could do with it. So, I went back to sleep in hopes that it would just work itself out. Every hour from that point until I woke up for work at noon on Sunday I was roused from my slumbers by this monstrosity. So, I ate my breakfast and, hangover raging in my body and erection firmly growing down my leg, I went to work. What followed was probably the worst nine hours of KFC employment in the history of KFC employment. Needless to say, everyone else thought if was fucking hilarious.
Now, by my count, about 48 hours have passed since I took those pills. The arousal has worn off but my head is still pounding. I'm not sure if this is a rare two-day hangover, some residual effect of the product, or a plague I might have contracted from my sister or her friend who were both sick last week. Personally, I hope it fades away by tomorrow. Point is, I haven't felt right since.
I'd like to go on record and say I'm pretty comfortble with myself. I'm ready to go pretty quick and I'm a decent lay, or so I'd prefer to think. Also, I'm not overly concerned with penis size or ability or personal satisfaction. This little experiment, though, opened my eyes to the suffering of people who are concerned about these things. People who spend hours fretting about the length and girth of their junk, their ability to please someone else and so on and so forth are, I think, wasting their time. Why do that to yourself? Why convince yourself that a product will help you be a better lover? It won't. It will cause you to lose valuable sleep, valuable time you could have used recovering from twelve hours of binge-drinking. It will cause you to wonder if that heartburn you've been having for two straight days is actually just a series of minor heart attacks and if your headaches are a sign of cerebral bleeding because, despite all your big talk about how you never get sick, you worry a little bit about dying as a result of your own idiotic tendencies.
Seriously, fellas (and ladies, if this applies) stop worrying so much. If she sleeps with you more than once, it was worthwhile enough to keep it going. If she doesn't, big deal. Sex is great, but it is not something your life should revolve around, despite evidence to the contrary. "The nasty," as they call it, should be fun. It should be a relief to get off, not a chore. Relax, enjoy the ride, have a good time.
I think I'm done with experimenting, though. At least in terms of male enhancement products. I do have two regrets, actually. First, I didn't test-drive that Hulk Dick and see what it could do. Second, that I'm still bat-shit crazy enough to let my eighteen year-old, testosterone driven brother talk me into this nonsense.
Then again, it was fucking huge.
Until next time babydicks and baby mommas,
-S.R.
So, by now all of you have seen those commercials on television with the smiling douchebag dressed as a racecar driver or Santa or a bunch of other things while the narrator spouts off quasi-clever euphemisms about how huge his cock is and how much sex he's having. Or the ones for Enzyte where they have people on the street talking about how their lives have changed based on the product ala Real Sex or Taxicab Confessions. Most people just change the channel or ignore this kind of bullshit. People with tiny dicks shell out hundreds of dollars trying anything they can to make a difference in their lives because, let's face it, women are pretty much all whores with gaping vaginas that require King Dong to please them, right?
Me? I'm just stupid. Therefore, when Chris came to me with a plan to try these products and see how they worked for someone with a healthy libido and a penis the size of my own, I agreed.
We tried Extenze first because you can buy them in gas stations. We each took two. Not a god damned thing happened. We even spent time with his sexy friend, and there was no change whatsoever in any facet of my existence from level of arousal to my color-coded scale of penis size (the largest being Code Green, as I will explore later). Now, being an optimist, I tried to give the product the benefit of the doubt and wait a little longer than I expected it to take. I even went so far as to find stimulation in the seedy world of erotic literature. Beyond a little late-night self-gratification (which I'm told is normal among young people) nothing particularly interesting happened.
Then we purchased a product with a name I have already forgotten from Walmart and things got a little more interesting. Now, before I go any further let me assure you that what follows is potentially obscene. Or, at the very least, a little bit inappropriate. I have very little problem with talking about my sex life or my body. My level of modesty is pretty negligible, and despite my constant joking that I've got a penis the size of cell phone antenna I'm pretty comfortable with my situation. So, onto the family jewels.
We took this thing Saturday night. Now, we were drinking and we had a house full of family and friends, so the decision to experiment with something of this nature was perhaps a little irresponsible. However, you'll be happy to know no children were traumatized in the making of this stupidity. The product allegedly works about an hour after taking it. Bullshit. An hour and a half later I was still essentially flaccid, despite the presence of previously mentioned sexy friend. So we took another one. A few more hours went by and I decided it was time for bed.
I awoke at around 1:15 a.m. with a cock the size of Minnesota. This was full-on Code Green a.k.a. Hulk Dick. I mean, I could have beaten a rhino or a clan of Tusken Raiders to death with this thing and still had enough left in me to Sammy Sosa the shit out of a baseball before I killed an Atlantic City hooker with it.
Try as I might, there was nothing much I could do with it. So, I went back to sleep in hopes that it would just work itself out. Every hour from that point until I woke up for work at noon on Sunday I was roused from my slumbers by this monstrosity. So, I ate my breakfast and, hangover raging in my body and erection firmly growing down my leg, I went to work. What followed was probably the worst nine hours of KFC employment in the history of KFC employment. Needless to say, everyone else thought if was fucking hilarious.
Now, by my count, about 48 hours have passed since I took those pills. The arousal has worn off but my head is still pounding. I'm not sure if this is a rare two-day hangover, some residual effect of the product, or a plague I might have contracted from my sister or her friend who were both sick last week. Personally, I hope it fades away by tomorrow. Point is, I haven't felt right since.
I'd like to go on record and say I'm pretty comfortble with myself. I'm ready to go pretty quick and I'm a decent lay, or so I'd prefer to think. Also, I'm not overly concerned with penis size or ability or personal satisfaction. This little experiment, though, opened my eyes to the suffering of people who are concerned about these things. People who spend hours fretting about the length and girth of their junk, their ability to please someone else and so on and so forth are, I think, wasting their time. Why do that to yourself? Why convince yourself that a product will help you be a better lover? It won't. It will cause you to lose valuable sleep, valuable time you could have used recovering from twelve hours of binge-drinking. It will cause you to wonder if that heartburn you've been having for two straight days is actually just a series of minor heart attacks and if your headaches are a sign of cerebral bleeding because, despite all your big talk about how you never get sick, you worry a little bit about dying as a result of your own idiotic tendencies.
Seriously, fellas (and ladies, if this applies) stop worrying so much. If she sleeps with you more than once, it was worthwhile enough to keep it going. If she doesn't, big deal. Sex is great, but it is not something your life should revolve around, despite evidence to the contrary. "The nasty," as they call it, should be fun. It should be a relief to get off, not a chore. Relax, enjoy the ride, have a good time.
I think I'm done with experimenting, though. At least in terms of male enhancement products. I do have two regrets, actually. First, I didn't test-drive that Hulk Dick and see what it could do. Second, that I'm still bat-shit crazy enough to let my eighteen year-old, testosterone driven brother talk me into this nonsense.
Then again, it was fucking huge.
Until next time babydicks and baby mommas,
-S.R.
Beerfoam Bonanza Meets American Psycho
Originally Posted: 6/7/09
You can ride to this motherfucker,
Bounce to this motherfucker,
Freak to this motherfucker.
Let's get it on.
I'm this generation's Sisqo, Disco, a fad and bad one at that. I just linger like Korn has since back in '05 while my once treasured public denies I'm alive. I eat pistols for breakfast and bullets for brunch and if you sucked off my cock you could taste Cap'n Crunch. I don't expect you to like me, I expect you to bow and if you're looking to fuck, the line starts here and right now.
I'm like, propoganda or nightmares or Santa, fun for a while but completely irrelevant.
I like fuckin', but I'm a sucker for suckin'. I like to be vulgar, obscene, listerine. That last one just rhymed. I'm too short on time to be making connections. I'd rather get blitzed at my own intervention. I'm sick and I'm drunk and I don't need saving. Try as you might you just can't seem to ignore me, so sit on down and learn to abhor me.
I did my time, and yours and his. I did everyone's time getting filled up and fucked up and hit on and spit on, then shit on and choked up and coked up and thrown down, I go down but only after a night on the town. I'm easy, breezy, pitiful. But I'll rock you in the jaw like it don't mean nothing.
I got glass shards and flower petals growing out my ass. I could get pissed off, but I'd rather be impressed. I lie like a serpent putting pussies to the test with no regrets and I forget the last time that I saw the Light. It seems so much more appealing to be shrouded in night.
I'd kiss you, and I'd let it all go. I'd wrap you up in silver silk and keep you on my mantle. I'd cover you in cellophane to keep you fresh and vivid. I'd warp your fucking memories and then let you go relive it. I'd tell you that I love you, but I can't promise that's the truth. I'd tell you that I'm yours alone, that I'm only lost in you. I'd cherish you, I'd treasure you, but I always end up covetous. I'd ransack every orifice and leave you bent and worthless. I'd gaze for hours at your eyes; unblinking, bright and lifeless. I'd kill you if you walked away because I'd be dead without this.
Her eyes are black and blue, her lips are swollen with the bruises. Another beating not concealed, I guess she should have listened. I told her once, I told her twice, and then I started raving. I broke a bone, I broke a home. I lied, I do need saving.
Save me from the perfectly unreal level of whiny, cock-biting bullshit this world has become. Save me from parents who can't raise their kids to be anything but pussies. Save me from politicians that have to adhere to religions and restrictions because the zealot minority would be otherwise outraged. Save me from people who think the world owes them lives because they continue to breathe in it. Save me from assholes who can't hold down jobs. Save me from the greedy bastards who turn hard working people into slaves. Save me from this place because, frankly, its become so ugly I can't stand turning my eyes away from the ugliness in me. Save me from the beautiful things I just want to destroy. Save me from the beautiful things that could so easily destroy me. This world was not bred for weakness. Mankind was bred for strength. To accept any less is to turn you back on the gods and shit right down their throats.
I want to crush you between my fingers so that some of you will seep into my pores. I want to possess you forever. I want to own your very soul. I want you. Can I keep you? Can I?
If you don't wanna party then your ass got to go.
Sanity is all well and good when the world is well in hand. But when the shit starts spinning out its time that crazy made a stand.
These are some of the things I think about when you're not here. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but it turns the mind to mush and razor wire. Be my Alpha and Omega, be my heaven, be my sun. Be my moon, my stars, my Jupiter. I swear you'll be the only one.
Lies scripted in the tongue of the divine.
Black and blue and I love you,
-S.R.
You can ride to this motherfucker,
Bounce to this motherfucker,
Freak to this motherfucker.
Let's get it on.
I'm this generation's Sisqo, Disco, a fad and bad one at that. I just linger like Korn has since back in '05 while my once treasured public denies I'm alive. I eat pistols for breakfast and bullets for brunch and if you sucked off my cock you could taste Cap'n Crunch. I don't expect you to like me, I expect you to bow and if you're looking to fuck, the line starts here and right now.
I'm like, propoganda or nightmares or Santa, fun for a while but completely irrelevant.
I like fuckin', but I'm a sucker for suckin'. I like to be vulgar, obscene, listerine. That last one just rhymed. I'm too short on time to be making connections. I'd rather get blitzed at my own intervention. I'm sick and I'm drunk and I don't need saving. Try as you might you just can't seem to ignore me, so sit on down and learn to abhor me.
I did my time, and yours and his. I did everyone's time getting filled up and fucked up and hit on and spit on, then shit on and choked up and coked up and thrown down, I go down but only after a night on the town. I'm easy, breezy, pitiful. But I'll rock you in the jaw like it don't mean nothing.
I got glass shards and flower petals growing out my ass. I could get pissed off, but I'd rather be impressed. I lie like a serpent putting pussies to the test with no regrets and I forget the last time that I saw the Light. It seems so much more appealing to be shrouded in night.
I'd kiss you, and I'd let it all go. I'd wrap you up in silver silk and keep you on my mantle. I'd cover you in cellophane to keep you fresh and vivid. I'd warp your fucking memories and then let you go relive it. I'd tell you that I love you, but I can't promise that's the truth. I'd tell you that I'm yours alone, that I'm only lost in you. I'd cherish you, I'd treasure you, but I always end up covetous. I'd ransack every orifice and leave you bent and worthless. I'd gaze for hours at your eyes; unblinking, bright and lifeless. I'd kill you if you walked away because I'd be dead without this.
Her eyes are black and blue, her lips are swollen with the bruises. Another beating not concealed, I guess she should have listened. I told her once, I told her twice, and then I started raving. I broke a bone, I broke a home. I lied, I do need saving.
Save me from the perfectly unreal level of whiny, cock-biting bullshit this world has become. Save me from parents who can't raise their kids to be anything but pussies. Save me from politicians that have to adhere to religions and restrictions because the zealot minority would be otherwise outraged. Save me from people who think the world owes them lives because they continue to breathe in it. Save me from assholes who can't hold down jobs. Save me from the greedy bastards who turn hard working people into slaves. Save me from this place because, frankly, its become so ugly I can't stand turning my eyes away from the ugliness in me. Save me from the beautiful things I just want to destroy. Save me from the beautiful things that could so easily destroy me. This world was not bred for weakness. Mankind was bred for strength. To accept any less is to turn you back on the gods and shit right down their throats.
I want to crush you between my fingers so that some of you will seep into my pores. I want to possess you forever. I want to own your very soul. I want you. Can I keep you? Can I?
If you don't wanna party then your ass got to go.
Sanity is all well and good when the world is well in hand. But when the shit starts spinning out its time that crazy made a stand.
These are some of the things I think about when you're not here. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but it turns the mind to mush and razor wire. Be my Alpha and Omega, be my heaven, be my sun. Be my moon, my stars, my Jupiter. I swear you'll be the only one.
Lies scripted in the tongue of the divine.
Black and blue and I love you,
-S.R.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Turn the Page
Originally Published: 5/28/09
And she's all, "When we gettin' married, honey?"
So I'm like, "Pow!" Right in the kisser.
I've dragged on and on until the words themselves are droll and featureless. Uninspiring, unamusing, and shamefully devoid of all but the pattern. The cyclic, same old, tired, bullshit pattern. It's my "I want to fuck you," to her "I love you." Then a week, or six months, or two years down the line I can't take it. We never shoulda made it in the first place, you shoulda left when it hit third base. Maybe I'm just too irresistable. Or maybe I'm more easily swayed by a hole and a scent and an invitation than I thought. I get tired of fooling myself, and even more tired of tricking a bitch into thinking she means something. That's chauvinistic, but what other option do I have?
I think maybe, in the future (as every poor planner does), I'll do it a little differently. For now, though, I'm not sure I've learned a lesson. Sure, I'm more easily distracted than a poodle with a whopping dose of ADHD, and sure it sucks to be the asshole. But, in retrospect, despite the completely superfluous nature of my emotional attachments, I've treated them like precious stones. I carefully clean and polish and collect each one. Then I set them on a shelf where they scream obscenities at me in the middle of the night. So, when I grow tired of losing sleep, I stick them in a cupboard that will muffle the noise and, eventually, I forget about them altogether. Until a friend comes along who likes to see where I've been. That's a metaphor, and a god damned good one.
Not that men are any different. If I was into them, I'm certain it'd be the same thing. I'm all "Look at the cock and balls on that guy," and he says "Let's cuddle Sunday morning until the shitheads get home from church." Not my bag (of nuts) but I doubt it'd be any different.
I'm not saying I can't fall in love, I'm just saying my dick tends to get there first. When the rest of me catches up, I'm forced to confront the very real possibility that my dick is fucking retarded. And, I suppose, that makes sense. It doesn't have a functioning brain, just a highly technical system of nerves and impulses. It reacts, but it never really acts of its own accord. My brain is off doing something else (quantum physics perhaps, but the details are sketchy) and Big McLarge-Huge (that's his nickname, like a fat guy named Tiny) gets going in a direction and doesn't wait for his pals before he heads off to the party. Except the testicles, they bring the party favors.
Don't get me wrong here, I'm in no way against my own lifestyle. I've met some pretty interesting people, and I'll admit I have ended up inside a good number of them. However, that doesn't discount the handful of real, genuine, temporary emotional investments I've made. It's hard work being a slut with feelings. Balancing the possibility that you're in love with another person for something aside from their genitals with the fact that you really like their genitals isn't as easy as the pros make it seem. By pros, of course, I mean high school cheerleaders (by and large, not all of them are sluts. Some of them are just cunts).
You know, I'm taking a moment to pause and gather my thoughts and it occurs to me that this whole thing is a lot like that Bob Seger song I hate so much. The one Metallica covered a few years (a decade?) back and turned into a worthless pile of whining shit. You know the one. He spends three plus minutes bitching about how hard it is to slam a new girl every night and feel his music, his creation, pouring out of his body to audiences all over the world while simultaneously being galactically fucked up on the best free (FREE!) drugs know to man. Of course, that song wasn't his last. Ol' B.S. went on and made a few more millions after that, eh? Oh, cry me a river, bro, you're like, totally rolling in available (not necessarily good, did you see that I left out the good part?) poon and you're whining about how your brain can't keep up with all the VD you're avoiding and all the manchowder you dish out to hungry, hungry whores?
Not whining, no. I'm making a statement. And fuck you, hypothetical douchebag, for making erroneous accusations in your stupid bro voice.
I'm a little bit of a liar too. I'm really not rolling in available poon. It just seemed more amusing to word it that way. Truth is, I haven't had time to go out chasing the velvet curtain (like a leprechaun, only instead of a pot of gold you get a bunch of semi-paralyzing orgasms when you catch it) in a few months. Instead I go to work, hit on everything with a vagina (it gets me tips and returning customers, I swear. Its just in my personality to be flirtatious), come home, get drunk, maybe sniff some nose candy here and there (not really. I mean, unless it gets you wet...), watch a movie, talk to the small handful of friends who've deemed me worthy enough to deal with this kind of bullshit, rub one out, and get a few hours shut-eye. It's an alright life, if you throw in the occasional game of slap-and-tickle, grab-ass, a little roll in the hay, a few rounds of jaiger and one bizarre anal experience every now and again.
I have been getting erections at work again lately. I know, that's both awesome and really unnecessary information. Still, you're my readers and I feel like you should know needless crap. I haven't shaved my balls in two weeks. Okay, that one was a lie.
Part of me wants to try settling again. See if the brain or the heart can beat my cock to the finish this time. But another part of me, maybe a larger part, hasn't come to grips yet with the fact that there are an unreasonable amount of absolutely beautiful women out there that, for one strange reason or another, have yet to gobble my ham and turkey meatwhich (another nickname for the little guy). That isn't to say that every person without a swinging man-member between their legs (and probably a few with one) wants to sprawl out and take one for the team. But on some days, Thursdays usually, I convince myself that that's so. They all want that dick. I'd say this dick, but its currently sitting next to me, shaking its head disapprovingly and smoking a cigar.
I suppose you can't turn a whore into a housewife, but you can turn a whole shitload of whores into a house of pussy and buttholes. I'd like to live there. If only for a short while. Best thirty seconds of their lives, at least.
If all of this seems like a whole lot of filth crammed into a few paragraphs, you're on the right track to recovering. Recovering from what? The brain disfunction that ever made you think you liked me in the first place. So close those legs, wipe that load off (the one I ninja-blew on your lips while you were reading this) and disinfect that tasty snatch. You're onto bigger and better things. Me? I'm pretty content to wallow in the debauchery I've become so accustomed to. I'm always looking for new people down here on my level, so if you haven't tired of the games feel free to invite your friends. Don't give them my name, just introduce me as Cockzilla and they'll figure out pretty fast why they came all this way to meet me. Probably in less time than it takes for them to smoke a ciggarette and ask the Man Jesus to end it all.
Who wants butt sex?
One for all, and all for oral,
-S.R.
And she's all, "When we gettin' married, honey?"
So I'm like, "Pow!" Right in the kisser.
I've dragged on and on until the words themselves are droll and featureless. Uninspiring, unamusing, and shamefully devoid of all but the pattern. The cyclic, same old, tired, bullshit pattern. It's my "I want to fuck you," to her "I love you." Then a week, or six months, or two years down the line I can't take it. We never shoulda made it in the first place, you shoulda left when it hit third base. Maybe I'm just too irresistable. Or maybe I'm more easily swayed by a hole and a scent and an invitation than I thought. I get tired of fooling myself, and even more tired of tricking a bitch into thinking she means something. That's chauvinistic, but what other option do I have?
I think maybe, in the future (as every poor planner does), I'll do it a little differently. For now, though, I'm not sure I've learned a lesson. Sure, I'm more easily distracted than a poodle with a whopping dose of ADHD, and sure it sucks to be the asshole. But, in retrospect, despite the completely superfluous nature of my emotional attachments, I've treated them like precious stones. I carefully clean and polish and collect each one. Then I set them on a shelf where they scream obscenities at me in the middle of the night. So, when I grow tired of losing sleep, I stick them in a cupboard that will muffle the noise and, eventually, I forget about them altogether. Until a friend comes along who likes to see where I've been. That's a metaphor, and a god damned good one.
Not that men are any different. If I was into them, I'm certain it'd be the same thing. I'm all "Look at the cock and balls on that guy," and he says "Let's cuddle Sunday morning until the shitheads get home from church." Not my bag (of nuts) but I doubt it'd be any different.
I'm not saying I can't fall in love, I'm just saying my dick tends to get there first. When the rest of me catches up, I'm forced to confront the very real possibility that my dick is fucking retarded. And, I suppose, that makes sense. It doesn't have a functioning brain, just a highly technical system of nerves and impulses. It reacts, but it never really acts of its own accord. My brain is off doing something else (quantum physics perhaps, but the details are sketchy) and Big McLarge-Huge (that's his nickname, like a fat guy named Tiny) gets going in a direction and doesn't wait for his pals before he heads off to the party. Except the testicles, they bring the party favors.
Don't get me wrong here, I'm in no way against my own lifestyle. I've met some pretty interesting people, and I'll admit I have ended up inside a good number of them. However, that doesn't discount the handful of real, genuine, temporary emotional investments I've made. It's hard work being a slut with feelings. Balancing the possibility that you're in love with another person for something aside from their genitals with the fact that you really like their genitals isn't as easy as the pros make it seem. By pros, of course, I mean high school cheerleaders (by and large, not all of them are sluts. Some of them are just cunts).
You know, I'm taking a moment to pause and gather my thoughts and it occurs to me that this whole thing is a lot like that Bob Seger song I hate so much. The one Metallica covered a few years (a decade?) back and turned into a worthless pile of whining shit. You know the one. He spends three plus minutes bitching about how hard it is to slam a new girl every night and feel his music, his creation, pouring out of his body to audiences all over the world while simultaneously being galactically fucked up on the best free (FREE!) drugs know to man. Of course, that song wasn't his last. Ol' B.S. went on and made a few more millions after that, eh? Oh, cry me a river, bro, you're like, totally rolling in available (not necessarily good, did you see that I left out the good part?) poon and you're whining about how your brain can't keep up with all the VD you're avoiding and all the manchowder you dish out to hungry, hungry whores?
Not whining, no. I'm making a statement. And fuck you, hypothetical douchebag, for making erroneous accusations in your stupid bro voice.
I'm a little bit of a liar too. I'm really not rolling in available poon. It just seemed more amusing to word it that way. Truth is, I haven't had time to go out chasing the velvet curtain (like a leprechaun, only instead of a pot of gold you get a bunch of semi-paralyzing orgasms when you catch it) in a few months. Instead I go to work, hit on everything with a vagina (it gets me tips and returning customers, I swear. Its just in my personality to be flirtatious), come home, get drunk, maybe sniff some nose candy here and there (not really. I mean, unless it gets you wet...), watch a movie, talk to the small handful of friends who've deemed me worthy enough to deal with this kind of bullshit, rub one out, and get a few hours shut-eye. It's an alright life, if you throw in the occasional game of slap-and-tickle, grab-ass, a little roll in the hay, a few rounds of jaiger and one bizarre anal experience every now and again.
I have been getting erections at work again lately. I know, that's both awesome and really unnecessary information. Still, you're my readers and I feel like you should know needless crap. I haven't shaved my balls in two weeks. Okay, that one was a lie.
Part of me wants to try settling again. See if the brain or the heart can beat my cock to the finish this time. But another part of me, maybe a larger part, hasn't come to grips yet with the fact that there are an unreasonable amount of absolutely beautiful women out there that, for one strange reason or another, have yet to gobble my ham and turkey meatwhich (another nickname for the little guy). That isn't to say that every person without a swinging man-member between their legs (and probably a few with one) wants to sprawl out and take one for the team. But on some days, Thursdays usually, I convince myself that that's so. They all want that dick. I'd say this dick, but its currently sitting next to me, shaking its head disapprovingly and smoking a cigar.
I suppose you can't turn a whore into a housewife, but you can turn a whole shitload of whores into a house of pussy and buttholes. I'd like to live there. If only for a short while. Best thirty seconds of their lives, at least.
If all of this seems like a whole lot of filth crammed into a few paragraphs, you're on the right track to recovering. Recovering from what? The brain disfunction that ever made you think you liked me in the first place. So close those legs, wipe that load off (the one I ninja-blew on your lips while you were reading this) and disinfect that tasty snatch. You're onto bigger and better things. Me? I'm pretty content to wallow in the debauchery I've become so accustomed to. I'm always looking for new people down here on my level, so if you haven't tired of the games feel free to invite your friends. Don't give them my name, just introduce me as Cockzilla and they'll figure out pretty fast why they came all this way to meet me. Probably in less time than it takes for them to smoke a ciggarette and ask the Man Jesus to end it all.
Who wants butt sex?
One for all, and all for oral,
-S.R.
Lust
Originally Posted: 4/20/09
I want to strike your flesh with leather, leave it bruised and sore and sweet. I want to batter you and smother you, while you're chained. I want you until your helpless, I want you when I want you. Otherwise, you're nothing more than a plaything to me. A doll, a toy, something to be coveted and then left alone.
I want you whimpering while your body heats up, crying out when I force the cold inside you. I want your toes curled, your lips bitten, your muscles straining against bonds they could never hope to break. Ultimately, I want you enslaved to my whims, by your own volition or by force. It makes no difference. I'm bigger and stronger and I own you.
I'm fantasizing about your lips, glistening with tiny droplets of saliva. How they'd feel when I pry them open, push myself past them, cut the flow of air to your lungs off. The way your eyes roll back when the blood hungers for oxygen, the way you constrict about me like some kind of serpent. And then there are your breasts, bright red with welts the size of my knuckles, the shape of twined leather. The nipples stand erect, sore and hypersensitive, beacons for my gnashing teeth. The supple flesh yields to my brutality, something soft and something fearsome.
And then I'll find the center, take up root and make a home. I'll thrash and beat and split you, tease you, torment you. Not because I want to, but because I know I can. Fingernails raking deep red lines across the broad expanse of skin. Your eyes are deep pools of boiling liquid.
Somewhere there's a climax. One I prevent, one I seize you from the brink of only to cast you haphazardly over the edge. I'll watch you fall from that pinnacle, writhing in animalistic rage, shrieking and thrashing like an uncaged beast, until I allow it to subside. Not because I want to.
Because I can.
You want it, come get it,
S.R.
I want to strike your flesh with leather, leave it bruised and sore and sweet. I want to batter you and smother you, while you're chained. I want you until your helpless, I want you when I want you. Otherwise, you're nothing more than a plaything to me. A doll, a toy, something to be coveted and then left alone.
I want you whimpering while your body heats up, crying out when I force the cold inside you. I want your toes curled, your lips bitten, your muscles straining against bonds they could never hope to break. Ultimately, I want you enslaved to my whims, by your own volition or by force. It makes no difference. I'm bigger and stronger and I own you.
I'm fantasizing about your lips, glistening with tiny droplets of saliva. How they'd feel when I pry them open, push myself past them, cut the flow of air to your lungs off. The way your eyes roll back when the blood hungers for oxygen, the way you constrict about me like some kind of serpent. And then there are your breasts, bright red with welts the size of my knuckles, the shape of twined leather. The nipples stand erect, sore and hypersensitive, beacons for my gnashing teeth. The supple flesh yields to my brutality, something soft and something fearsome.
And then I'll find the center, take up root and make a home. I'll thrash and beat and split you, tease you, torment you. Not because I want to, but because I know I can. Fingernails raking deep red lines across the broad expanse of skin. Your eyes are deep pools of boiling liquid.
Somewhere there's a climax. One I prevent, one I seize you from the brink of only to cast you haphazardly over the edge. I'll watch you fall from that pinnacle, writhing in animalistic rage, shrieking and thrashing like an uncaged beast, until I allow it to subside. Not because I want to.
Because I can.
You want it, come get it,
S.R.
Sometimes I Feel Like I Can Rule the World
Originally Posted: 03/18/09
I've been pretty bent on self-destruction now for a number of years. Not in a typical sense, where I scarf down drugs and bring physical harm to myself, consciously or subconsciously trying to do enough damage to destroy me, but in an atypical sense where I do a more efficient job. It's an emotional trauma, a wounding of the psyche, something that people really bent on destroying themselves, as a few of you can attest I'm sure, are familiar with. I've done my share of the physical stuff, and aside from smoking and drinking a little too much, I've gotten over it. The glam and the allure just isn't there for me anymore. I do, however, have this recurring habit of alienating myself. I do and say offensive things, and I don't wonder why people flee from me like farmers from a Viking raid, I know why the do. It's because I'm an asshole. Quite simply put.
Now, I don't intend to change my ways, I'm not apologizing. I'm just stating a fact that's gone overlooked. Not by the rest of you, but by me. You may have heard me marvel over it these past few weeks. Bear with me, the novelty of this particular realization hasn't quite worn off yet. It's true though. I'm the kind of person you either love or hate. There really isn't any begrudging respect, no passing affection. You love me, you hate me. No in between. I like that. Too many areas of my life have gray spots. This one doesn't. I like how cohesive it is, how very....defined.
I, of course, could give a shit less. The vast majority of you could eat a bullet and it wouldn't even put a damper on my day. Some of you, though, an ever-growing number (surprisingly enough) are more important. I'm proud of what we have. I take joy in our friendships, our companionship, our mutual affection for one another. I trust that most of those people know who they are, and I just want to thank them for being there, because they don't get enough of it. Before you ask, no you can't have a hug.You can, however, have my undying appreciation, my unfettered love, and the joy at seeing the look on my face when I realize just how much of my shit you put up with. Really, it's amazing none of you have broken my fucking jaw yet. Seriously, slap me around once in a while. I need it to soften my ego.
Before I go on, I want to share a discovery with you all. Today, I found out that if a group of young ladies walks into a place of business like, say, a KFC, and the bastard behind the counter greets them with "Hey, bitches," they won't miss a beat. They just place their order and leave. Do you know why? Two reasons. 1.) Women like that aren't people. They're...I don't know what. 2.) They think they're better than you. Why? Because they're sniveling, spoiled little cunts, that's why. Fuck them, man. Let them eat a dick.
Anyway. I'm really happy this evening. Not for any reason, really. I'm just...smiling. Really, wide-eyed, rosy cheeks, glowing with unabashed joy smiling. I know the original source, and I'm sure it isn't that difficult to figure it out. Trace the timeline of my joy back three weeks and you'llfind yourself saying "I'm a moron, of course it's [name withheld for amusement purposes]!" However, feeling the way I do makes one begin to appreciate the other good things around them. Not the beauty of it all. This isn't like walking in the spring time and seeing all the trees and shit, something that a certain abstinence pamphlet compared with sex (seriously, it was nuts). No, this is just a good feeling. Helps me get in touch with my inner optimist and stop worrying about all the shit I can't change.
Which brings me to my point:
I'm fucking awesome.
Now, now children don't get excited. I know I just rambled on about how I'm an asshole and it's finally set in. Nothing's changed, there has been no rescheduling of the exam (If you want to amuse yourself, read 'rescheduling' aloud as if you were one of those posh assholes with a rich guy accent). Rather, I've realized that my asshole side is only fuel for how amazing I am. I've got like...nine other sides. All equally cool. Really. It's insane. I can't believe my head doesn't explode with the pure awesomeness that I embody.
Yep. I work at a KFC. Yep, I did have to leave a great college because I'm too broke to pay for it. Yep, I do have an overwhelming amount of debt looming over my head like a tsunami bearing down on Thailand. Fuck it. I'm charming and generous and good natured. Nothing makes me happier than seeing other people happy and knowing I helped make them that way. I've started to think babies are cute, rather than just something to be impaled on pikes (though that's still on the table for some of them). I can sing, I can write, I can feel fucking alive and I don't need anyone's permission. In fact, I don't expressly need anything. I want things, and Lord I want certain things, but I can survive without it. These are only some of my flaws and triumphant characteristics. However, you get the picture. Good outweighs the bad. I'm desirable (to me, at any rate) and that makes me confident and fills my mind with gibberish.
There's this one girl, right? There are a few hundred thousand (possibly an exaggeration) things I would just love to say to her. Swoony, mushy things. The kind of shit that makes old timey romance look like prettied-up shit talking. I'm going to hold off, though. For what reason? I don't know. It just doesn't feel like the right time to unload all that. Right now feels like a time for support and displays of caring, maybe the occasional bout of awesomeness, but not rampant affection and pretty poetic nonsense. I don't mean to be vapid or mysterious or whatever, but she's the tits and she knows it. God damn, I'm in a good mood! See that? I used an exclamation point. I typically drive home my point with swearing and clever similies, but not this time. Punctuation, nigga. Punctu-fucking-ation. I could leap bridges and build monuments right now. Or play a really rousing game of tennis and then fuck for like twelve seconds. Best twelves seconds of your life, baby.
Want to know what else? In Darkness Dwells is badass. Yeah, I italicized it. It's proper English. You italicize the title of longer works such as novels, plays, and metal albums. It even sounds good on shitty speakers. Suck on that, other guys. I'll do a whole review at some point, because I'm feeling like a music critic and, let's face it, I can't just fill this blog with useless shit none of you need to know. If I did, you fuckers would be pleased and I can't have that. I'm an asshole, not a people pleaser. Unless you've got a vagina. Like I said, best twelve seconds of your life. That's B-team.
I'm rambling, and I don't care.
Friends, family, assorted sexual deviants, I love you one and all. You're everything I have in this world, and I'm nothing without all of you. I thank you for that, for being with me throughout anything. It is you who make the monster and may God have mercy on your souls.
Goodnight.
With unfathomable joy and crescendoes of gratitude (stole it from Kamelot),
-S.R.
I've been pretty bent on self-destruction now for a number of years. Not in a typical sense, where I scarf down drugs and bring physical harm to myself, consciously or subconsciously trying to do enough damage to destroy me, but in an atypical sense where I do a more efficient job. It's an emotional trauma, a wounding of the psyche, something that people really bent on destroying themselves, as a few of you can attest I'm sure, are familiar with. I've done my share of the physical stuff, and aside from smoking and drinking a little too much, I've gotten over it. The glam and the allure just isn't there for me anymore. I do, however, have this recurring habit of alienating myself. I do and say offensive things, and I don't wonder why people flee from me like farmers from a Viking raid, I know why the do. It's because I'm an asshole. Quite simply put.
Now, I don't intend to change my ways, I'm not apologizing. I'm just stating a fact that's gone overlooked. Not by the rest of you, but by me. You may have heard me marvel over it these past few weeks. Bear with me, the novelty of this particular realization hasn't quite worn off yet. It's true though. I'm the kind of person you either love or hate. There really isn't any begrudging respect, no passing affection. You love me, you hate me. No in between. I like that. Too many areas of my life have gray spots. This one doesn't. I like how cohesive it is, how very....defined.
I, of course, could give a shit less. The vast majority of you could eat a bullet and it wouldn't even put a damper on my day. Some of you, though, an ever-growing number (surprisingly enough) are more important. I'm proud of what we have. I take joy in our friendships, our companionship, our mutual affection for one another. I trust that most of those people know who they are, and I just want to thank them for being there, because they don't get enough of it. Before you ask, no you can't have a hug.You can, however, have my undying appreciation, my unfettered love, and the joy at seeing the look on my face when I realize just how much of my shit you put up with. Really, it's amazing none of you have broken my fucking jaw yet. Seriously, slap me around once in a while. I need it to soften my ego.
Before I go on, I want to share a discovery with you all. Today, I found out that if a group of young ladies walks into a place of business like, say, a KFC, and the bastard behind the counter greets them with "Hey, bitches," they won't miss a beat. They just place their order and leave. Do you know why? Two reasons. 1.) Women like that aren't people. They're...I don't know what. 2.) They think they're better than you. Why? Because they're sniveling, spoiled little cunts, that's why. Fuck them, man. Let them eat a dick.
Anyway. I'm really happy this evening. Not for any reason, really. I'm just...smiling. Really, wide-eyed, rosy cheeks, glowing with unabashed joy smiling. I know the original source, and I'm sure it isn't that difficult to figure it out. Trace the timeline of my joy back three weeks and you'llfind yourself saying "I'm a moron, of course it's [name withheld for amusement purposes]!" However, feeling the way I do makes one begin to appreciate the other good things around them. Not the beauty of it all. This isn't like walking in the spring time and seeing all the trees and shit, something that a certain abstinence pamphlet compared with sex (seriously, it was nuts). No, this is just a good feeling. Helps me get in touch with my inner optimist and stop worrying about all the shit I can't change.
Which brings me to my point:
I'm fucking awesome.
Now, now children don't get excited. I know I just rambled on about how I'm an asshole and it's finally set in. Nothing's changed, there has been no rescheduling of the exam (If you want to amuse yourself, read 'rescheduling' aloud as if you were one of those posh assholes with a rich guy accent). Rather, I've realized that my asshole side is only fuel for how amazing I am. I've got like...nine other sides. All equally cool. Really. It's insane. I can't believe my head doesn't explode with the pure awesomeness that I embody.
Yep. I work at a KFC. Yep, I did have to leave a great college because I'm too broke to pay for it. Yep, I do have an overwhelming amount of debt looming over my head like a tsunami bearing down on Thailand. Fuck it. I'm charming and generous and good natured. Nothing makes me happier than seeing other people happy and knowing I helped make them that way. I've started to think babies are cute, rather than just something to be impaled on pikes (though that's still on the table for some of them). I can sing, I can write, I can feel fucking alive and I don't need anyone's permission. In fact, I don't expressly need anything. I want things, and Lord I want certain things, but I can survive without it. These are only some of my flaws and triumphant characteristics. However, you get the picture. Good outweighs the bad. I'm desirable (to me, at any rate) and that makes me confident and fills my mind with gibberish.
There's this one girl, right? There are a few hundred thousand (possibly an exaggeration) things I would just love to say to her. Swoony, mushy things. The kind of shit that makes old timey romance look like prettied-up shit talking. I'm going to hold off, though. For what reason? I don't know. It just doesn't feel like the right time to unload all that. Right now feels like a time for support and displays of caring, maybe the occasional bout of awesomeness, but not rampant affection and pretty poetic nonsense. I don't mean to be vapid or mysterious or whatever, but she's the tits and she knows it. God damn, I'm in a good mood! See that? I used an exclamation point. I typically drive home my point with swearing and clever similies, but not this time. Punctuation, nigga. Punctu-fucking-ation. I could leap bridges and build monuments right now. Or play a really rousing game of tennis and then fuck for like twelve seconds. Best twelves seconds of your life, baby.
Want to know what else? In Darkness Dwells is badass. Yeah, I italicized it. It's proper English. You italicize the title of longer works such as novels, plays, and metal albums. It even sounds good on shitty speakers. Suck on that, other guys. I'll do a whole review at some point, because I'm feeling like a music critic and, let's face it, I can't just fill this blog with useless shit none of you need to know. If I did, you fuckers would be pleased and I can't have that. I'm an asshole, not a people pleaser. Unless you've got a vagina. Like I said, best twelve seconds of your life. That's B-team.
I'm rambling, and I don't care.
Friends, family, assorted sexual deviants, I love you one and all. You're everything I have in this world, and I'm nothing without all of you. I thank you for that, for being with me throughout anything. It is you who make the monster and may God have mercy on your souls.
Goodnight.
With unfathomable joy and crescendoes of gratitude (stole it from Kamelot),
-S.R.
Suffice to Say: Bullshit
Originally Posted: 3/4/09
Claustrophobic tendencies are the norm. You become isolated and sabatoged and turn it all around, somehow. That's great. I applaud your perseverence and I'm happy for your victory, however small or hollow or full and large it may be. Still, part of me hopes that I don't have to be included. Part of me, a slightly diminished part these days, still clings like plastic wrap to the beleif that none of this happened. I'll open my eyes sometime soon and everything will be as I remembered it. I thank whatever gods may be listening sometimes that the dream scenario is just wishful thinking. Just in case you're wondering, this one is about you. Read on, maybe it will impart some degree of knowledge on you.
Sometimes, I'm an enigma. And sometimes, you're wrong about everything you say. These aren't cheap shots, honey, these are the facts. I'm not one to avoid things. Or people. Or situations. At least, most of the time. Every now and again it seems unhealthy and I step back. Right now, though, I'm feeling ten feet tall. There's really nothing like a challenge, and I dearly hope this one continues just a little longer. Then, like all the others, it will devolve into tears and the haunting, hysterical laughter that draws all the ladies to me like maggots to shit.
I'm not the best guy in the world. I know that may come as a shock to some of you, but it's the truth. I've got plenty of faults, a plethora of flaws, and more vices than you could shake a gangrenous cock at. But, hell, we've all got problems. Point is, I know who I am. I know what my capabilites are and where my shortcomings lie. Which makes me better. I'm not always honest, because I don't need to be, because part of human interaction is knowing when to forge ahead with the bitter truth and when to conceal it to keep everything running smoothly. I don't always behave morally, because I don't conform to anyone else's standards.
Don't confuse metaphors with reality. Dumb fuck.
It's funny how I keep your secrets and how, even now, I'm willing to stop the world from trashing you. Funny because it seems like you're not quite as willing. I don't really fault you for that, you're under no obligation, but at least get your shit right if you're going to talk it. I'm not in a playful mood, and I'm certainly not here simply to correct bad grammar. I'm not out looking for a fight either, but if one is coming my way then let's do it and get it done with. I've got better things to waste my time on. Habits that need tending and all that jazz.
Life appears to have taken a strange turn for the better, and yet the detractors still don't seem satisfied. If I'm being shit on, they applaud and if I'm being raised up they hiss like self-satisfied cunts. There's just no pleasing some people. Go ahead, make a sex joke out of that at my expense. Then titter with laughter like middleschoolers and relax in the comfort that you've just emasculated some asshole that's too cowardly to knock your fucking teeth in. But don't forget that you, for all your preaching and prattling, haven't seen a god damned thing. You haven't learned, and that saddens me. Maybe bonds are meant to be broken, and maybe we were fooling ourselves.
My letters (words, I think) are transparent. I've puzzled over that and, for some reason, I can't make sense of it. How can anything be transparent when it doesn't exist? See, my lies are transparent. They've always been that way, for the most part. That, I understand, but how my words, words I've never uttered to you or anyone else, are transparent defies me. If you haven't figured out already where the ire in these words comes from I'm willing to bet this part gives it away. For the sake of intelligence, though, let's clear this whole mess up right now, shall we?
Cliche insults are great. Really. There's a reason why they're so over-used. They're effective or, at least, mildly amusing. Calling a grown-ass man a boy, for instance, is a good route to go when you've run out of creative things to say. Next time, try taking shots at the size of my cock. Or, better yet, my family history. Imply that I'm a bastard or that I come from a family of unclean heretics that only came to this country because their sister-fucking, satan-worshipping ways weren't tolerated in the civilized societies of western Europe. That could be offensive. It won't be, but it has potential. The truth of the matter, though, is that you're angry about something and lashing out at me is a great way to blow off steam. You might even be angry at me. Why? Beats the hell out of me, but stranger things have happened. Why not be angry at a stranger who has no interest in your life or feelings? Why not be angry at a friend who, in every capacity, sought nothing more than to help? No reason, really.
Payment is forthcoming. I'm not making any phone calls. Conversation over. I'm really tired of redundant topics, and even more weary of repeating myself. Sit back for a second, let it sink in, and let's move on with being big boys and girls.
I know, I know, you've probably already got some scathing remarks, comebacks, whatever. If not, you've probably grown bored with this pointless tirade and stopped reading. If neither of those options fit you, then by all means keep going. If you're angry, calm down. I know too, that you hate being told that. I don't care. See, the entire point of this is to manipulate you. I figure one of two things will happen (and I, of course, have taken into account that you won't comply just to spite me, but I dearly hope you won't ruin my fun just yet). The first is that you'll compile those angry thoughts into some kind of response. I'm sure you'll include things about the immaturity of posting this kind of garbage so anyone can read it and so on and so forth. I'll read it thoughtfully and we'll get a dialogue going that helps everyone. OR you'll realize my ploy, read through the things I've scribbled down in anger and see the real point in all of this. Then we'll converse about that instead and everything will be hunkey dorey.
If you spoil my good time, though, I'll be very upset. I might even sulk for, like, ten minutes. Then something else will catch my attention and, eventually, I'll forget this ever happened. I'm really quite adaptable.
Attero! Dominatus! Berlin is burning.
They say that people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, but I think it should be people with assholes shouldn't point fingers. That's just something that was floating around in my head. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the rest of this.
I'm tired. That weariness that settles into your bones and just leaves you dragging yourself about like a cripple, desperately hoping to find some way to rest. I'm not sure when it started, or when it will end, but it certainly seems to be persisting well enough. It has nothing to do with you, but this ridiculous nonsense doesn't really serve any purpose but to thwart my efforts at rejuvination. That's my presumption anyhow. Wear me down until I fold, n'est-ce pas? Fuck it. I wish you luck in your endeavors. However unkind.
I think I'm going to bed.
That gargoyle? Totally giving you the "fuck me" eyes.
Slovenly Yours,
S.R.
Claustrophobic tendencies are the norm. You become isolated and sabatoged and turn it all around, somehow. That's great. I applaud your perseverence and I'm happy for your victory, however small or hollow or full and large it may be. Still, part of me hopes that I don't have to be included. Part of me, a slightly diminished part these days, still clings like plastic wrap to the beleif that none of this happened. I'll open my eyes sometime soon and everything will be as I remembered it. I thank whatever gods may be listening sometimes that the dream scenario is just wishful thinking. Just in case you're wondering, this one is about you. Read on, maybe it will impart some degree of knowledge on you.
Sometimes, I'm an enigma. And sometimes, you're wrong about everything you say. These aren't cheap shots, honey, these are the facts. I'm not one to avoid things. Or people. Or situations. At least, most of the time. Every now and again it seems unhealthy and I step back. Right now, though, I'm feeling ten feet tall. There's really nothing like a challenge, and I dearly hope this one continues just a little longer. Then, like all the others, it will devolve into tears and the haunting, hysterical laughter that draws all the ladies to me like maggots to shit.
I'm not the best guy in the world. I know that may come as a shock to some of you, but it's the truth. I've got plenty of faults, a plethora of flaws, and more vices than you could shake a gangrenous cock at. But, hell, we've all got problems. Point is, I know who I am. I know what my capabilites are and where my shortcomings lie. Which makes me better. I'm not always honest, because I don't need to be, because part of human interaction is knowing when to forge ahead with the bitter truth and when to conceal it to keep everything running smoothly. I don't always behave morally, because I don't conform to anyone else's standards.
Don't confuse metaphors with reality. Dumb fuck.
It's funny how I keep your secrets and how, even now, I'm willing to stop the world from trashing you. Funny because it seems like you're not quite as willing. I don't really fault you for that, you're under no obligation, but at least get your shit right if you're going to talk it. I'm not in a playful mood, and I'm certainly not here simply to correct bad grammar. I'm not out looking for a fight either, but if one is coming my way then let's do it and get it done with. I've got better things to waste my time on. Habits that need tending and all that jazz.
Life appears to have taken a strange turn for the better, and yet the detractors still don't seem satisfied. If I'm being shit on, they applaud and if I'm being raised up they hiss like self-satisfied cunts. There's just no pleasing some people. Go ahead, make a sex joke out of that at my expense. Then titter with laughter like middleschoolers and relax in the comfort that you've just emasculated some asshole that's too cowardly to knock your fucking teeth in. But don't forget that you, for all your preaching and prattling, haven't seen a god damned thing. You haven't learned, and that saddens me. Maybe bonds are meant to be broken, and maybe we were fooling ourselves.
My letters (words, I think) are transparent. I've puzzled over that and, for some reason, I can't make sense of it. How can anything be transparent when it doesn't exist? See, my lies are transparent. They've always been that way, for the most part. That, I understand, but how my words, words I've never uttered to you or anyone else, are transparent defies me. If you haven't figured out already where the ire in these words comes from I'm willing to bet this part gives it away. For the sake of intelligence, though, let's clear this whole mess up right now, shall we?
Cliche insults are great. Really. There's a reason why they're so over-used. They're effective or, at least, mildly amusing. Calling a grown-ass man a boy, for instance, is a good route to go when you've run out of creative things to say. Next time, try taking shots at the size of my cock. Or, better yet, my family history. Imply that I'm a bastard or that I come from a family of unclean heretics that only came to this country because their sister-fucking, satan-worshipping ways weren't tolerated in the civilized societies of western Europe. That could be offensive. It won't be, but it has potential. The truth of the matter, though, is that you're angry about something and lashing out at me is a great way to blow off steam. You might even be angry at me. Why? Beats the hell out of me, but stranger things have happened. Why not be angry at a stranger who has no interest in your life or feelings? Why not be angry at a friend who, in every capacity, sought nothing more than to help? No reason, really.
Payment is forthcoming. I'm not making any phone calls. Conversation over. I'm really tired of redundant topics, and even more weary of repeating myself. Sit back for a second, let it sink in, and let's move on with being big boys and girls.
I know, I know, you've probably already got some scathing remarks, comebacks, whatever. If not, you've probably grown bored with this pointless tirade and stopped reading. If neither of those options fit you, then by all means keep going. If you're angry, calm down. I know too, that you hate being told that. I don't care. See, the entire point of this is to manipulate you. I figure one of two things will happen (and I, of course, have taken into account that you won't comply just to spite me, but I dearly hope you won't ruin my fun just yet). The first is that you'll compile those angry thoughts into some kind of response. I'm sure you'll include things about the immaturity of posting this kind of garbage so anyone can read it and so on and so forth. I'll read it thoughtfully and we'll get a dialogue going that helps everyone. OR you'll realize my ploy, read through the things I've scribbled down in anger and see the real point in all of this. Then we'll converse about that instead and everything will be hunkey dorey.
If you spoil my good time, though, I'll be very upset. I might even sulk for, like, ten minutes. Then something else will catch my attention and, eventually, I'll forget this ever happened. I'm really quite adaptable.
Attero! Dominatus! Berlin is burning.
They say that people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, but I think it should be people with assholes shouldn't point fingers. That's just something that was floating around in my head. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the rest of this.
I'm tired. That weariness that settles into your bones and just leaves you dragging yourself about like a cripple, desperately hoping to find some way to rest. I'm not sure when it started, or when it will end, but it certainly seems to be persisting well enough. It has nothing to do with you, but this ridiculous nonsense doesn't really serve any purpose but to thwart my efforts at rejuvination. That's my presumption anyhow. Wear me down until I fold, n'est-ce pas? Fuck it. I wish you luck in your endeavors. However unkind.
I think I'm going to bed.
That gargoyle? Totally giving you the "fuck me" eyes.
Slovenly Yours,
S.R.
Blank Stares and Track Marks
Originally Posted: 2/18/09
"She's got eyes like Zapruder, a mouth like heroin."
I'm a flaw in the construct, composed of little impurities. Flecks of dust that catch in the light and hang, suspended, in defiance of the natural order. I do not obey what I do not condone. I can not be controlled, much less commanded. As the miles race beneath me, I feel less and less human. I feel less like myself and more like something sinister, something hideous. The notions are vague and I will describe them vaguely. I'm afraid I want you, but I'm terrified that you'll want me someday. It would ruin you, I think, as it has ruined lesser creatures. Not for lack of trying or desire, I just never seem to need it. I crave things, but I never rely on them. Reliance is dependence and dependence is addiction. I won't wander down that road again. I still haven't left the nightmares far enough behind.
It's 2 in the morning here. I don't wonder what you're doing, because I already know. All the same, I prefer imagination to knowledge. Sometimes lies are more alluring than the truth. I'd rather imagine you in the arms of someone strange, someone slightly dangerous that will do things to your body that leave you trembling, exhausted, satisfied. The kind of thing I wish I could be. A shadowed face, callused fingers pressing themselves into satin skin, a harshness that is as uninviting as it is pleasurable. He probably smells faintly of sweat and smoke, masked by cologne and the intriguing, implacable scent of arousal. That scent that gets into your skin, invades your senses, and commands you to give in. The kind of creature that anyone could resist, but no one will.
It's strange, the way the mind meanders. One moment you're dwelling on things that, not long ago, seemed so very crucial. Those things are suddenly unimportant. You think of something else, maybe something mildly poetic. Forgive the cryptic nature of this, none of it is terribly vital. It's really only a little more than the half-mad ramblings of someone too far from anything familiar. Home feels far away. Strange. Here, nestled close to the cradle of my life, I feel like an outsider. The sensation is almost enough to send me racing away, but it interests me. On a spiritual, primal level I want more of it.
And then I think about love. I like to ponder love, in all its facets. Mostly, I really hope I never find it again. I don't make that wish out of some misguided belief that I'm destined to die alone, or any selfless notion that anyone I love will be terribly mistreated. Rather, I enjoy my privacy too much to compromise it. I'm selfish and guarded. I like it that way. It makes me mysterious, and that gets me laid. That gets me closer to heaven.
If God wants people to be happy, I think he should advocate prostitution. Clean, safe prostitution. Or, at the very least, casual promiscuity. Nothing makes people happier on a more basic level than sex. It's constantly on our minds, in one form or another. For me it has become essential to my personality insofar as my peers are concerned. I used to think all that bullshit was some kind of front I put up to disguise the insecure, emotionally scarred badass that lay underneath. These days, I think the rest of it is a poorly constructed disguise for the fact that I don't care for much in this world.
Before you start worrying, let me assure you that I'm just in an introspective mood. These are good fun because they let me say things that are probably only half true without being outright lies. It isn't constructing thoughts, it's an excercise in just writing them as they come. Letting my filthy, crowded innards out into some medium where people can choose to observe or abstain.
Back to the sex thing, though. That's important. I have to wonder if words or actions are more crucial to seduction. Can the simple existence of someone be enough to kick those base instincts in, or is there some kind of course that needs to be run first? If a display of physical prowess can do it, why not a piece of poetry? Both of them are performed toward the same end. This, of course, comes from the head of someone who measures his acceptance from people by how close they are to crawling in the sack with him. Then again, if you figure out a better way to measure human interaction you let me know.
"She'll never cover up what we did with her dress. She said, 'kiss me, it'll heal but it won't forget.'"
I'll take you anywhere as long as you promise not to forgive me. I'd much rather see you patch up the holes than cover them up and replace them. Forgiveness is for the narrow-minded. Retribution is for the strong. I'm all blank stares and track marks. Figuratively speaking. Decide what that means for yourself. I'm one-tenth fact and nine-tenths interpetation.
Keep Breathing,
S.R.
"She's got eyes like Zapruder, a mouth like heroin."
I'm a flaw in the construct, composed of little impurities. Flecks of dust that catch in the light and hang, suspended, in defiance of the natural order. I do not obey what I do not condone. I can not be controlled, much less commanded. As the miles race beneath me, I feel less and less human. I feel less like myself and more like something sinister, something hideous. The notions are vague and I will describe them vaguely. I'm afraid I want you, but I'm terrified that you'll want me someday. It would ruin you, I think, as it has ruined lesser creatures. Not for lack of trying or desire, I just never seem to need it. I crave things, but I never rely on them. Reliance is dependence and dependence is addiction. I won't wander down that road again. I still haven't left the nightmares far enough behind.
It's 2 in the morning here. I don't wonder what you're doing, because I already know. All the same, I prefer imagination to knowledge. Sometimes lies are more alluring than the truth. I'd rather imagine you in the arms of someone strange, someone slightly dangerous that will do things to your body that leave you trembling, exhausted, satisfied. The kind of thing I wish I could be. A shadowed face, callused fingers pressing themselves into satin skin, a harshness that is as uninviting as it is pleasurable. He probably smells faintly of sweat and smoke, masked by cologne and the intriguing, implacable scent of arousal. That scent that gets into your skin, invades your senses, and commands you to give in. The kind of creature that anyone could resist, but no one will.
It's strange, the way the mind meanders. One moment you're dwelling on things that, not long ago, seemed so very crucial. Those things are suddenly unimportant. You think of something else, maybe something mildly poetic. Forgive the cryptic nature of this, none of it is terribly vital. It's really only a little more than the half-mad ramblings of someone too far from anything familiar. Home feels far away. Strange. Here, nestled close to the cradle of my life, I feel like an outsider. The sensation is almost enough to send me racing away, but it interests me. On a spiritual, primal level I want more of it.
And then I think about love. I like to ponder love, in all its facets. Mostly, I really hope I never find it again. I don't make that wish out of some misguided belief that I'm destined to die alone, or any selfless notion that anyone I love will be terribly mistreated. Rather, I enjoy my privacy too much to compromise it. I'm selfish and guarded. I like it that way. It makes me mysterious, and that gets me laid. That gets me closer to heaven.
If God wants people to be happy, I think he should advocate prostitution. Clean, safe prostitution. Or, at the very least, casual promiscuity. Nothing makes people happier on a more basic level than sex. It's constantly on our minds, in one form or another. For me it has become essential to my personality insofar as my peers are concerned. I used to think all that bullshit was some kind of front I put up to disguise the insecure, emotionally scarred badass that lay underneath. These days, I think the rest of it is a poorly constructed disguise for the fact that I don't care for much in this world.
Before you start worrying, let me assure you that I'm just in an introspective mood. These are good fun because they let me say things that are probably only half true without being outright lies. It isn't constructing thoughts, it's an excercise in just writing them as they come. Letting my filthy, crowded innards out into some medium where people can choose to observe or abstain.
Back to the sex thing, though. That's important. I have to wonder if words or actions are more crucial to seduction. Can the simple existence of someone be enough to kick those base instincts in, or is there some kind of course that needs to be run first? If a display of physical prowess can do it, why not a piece of poetry? Both of them are performed toward the same end. This, of course, comes from the head of someone who measures his acceptance from people by how close they are to crawling in the sack with him. Then again, if you figure out a better way to measure human interaction you let me know.
"She'll never cover up what we did with her dress. She said, 'kiss me, it'll heal but it won't forget.'"
I'll take you anywhere as long as you promise not to forgive me. I'd much rather see you patch up the holes than cover them up and replace them. Forgiveness is for the narrow-minded. Retribution is for the strong. I'm all blank stares and track marks. Figuratively speaking. Decide what that means for yourself. I'm one-tenth fact and nine-tenths interpetation.
Keep Breathing,
S.R.
Here's To You, Little Phantom
Originally Posted: 1/18/09
So you'll just piss away your dreams and look at me like I'm the villain. But sweetie, this ain't a fairytale and real life isn't simple. There's no good guys and bad guys, no heroes and monsters, no gods and no goddesses, no angels and demons. None of it is real, and none of it's concrete. You're just standing there, just shrieking, tossing shit into the street. And I'm long gone. Not because you don't matter, but because you never wanted it bad enough.
Lectures and reminders make me seethe like small offenses dug into the flesh and left to fester, grow, and conquer. I am not a child, I am not to be commanded. Do not tempt the tempter, do not tempt the Lord thy God. I am wrathful, I am cruel and I do not spare the weak.
I find it hard to say nice things when all I hear is bullshit. Little lies and spun-out tales and plots against my honor. Don't think me foolish, pretty please? It will be your last mistake. I am in no mood for pleasantries, my dears, I'd rather kill you where you stand. Sniveling, covetous rodents are not fit challengers to men. And though the meaning and the point escape you, know simply that I know.
I'm not the sinister one. Lurking in the shadows, bent on stealing, lying, cheating. But nor am I the gleaming knight in armor made of shiny platinum. This is what you wanted. This is the life we chose, the life we lead, and there is only one guarantee: None of us will see Heaven. I don't mind so much, the little misconceptions, but that's really all they are, facades, charades, falsehoods, fraud. They aren't truths and that means they cannot be exploited. Keep your true self hidden and you can't be destroyed.
You can't show spectres how you feel.
I'd rather be pissed off than pissed on, but then I think I'm content just sitting back and laughing arrogantly at the things that scurry below. I tried to live down in the muck among the rest of the world, and I realized that those vaulted ambitions, the conceit, the pompous disregard for humanity, and the utter arrogance of the high-born life suited me just fine. So I climbed back up on this high horse, and the rest of you be damned. I've had my fill of sacrifice, things you couldn't comprehend that I have turned away from. I've had my fill of good intentions, of inaction, of concern, of the true and righteous path. I found it all was hollow without you, and with you I would drown. But join me when you're ready, maybe there's still time to save the world.
This is what you wanted, this is what you get.
My sympathies are empty, and I wouldn't offend you by offering them. I've got more respect than that. Of course, that would be much easier to say if you believed it. Seems to me that when people go away they forget absolutely all the truths they know about me and simply spread the infection of lies and misconceptions to themselves. So believe what you will, but the caring never stopped. Will never stop. Some people just make it impossible to try.
If this seems scathing, take a few steps back and realize that all of it is said with utmost love. But reaching out my hand to have scalded and cut off just seems slightly masochistic and a waste of precious time. I'm tired and I'm battered and the storm is not quite done. I've got no energy to expend on fruitless endeavors. So I'll stand back a few paces and watch. I'll wait for you to need me and I'll spend some time building my strength. I have no desire to fight the winds of change to keep you with me. I have no desire to turn the tides and spin the world back 'round. And I have no desire to let go, to say goodbye.
So let's just say I love you and goodnight.
Yours,
S.R.
So you'll just piss away your dreams and look at me like I'm the villain. But sweetie, this ain't a fairytale and real life isn't simple. There's no good guys and bad guys, no heroes and monsters, no gods and no goddesses, no angels and demons. None of it is real, and none of it's concrete. You're just standing there, just shrieking, tossing shit into the street. And I'm long gone. Not because you don't matter, but because you never wanted it bad enough.
Lectures and reminders make me seethe like small offenses dug into the flesh and left to fester, grow, and conquer. I am not a child, I am not to be commanded. Do not tempt the tempter, do not tempt the Lord thy God. I am wrathful, I am cruel and I do not spare the weak.
I find it hard to say nice things when all I hear is bullshit. Little lies and spun-out tales and plots against my honor. Don't think me foolish, pretty please? It will be your last mistake. I am in no mood for pleasantries, my dears, I'd rather kill you where you stand. Sniveling, covetous rodents are not fit challengers to men. And though the meaning and the point escape you, know simply that I know.
I'm not the sinister one. Lurking in the shadows, bent on stealing, lying, cheating. But nor am I the gleaming knight in armor made of shiny platinum. This is what you wanted. This is the life we chose, the life we lead, and there is only one guarantee: None of us will see Heaven. I don't mind so much, the little misconceptions, but that's really all they are, facades, charades, falsehoods, fraud. They aren't truths and that means they cannot be exploited. Keep your true self hidden and you can't be destroyed.
You can't show spectres how you feel.
I'd rather be pissed off than pissed on, but then I think I'm content just sitting back and laughing arrogantly at the things that scurry below. I tried to live down in the muck among the rest of the world, and I realized that those vaulted ambitions, the conceit, the pompous disregard for humanity, and the utter arrogance of the high-born life suited me just fine. So I climbed back up on this high horse, and the rest of you be damned. I've had my fill of sacrifice, things you couldn't comprehend that I have turned away from. I've had my fill of good intentions, of inaction, of concern, of the true and righteous path. I found it all was hollow without you, and with you I would drown. But join me when you're ready, maybe there's still time to save the world.
This is what you wanted, this is what you get.
My sympathies are empty, and I wouldn't offend you by offering them. I've got more respect than that. Of course, that would be much easier to say if you believed it. Seems to me that when people go away they forget absolutely all the truths they know about me and simply spread the infection of lies and misconceptions to themselves. So believe what you will, but the caring never stopped. Will never stop. Some people just make it impossible to try.
If this seems scathing, take a few steps back and realize that all of it is said with utmost love. But reaching out my hand to have scalded and cut off just seems slightly masochistic and a waste of precious time. I'm tired and I'm battered and the storm is not quite done. I've got no energy to expend on fruitless endeavors. So I'll stand back a few paces and watch. I'll wait for you to need me and I'll spend some time building my strength. I have no desire to fight the winds of change to keep you with me. I have no desire to turn the tides and spin the world back 'round. And I have no desire to let go, to say goodbye.
So let's just say I love you and goodnight.
Yours,
S.R.
Bleating Hearts and Pussymouth
Originally Posted: 12/17/08
Miles and miles have come and gone between us, but time seems to stand still. I find myself in the same tired old scenes, quietly waiting for the moment to pass and the comfort to return. I feel cramped in my skin and trapped in the seconds, like something too large in a cage far too small. It isn't a kiss or a touch that I long for, despite the romantic side-stepping and the pretty poetic metaphor. I want something, I need something, but what it is escapes me. Desires you can't identify always seem to linger longer than the things you just can't have.
I'd like to see you smile, because it will reassure me. Everything is alright, except the things that aren't, but they have less to do with our choices and more to do with the circumstances under which we make them. I'd like to see you smile, because I like to see people smile and you have always been one of my favorites. You're important in ways I can't readily tell the world or myself. I don't think that's asking for much, and it surely isn't pining. Its much easier to deal with. I'd even like to see you taken by fits of passion, to watch the way that tingling, rushing feeling of pleasure ripples out from the center and catches your entire body in the aftershock. Not under me, I think. But close by, just on the periphery.
I like to fantasize that everything will work out well. That I'll be struck with good luck across the board and all the facets of my life will turn up roses, blooming wildly in the sunshine that has become my world. I fantasize about having people and things when I want them and need them, and not being burdened by the unclean folk that seem to latch onto the idea of me and leech the goodwill from my bones. I dream that all my dreams come true, and I fantasize that all my fantasies are realized. But people like me have to make our own luck and, crafty as I am, I've never been very good at building things. I can fix them and destroy them, but the building rarely has anything to do with me.
I'm too horny to be in public.
Sometimes I think that I say shocking things for some sinister purpose. Not because I have no filter and no concept (or care) of what's offensive to others, and not because shocking statements make my people laugh and shake their heads. Sometimes I think I say shit intentionally to piss people off. That I'm laying down challenges everywhere I go and one day about three billion sons of bitches will show up to my house and mercilessly beat the hell out of me. They'd probably have good reason, because they wouldn't understand that, to me, everything is waiting to be ridiculed. It isn't that I hate it all, its just that I can laugh at anything. Then again, maybe I'm just deluding myself and I really am just a jackass. If that's the case, then you can all suck my dick.
The dog is behind me losing his fucking mind. I think he wants attention, but I'm simply not willing to give it. That's a good feeling, knowing you have some kind of power over a lesser creature's happiness. It makes you feel like a badass, and you can choose to be a benevolent badass or a douchebag badass. Either way, nothing can take away how great you feel about yourself and your ultimate power. Well, except death. If the subject dies, then there really is no happiness to be granted or witheld. The fucker won't care either way.
Loving someone is easy. Sometimes, I think its too easy. Shouldn't there be some kind of obstacle course or prerequisite for that shit? I mean, love isn't just a basic emotional investment. It requires time and thought and (typically) money and energy. Its a huge event, a big fucking deal. But there are no preliminary requirements for it. No class you need to take, no trials to overcome, no lengthy and ultimately pointless quests to undergo. Nope. One day someone walks into your life and thirty seconds later you love them. Or you're in love with them. There is a slight difference, I guess. At least where most people are concerned. I'm strange, so I'm a little bit in love with all the people I love. That sounded redundant as hell. Still, there should at least be some kind of certification for it. She said, honey baby, you got a license for love?
The reason I bring it up, is because love is complicated and difficult to navigate. There are different kinds and levels and pitfalls and facets and mind-raping, ideal-warping shit like that. Its like an enormous cavern, filled with a fucking hedgemaze created by Charles Manson. And if that wasn't hard enough to fing your way through, there are also randomly placed minotaur to fucking smash your head in if you should wander into a bad area. And spike pits. And zombies. And a herd of pissed off dobermans are chasing you through it. That's love. But its also wonderful and warm, so the maze has flowers growing out of the walls and the sun overhead is shining (did I say it was in a cavern? Its in a cavern with its own sky and celestial bodies,then) and the day is as wonderful as it can be. Plus, anytime you want to cum you just think about it and everything will stop while you are granted the most incredible sex anyone has ever had. Then the dobermans tear off a hunk of your leg and you get your ass running again. That's love. And it should require at least an introductory course and a proficiency exam.
Since I'm Walt Whitman reincarnated, and I therefore fall in love about every ten seconds, I'm pretty interested in the subject. I'm also pretty experienced. I've loved people that have hardly cared that I was breathing and people who have loved me back with equal ferocity. I have loved people who thought they shared my feelings, and people who thought they did not. I have loved and had it linger, and I have had passions that quickly burned out. I have tried and failed to win some over, I have won some without trying at all. I have been wooed and wanted and rejected and taken. I have been pulled in every direction and pushed away in one. I have done it all, and it never seems to be the same twice.
Even so, some are more memorable than others. Most of them fade away to names and little snips of memories. Little scars that you look at every once in a while and only vaguely recall where they came from. Others linger far closer to the mind, they remain with you like near-death experiences or that one time you bled for twelve hours. Or that time your mom finally, finally got you that new thing you wanted and begged and pleaded for after months of excruciating waiting. They can be like the best or worst of experiences, or you can almost completely forget them. I've got more than my share of both, I think, but I want more. I want more connections, more memories, more scars and names, more kisses and more fights, more scents to recall and more skin to touch and memorize. I want more passionate, fruitless, frantic sex and I want more talks spent holding and being held and more emotional blows to my over-inflated ego. I want more.
I want...something.
Yours,
S.R.
Miles and miles have come and gone between us, but time seems to stand still. I find myself in the same tired old scenes, quietly waiting for the moment to pass and the comfort to return. I feel cramped in my skin and trapped in the seconds, like something too large in a cage far too small. It isn't a kiss or a touch that I long for, despite the romantic side-stepping and the pretty poetic metaphor. I want something, I need something, but what it is escapes me. Desires you can't identify always seem to linger longer than the things you just can't have.
I'd like to see you smile, because it will reassure me. Everything is alright, except the things that aren't, but they have less to do with our choices and more to do with the circumstances under which we make them. I'd like to see you smile, because I like to see people smile and you have always been one of my favorites. You're important in ways I can't readily tell the world or myself. I don't think that's asking for much, and it surely isn't pining. Its much easier to deal with. I'd even like to see you taken by fits of passion, to watch the way that tingling, rushing feeling of pleasure ripples out from the center and catches your entire body in the aftershock. Not under me, I think. But close by, just on the periphery.
I like to fantasize that everything will work out well. That I'll be struck with good luck across the board and all the facets of my life will turn up roses, blooming wildly in the sunshine that has become my world. I fantasize about having people and things when I want them and need them, and not being burdened by the unclean folk that seem to latch onto the idea of me and leech the goodwill from my bones. I dream that all my dreams come true, and I fantasize that all my fantasies are realized. But people like me have to make our own luck and, crafty as I am, I've never been very good at building things. I can fix them and destroy them, but the building rarely has anything to do with me.
I'm too horny to be in public.
Sometimes I think that I say shocking things for some sinister purpose. Not because I have no filter and no concept (or care) of what's offensive to others, and not because shocking statements make my people laugh and shake their heads. Sometimes I think I say shit intentionally to piss people off. That I'm laying down challenges everywhere I go and one day about three billion sons of bitches will show up to my house and mercilessly beat the hell out of me. They'd probably have good reason, because they wouldn't understand that, to me, everything is waiting to be ridiculed. It isn't that I hate it all, its just that I can laugh at anything. Then again, maybe I'm just deluding myself and I really am just a jackass. If that's the case, then you can all suck my dick.
The dog is behind me losing his fucking mind. I think he wants attention, but I'm simply not willing to give it. That's a good feeling, knowing you have some kind of power over a lesser creature's happiness. It makes you feel like a badass, and you can choose to be a benevolent badass or a douchebag badass. Either way, nothing can take away how great you feel about yourself and your ultimate power. Well, except death. If the subject dies, then there really is no happiness to be granted or witheld. The fucker won't care either way.
Loving someone is easy. Sometimes, I think its too easy. Shouldn't there be some kind of obstacle course or prerequisite for that shit? I mean, love isn't just a basic emotional investment. It requires time and thought and (typically) money and energy. Its a huge event, a big fucking deal. But there are no preliminary requirements for it. No class you need to take, no trials to overcome, no lengthy and ultimately pointless quests to undergo. Nope. One day someone walks into your life and thirty seconds later you love them. Or you're in love with them. There is a slight difference, I guess. At least where most people are concerned. I'm strange, so I'm a little bit in love with all the people I love. That sounded redundant as hell. Still, there should at least be some kind of certification for it. She said, honey baby, you got a license for love?
The reason I bring it up, is because love is complicated and difficult to navigate. There are different kinds and levels and pitfalls and facets and mind-raping, ideal-warping shit like that. Its like an enormous cavern, filled with a fucking hedgemaze created by Charles Manson. And if that wasn't hard enough to fing your way through, there are also randomly placed minotaur to fucking smash your head in if you should wander into a bad area. And spike pits. And zombies. And a herd of pissed off dobermans are chasing you through it. That's love. But its also wonderful and warm, so the maze has flowers growing out of the walls and the sun overhead is shining (did I say it was in a cavern? Its in a cavern with its own sky and celestial bodies,then) and the day is as wonderful as it can be. Plus, anytime you want to cum you just think about it and everything will stop while you are granted the most incredible sex anyone has ever had. Then the dobermans tear off a hunk of your leg and you get your ass running again. That's love. And it should require at least an introductory course and a proficiency exam.
Since I'm Walt Whitman reincarnated, and I therefore fall in love about every ten seconds, I'm pretty interested in the subject. I'm also pretty experienced. I've loved people that have hardly cared that I was breathing and people who have loved me back with equal ferocity. I have loved people who thought they shared my feelings, and people who thought they did not. I have loved and had it linger, and I have had passions that quickly burned out. I have tried and failed to win some over, I have won some without trying at all. I have been wooed and wanted and rejected and taken. I have been pulled in every direction and pushed away in one. I have done it all, and it never seems to be the same twice.
Even so, some are more memorable than others. Most of them fade away to names and little snips of memories. Little scars that you look at every once in a while and only vaguely recall where they came from. Others linger far closer to the mind, they remain with you like near-death experiences or that one time you bled for twelve hours. Or that time your mom finally, finally got you that new thing you wanted and begged and pleaded for after months of excruciating waiting. They can be like the best or worst of experiences, or you can almost completely forget them. I've got more than my share of both, I think, but I want more. I want more connections, more memories, more scars and names, more kisses and more fights, more scents to recall and more skin to touch and memorize. I want more passionate, fruitless, frantic sex and I want more talks spent holding and being held and more emotional blows to my over-inflated ego. I want more.
I want...something.
Yours,
S.R.
Metaphors Be With You
Originally Posted: 12/2/08
There are nails in my hands, I'm martyred for the cause, but even the bad die before their time. Warm life trickles like water from a leaky faucet, following the paper trail of injections to my elbow and dripping down to slake the desert's thirst. I have never wanted for anything more than I've wanted for you. And that's enough, for once, just wanting. My shoulders ache and the sinews pop, a surge of new pain and it fades to the background. Dislocation discord. Brand new ideals, repeating the pattern, whipped and weak. I am His dishonored Son.
Pandemonium rises from the plateau, surrounded by the Furnace, it towers above me. Steel and stone, a twisted replica of the Palace of my Father. The home of festering evil, black bile rivers flow thick from its grim foundation. Trepidation. Mount the stairs, one by one, perverted, like everything else here. The Morning Star is homesick for Heaven. Hard to blame her, but I'm not convinced.
This isn't cryptic, its poetic. I've arisen anew. Christ, and I'm back from the dead, assholes.
Bring me not your sick and weak. Bring me not your dying, your infirm, your pathetic wretches. Rather, bring me the strong, the hale and hearty, bring me your warriors and ten thousand swords. Bring me bows and machines of war. Bring me thunder and fire, bolts of pure power that will fly from my hands. Bring me night and day, sun and stars, bring me the very essence of Heaven, that we may march against its golden gates. Bring me armies, and I will show you my Kingdom.
War is coming. Be not against me.
Choose your allies wisely,
S.R.
There are nails in my hands, I'm martyred for the cause, but even the bad die before their time. Warm life trickles like water from a leaky faucet, following the paper trail of injections to my elbow and dripping down to slake the desert's thirst. I have never wanted for anything more than I've wanted for you. And that's enough, for once, just wanting. My shoulders ache and the sinews pop, a surge of new pain and it fades to the background. Dislocation discord. Brand new ideals, repeating the pattern, whipped and weak. I am His dishonored Son.
Pandemonium rises from the plateau, surrounded by the Furnace, it towers above me. Steel and stone, a twisted replica of the Palace of my Father. The home of festering evil, black bile rivers flow thick from its grim foundation. Trepidation. Mount the stairs, one by one, perverted, like everything else here. The Morning Star is homesick for Heaven. Hard to blame her, but I'm not convinced.
This isn't cryptic, its poetic. I've arisen anew. Christ, and I'm back from the dead, assholes.
Bring me not your sick and weak. Bring me not your dying, your infirm, your pathetic wretches. Rather, bring me the strong, the hale and hearty, bring me your warriors and ten thousand swords. Bring me bows and machines of war. Bring me thunder and fire, bolts of pure power that will fly from my hands. Bring me night and day, sun and stars, bring me the very essence of Heaven, that we may march against its golden gates. Bring me armies, and I will show you my Kingdom.
War is coming. Be not against me.
Choose your allies wisely,
S.R.
Misanthropic
Originally Posted: 11/9/08
Get your fucking claws away from me. Save your breath for someone else, the shit's too deep, there's no way out. Don't offer me your hand, the touch of you disgusts me. Turn your back, avert your eyes. I am done with you and your kind. I've spilled so many pieces of myself all for your benefit. So take the bit that's left and wrap it up in plastic. Put me far away, where I can't keep destroying me. And leave me there forever. I'm no fucking martyr, I refuse to be a saint, and if I see you here again I'll kill you where you stand. Hold your tongue. I'm not done yet. I guess you've never really lived if you live with no regrets. I'm sick. But you won't understand the context. So just sit back, relax, and soak in your own bullshit.
Picking through the carrion left behind your steps, I found secrets I'd hidden for decades and days. I thought all your sins were lost and mine arose anew, but all of a sudden I knelt and I cursed you. Gathered up the precious little fragments of my mind, and handed them to someone else, someone less divine. Yours are lips like heroin and I need to be clean, to burn off all the filth that somehow still adheres to me. There are lies here written like the truth that they conceal, and even more foul truths that reek of death and disappear. I am not the kind of man that dwells on what's to come. I'm far to busy looking back on what I should have done.
In the blink of an eye the blindness sets in. My eyes wither, decay in my head. But blindness here is not a metaphor for inner sight. I can't see shit on my insides. Just blood and guts and needless gore. Organs that I've hardly cared for. Toxins abound and the brain turns to mud, degenerating quicker now. And finally, I'm left with instinct, rage and lust and hunger. But I'm still left with enough to destroy you. Or myself, if it comes right down to it. These paltry lives aren't so vital, right? Surely God will save us from damnation.
Unreal.
And now I've got better shit to waste my time with.
Spat, shat, begat,
-S.R.
Get your fucking claws away from me. Save your breath for someone else, the shit's too deep, there's no way out. Don't offer me your hand, the touch of you disgusts me. Turn your back, avert your eyes. I am done with you and your kind. I've spilled so many pieces of myself all for your benefit. So take the bit that's left and wrap it up in plastic. Put me far away, where I can't keep destroying me. And leave me there forever. I'm no fucking martyr, I refuse to be a saint, and if I see you here again I'll kill you where you stand. Hold your tongue. I'm not done yet. I guess you've never really lived if you live with no regrets. I'm sick. But you won't understand the context. So just sit back, relax, and soak in your own bullshit.
Picking through the carrion left behind your steps, I found secrets I'd hidden for decades and days. I thought all your sins were lost and mine arose anew, but all of a sudden I knelt and I cursed you. Gathered up the precious little fragments of my mind, and handed them to someone else, someone less divine. Yours are lips like heroin and I need to be clean, to burn off all the filth that somehow still adheres to me. There are lies here written like the truth that they conceal, and even more foul truths that reek of death and disappear. I am not the kind of man that dwells on what's to come. I'm far to busy looking back on what I should have done.
In the blink of an eye the blindness sets in. My eyes wither, decay in my head. But blindness here is not a metaphor for inner sight. I can't see shit on my insides. Just blood and guts and needless gore. Organs that I've hardly cared for. Toxins abound and the brain turns to mud, degenerating quicker now. And finally, I'm left with instinct, rage and lust and hunger. But I'm still left with enough to destroy you. Or myself, if it comes right down to it. These paltry lives aren't so vital, right? Surely God will save us from damnation.
Unreal.
And now I've got better shit to waste my time with.
Spat, shat, begat,
-S.R.
After the Fall
Originally Posted: 11/3/08
I filled you with blood and put light to your eyes. I placed flowers in your hair and steel in your spine. I stood you upright and taught you to walk before you crawl. I turned your world upon my callous fingertips and planted seeds for you to grow. I hung the sun and moon and sat the stars up in the sky. I breathed life to the north wind. I gave you all, but could not make you love me.
You are electrifying, magnetic, unrepentant. I feel pulled in all directions, the sinews separating with an aching groan. The bones, bleached white and lined with cracks, splinter and tear, leaving ragged shards behind, protruding from holes in rent flesh. I am ransacked and at peace. I am drawn to you, falling like bits of Universe spat from Mother's throat toward a grim fate in the earth. I feel pushed away and held at arm's length, something to be studied rather than embraced. Something waiting, lurking, haunting your periphery. I am a dark thing, the source of light. I am a paradox waiting to happen.
Give in to me, and be my all. Take transgression with romance and litter the cosmos with sweet kisses. Take me and turn me out into the Black. The chasm, yawning far into the distance, opens up beneath my feet. Watch me plummet downward, watch me break upon the stones. Or smash your way into my heart and call that hole your home. I am not conflicted, I am not ashamed. I no longer hate myself for the things I cannot change. No more vague emotions, no more suppression and denial. If wrath will come, then wrath will come. There will be water if God wills it. If love will flouder, fail and die, then let it pass. Let it lie. But if that warmth will spread and grow, then rise and breathe and kiss, anew.
Shelter all your sins with me, and I will keep your secrets. My skin is armor all its own, and I intende to keep them. I wax poetic, I digress, but romance is what gods do best. We're petty, fickle creatures. Still, I can feel the pulse of you around me, charging all my cells with heat. Arousing me with words and laughter, dulled too long by too much drink. I have been re-made. I have been molded, scorched, consumed in forges made with worlds. Apocalypses, too, have their optimists. With every death, something new.
Kiss me. Write your name in my tongue and claim this newly risen child for yourself.
A willow wonders where you've gone. The forest asks me questions about you. The stars, in all their wisdom, cannot see your face. Where have you been hiding? This game has grown long and, though I chase you, I've long since lost sight of your laughing eyes, your hair flying out behind you as you run, and the scent of you evades me. I feel more like the hunter now, stalking prey. Perhaps that is for the best.
Beleive in me. Hand in hand, through Eden, let's make our solitary way.
Drunk on starshine,
-S.R.
I filled you with blood and put light to your eyes. I placed flowers in your hair and steel in your spine. I stood you upright and taught you to walk before you crawl. I turned your world upon my callous fingertips and planted seeds for you to grow. I hung the sun and moon and sat the stars up in the sky. I breathed life to the north wind. I gave you all, but could not make you love me.
You are electrifying, magnetic, unrepentant. I feel pulled in all directions, the sinews separating with an aching groan. The bones, bleached white and lined with cracks, splinter and tear, leaving ragged shards behind, protruding from holes in rent flesh. I am ransacked and at peace. I am drawn to you, falling like bits of Universe spat from Mother's throat toward a grim fate in the earth. I feel pushed away and held at arm's length, something to be studied rather than embraced. Something waiting, lurking, haunting your periphery. I am a dark thing, the source of light. I am a paradox waiting to happen.
Give in to me, and be my all. Take transgression with romance and litter the cosmos with sweet kisses. Take me and turn me out into the Black. The chasm, yawning far into the distance, opens up beneath my feet. Watch me plummet downward, watch me break upon the stones. Or smash your way into my heart and call that hole your home. I am not conflicted, I am not ashamed. I no longer hate myself for the things I cannot change. No more vague emotions, no more suppression and denial. If wrath will come, then wrath will come. There will be water if God wills it. If love will flouder, fail and die, then let it pass. Let it lie. But if that warmth will spread and grow, then rise and breathe and kiss, anew.
Shelter all your sins with me, and I will keep your secrets. My skin is armor all its own, and I intende to keep them. I wax poetic, I digress, but romance is what gods do best. We're petty, fickle creatures. Still, I can feel the pulse of you around me, charging all my cells with heat. Arousing me with words and laughter, dulled too long by too much drink. I have been re-made. I have been molded, scorched, consumed in forges made with worlds. Apocalypses, too, have their optimists. With every death, something new.
Kiss me. Write your name in my tongue and claim this newly risen child for yourself.
A willow wonders where you've gone. The forest asks me questions about you. The stars, in all their wisdom, cannot see your face. Where have you been hiding? This game has grown long and, though I chase you, I've long since lost sight of your laughing eyes, your hair flying out behind you as you run, and the scent of you evades me. I feel more like the hunter now, stalking prey. Perhaps that is for the best.
Beleive in me. Hand in hand, through Eden, let's make our solitary way.
Drunk on starshine,
-S.R.
Snow and Leaves
Originally Posted: 10/24/08
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
If I am to thrive, Apollo must kneel before me. The Pantheons of Ages long gone must bow to the might of my sword, to the wisdom in my eyes, and the unbridled power that shudders against the core of me. Rage subsiding, I have been tempered by the forge, been enlightened by the descent, and reborn with the daylight. The soul breathes anew, a deep and hearty breath. A blessing bestowed, I have been placed on my path and sent toward the righteous future. The mountains lay closer now, and beyond them...who knows?
The road begins to meander again, first along a river's muddy banks and then through forests deep and pure. Again through deserts that span infintely, to the tundra where tauntauns roam in knee-high snow. I traverse hills and plains, always walking. I pass through cities unseen until I stood in their midst. The bustle around me never falters, never quiets. The people continue on and I walk through them. A few seem to see me, but none so much as smile. That, I think, I can live with. Because they have not seen true beauty, true power, true love. No fairytales, no films or television. Only I.
For a time, the scenery is indefinable. As if the world herself had been smeared around me, the various climes melding into one until the chaos of it all begins to unfold, the overlapping natures collapsing outward and inward, upon themselves. Then, for a time longer, all is silence. But, as they always do, the birds return and the sky clears. The river is back, rushing now in heady torrents, tearing itself with a lascivious roar through the narrow channel of its banks. A phallic symbol, if ever one existed. Lapping hungrily at the shore, stretching the soft, fertile land that holds it, churning as two bodies pressed together will churn. I can smell the sweat that pools between them, the ravenous lips and questing fingers. I can taste their heat, their passion. I hear, above the roaring water, a soft, urgent cry. I am incensed, but I continue on. There will be passion on this trail if passion awaits me.
I have learned, have grown, and still the distance seems greater. The mountains grow in my vision. Does She await me there? Does anything await me? Has my Salvation eluded me, or do my thoughts simply turn inward to plague the mind with prattling nonsense? Questions serve no purpose here. Not now, not yet. Push them aside. The journey is what matters, whatever lies at the end will have to wait. Still, I can almost smell the dew in her hair.
Laughter in the woods arouses my senses, calls me onward. Time is carrying on, and I had best be with it. There are many miles yet to cover, many trials yet to overcome. There will be no failure. With long, steady strides, the road vanishes more and more behind me and the mountains and the mysteries beyond them, grow ever closer to me. Closer until I feel that splayed fingers, stretching toward the horizon, will surely touch their jagged peaks. But to no avail. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep,
-Nemesis
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
If I am to thrive, Apollo must kneel before me. The Pantheons of Ages long gone must bow to the might of my sword, to the wisdom in my eyes, and the unbridled power that shudders against the core of me. Rage subsiding, I have been tempered by the forge, been enlightened by the descent, and reborn with the daylight. The soul breathes anew, a deep and hearty breath. A blessing bestowed, I have been placed on my path and sent toward the righteous future. The mountains lay closer now, and beyond them...who knows?
The road begins to meander again, first along a river's muddy banks and then through forests deep and pure. Again through deserts that span infintely, to the tundra where tauntauns roam in knee-high snow. I traverse hills and plains, always walking. I pass through cities unseen until I stood in their midst. The bustle around me never falters, never quiets. The people continue on and I walk through them. A few seem to see me, but none so much as smile. That, I think, I can live with. Because they have not seen true beauty, true power, true love. No fairytales, no films or television. Only I.
For a time, the scenery is indefinable. As if the world herself had been smeared around me, the various climes melding into one until the chaos of it all begins to unfold, the overlapping natures collapsing outward and inward, upon themselves. Then, for a time longer, all is silence. But, as they always do, the birds return and the sky clears. The river is back, rushing now in heady torrents, tearing itself with a lascivious roar through the narrow channel of its banks. A phallic symbol, if ever one existed. Lapping hungrily at the shore, stretching the soft, fertile land that holds it, churning as two bodies pressed together will churn. I can smell the sweat that pools between them, the ravenous lips and questing fingers. I can taste their heat, their passion. I hear, above the roaring water, a soft, urgent cry. I am incensed, but I continue on. There will be passion on this trail if passion awaits me.
I have learned, have grown, and still the distance seems greater. The mountains grow in my vision. Does She await me there? Does anything await me? Has my Salvation eluded me, or do my thoughts simply turn inward to plague the mind with prattling nonsense? Questions serve no purpose here. Not now, not yet. Push them aside. The journey is what matters, whatever lies at the end will have to wait. Still, I can almost smell the dew in her hair.
Laughter in the woods arouses my senses, calls me onward. Time is carrying on, and I had best be with it. There are many miles yet to cover, many trials yet to overcome. There will be no failure. With long, steady strides, the road vanishes more and more behind me and the mountains and the mysteries beyond them, grow ever closer to me. Closer until I feel that splayed fingers, stretching toward the horizon, will surely touch their jagged peaks. But to no avail. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep,
-Nemesis
Out to the Center
Originally Posted: 10/22/08
Everything ruptures in the blink of an eye, spills blood and fluid into the body. Poisons, bile, marrow streaming from pores in the skin, leaking onto the floor as it eats through the final seconds of your life. The flesh decays in instants, consumed by Time and by fire. The eyes change colors, the weight is lifted. I stand, re-made, in the image of the gods. Naked, cold, and wary eyed I stumble, taking the first uncertain steps of a child. Muscles flex and contract, expand, pulsating with newfound, raw power. Predator's eyes sweep this way and that, searching for enemies or food. Taking sure that nothing has come to destroy me while I am weak.
The steps become surer, stronger. The muscles begin to relax, to coil as those of a serpent ready to strike. The path is the same, but the traveler has changed.
I don new clothes to shelter my body from the elements. Silks and satins. Soft, traveling clothes and leather moccasins. A silver circlet crowns my head, and an elegant cape flutters behind me. A sword, lighter than the rusted, blood-stained behemoth I once carried, lays by the roadside. Simple, light-weight, powerful. I claim it and continue on. I have left the old shell, its ashes and scraps of flesh, far behind me. Now the time has come to peel back layers of self-loathing and discard them. Emotional weight that impedes my travel must be cast off, tossed away and forgotten.
There will be no failure, because I will not fail. A layer is torn off. I am strong, I will succeed. Once again. I cannot love another, nor give myself completely, not yet. I cannot swear that bond to your heart, until I've sworn it to mine. Soon I'll be ready. And another layer peels away. I will not bow beneath the burden of suppressed emotion. I will not be controlled by dark things. The light peers through, illuminating parts of me long left to the shadow. I will not be brought to kneel beneath the words and blows of someone else. I am better, stronger, more powerful. To tempt me to violence is to perish. To challenge me is to suffer. I will not fail, because I am not a failure.
The layers are many, and woven together. Often, peeling them requires cutting, tearing. Bloody work, but then all work is bloody somewhere. I tread on, throwing off things that have no use for me. Things that have no use to me. I clean the wounds, but do not bandage them. Better that they heal beneath the sun as it shines through. Better to reach my soul with gashes bleeding, cuts and bruises shown than hidden beneath layers of clean, white fabric. Appear as I am, rather than continue to hide. The world opens before me, in all its beauty, and I catch a glimpse of her again, teal skirts dancing beneath her laughing eyes. She is, perhaps, not far off yet. She looks different, and I am moved to smile. She stops her dance a moment, curtsies. I respond with a bow, and she is gone again. A giggle reaches me, and I am drawn inexorably onward. Toward the union of these paths, but first toward myself. The center of me.
Ahead, there lies an end. A vast expanse of empty blackness where the path vanishes. I walk on, to the edge of a precipice. From a distance, this place a appeared empty but it is not. Stars line the seemingly endless void. Planets, moons, lives flicker here and there, scattered across this place. Far below there is a light. An incredible, swirling malestrom of light and stardust, roiling outward and back to the center. A thing so massive that it holds all the rest in place, so powerful that it creates order among the chaos. A tear spills down my cheek, peels itself off my face and hurtles downward, toward the spiralling light. There are dark things there, things that must be dealt with. Drawing sword, I step off the ledge, fling myself toward the center of it all.
The creatures assail me. Hideous things with leathery wings and claws like rusted daggers. Serrated teeth that sink into the flesh, tearing great chunks away for their meals. But each that strikes a wound on me dies. My steel becomes a blur, a pure extension of the predator wielding it. The broken pieces of their carcasses evanesce, returned to the diminishing darkness that created them. Their flesh, like dried leather, drips with primodrial pus, and their slavering jaws open to devour, salivating at the thought of my body as their feast. But none survive. Hurtling through space, always closer to the light, I have slashed and stabbed them, hacked and sliced through limbs, through flesh and sinew and bone, and left nothing but the vague dust of corpses in my wake. To tempt me to violence is to perish, to challenge me is to suffer. I will not fail, because I am not a failure. I am the God of Redemption.
Embrace me. The heat, the light, they grow within me and in my sight. I fall, arms outstretched, toward the impossible power beneath me. The first golden waves of it wash over me, like plunging into a warm sea. I breathe air that is clear, fresh, unpolluted. I am surrounded by warmth, serenity, and embraced by the center. For a time that I cannot describe, I float there among the golden rays, among the creatures I have created and those that create me. Each is touched in turn, and grants a blessing before departing toward whatever end. Perhaps this is peace, or ecstasy. Perhaps a taste of both, or neither. And soon the power infuses me, imbues me with that which I thought lost, and I find myself back on the path.
Behind me lies the endless space, the void, but there is no darkness there, and thus I move on. I am in the same direction, and the opposite. I have reached the center, now I pass beyond it, toward something greater. Sheathe the sword, take another step. Into the sunlight at last.
There will be no failure, never again.
Beyond the bleakness,
-Nemesis
Everything ruptures in the blink of an eye, spills blood and fluid into the body. Poisons, bile, marrow streaming from pores in the skin, leaking onto the floor as it eats through the final seconds of your life. The flesh decays in instants, consumed by Time and by fire. The eyes change colors, the weight is lifted. I stand, re-made, in the image of the gods. Naked, cold, and wary eyed I stumble, taking the first uncertain steps of a child. Muscles flex and contract, expand, pulsating with newfound, raw power. Predator's eyes sweep this way and that, searching for enemies or food. Taking sure that nothing has come to destroy me while I am weak.
The steps become surer, stronger. The muscles begin to relax, to coil as those of a serpent ready to strike. The path is the same, but the traveler has changed.
I don new clothes to shelter my body from the elements. Silks and satins. Soft, traveling clothes and leather moccasins. A silver circlet crowns my head, and an elegant cape flutters behind me. A sword, lighter than the rusted, blood-stained behemoth I once carried, lays by the roadside. Simple, light-weight, powerful. I claim it and continue on. I have left the old shell, its ashes and scraps of flesh, far behind me. Now the time has come to peel back layers of self-loathing and discard them. Emotional weight that impedes my travel must be cast off, tossed away and forgotten.
There will be no failure, because I will not fail. A layer is torn off. I am strong, I will succeed. Once again. I cannot love another, nor give myself completely, not yet. I cannot swear that bond to your heart, until I've sworn it to mine. Soon I'll be ready. And another layer peels away. I will not bow beneath the burden of suppressed emotion. I will not be controlled by dark things. The light peers through, illuminating parts of me long left to the shadow. I will not be brought to kneel beneath the words and blows of someone else. I am better, stronger, more powerful. To tempt me to violence is to perish. To challenge me is to suffer. I will not fail, because I am not a failure.
The layers are many, and woven together. Often, peeling them requires cutting, tearing. Bloody work, but then all work is bloody somewhere. I tread on, throwing off things that have no use for me. Things that have no use to me. I clean the wounds, but do not bandage them. Better that they heal beneath the sun as it shines through. Better to reach my soul with gashes bleeding, cuts and bruises shown than hidden beneath layers of clean, white fabric. Appear as I am, rather than continue to hide. The world opens before me, in all its beauty, and I catch a glimpse of her again, teal skirts dancing beneath her laughing eyes. She is, perhaps, not far off yet. She looks different, and I am moved to smile. She stops her dance a moment, curtsies. I respond with a bow, and she is gone again. A giggle reaches me, and I am drawn inexorably onward. Toward the union of these paths, but first toward myself. The center of me.
Ahead, there lies an end. A vast expanse of empty blackness where the path vanishes. I walk on, to the edge of a precipice. From a distance, this place a appeared empty but it is not. Stars line the seemingly endless void. Planets, moons, lives flicker here and there, scattered across this place. Far below there is a light. An incredible, swirling malestrom of light and stardust, roiling outward and back to the center. A thing so massive that it holds all the rest in place, so powerful that it creates order among the chaos. A tear spills down my cheek, peels itself off my face and hurtles downward, toward the spiralling light. There are dark things there, things that must be dealt with. Drawing sword, I step off the ledge, fling myself toward the center of it all.
The creatures assail me. Hideous things with leathery wings and claws like rusted daggers. Serrated teeth that sink into the flesh, tearing great chunks away for their meals. But each that strikes a wound on me dies. My steel becomes a blur, a pure extension of the predator wielding it. The broken pieces of their carcasses evanesce, returned to the diminishing darkness that created them. Their flesh, like dried leather, drips with primodrial pus, and their slavering jaws open to devour, salivating at the thought of my body as their feast. But none survive. Hurtling through space, always closer to the light, I have slashed and stabbed them, hacked and sliced through limbs, through flesh and sinew and bone, and left nothing but the vague dust of corpses in my wake. To tempt me to violence is to perish, to challenge me is to suffer. I will not fail, because I am not a failure. I am the God of Redemption.
Embrace me. The heat, the light, they grow within me and in my sight. I fall, arms outstretched, toward the impossible power beneath me. The first golden waves of it wash over me, like plunging into a warm sea. I breathe air that is clear, fresh, unpolluted. I am surrounded by warmth, serenity, and embraced by the center. For a time that I cannot describe, I float there among the golden rays, among the creatures I have created and those that create me. Each is touched in turn, and grants a blessing before departing toward whatever end. Perhaps this is peace, or ecstasy. Perhaps a taste of both, or neither. And soon the power infuses me, imbues me with that which I thought lost, and I find myself back on the path.
Behind me lies the endless space, the void, but there is no darkness there, and thus I move on. I am in the same direction, and the opposite. I have reached the center, now I pass beyond it, toward something greater. Sheathe the sword, take another step. Into the sunlight at last.
There will be no failure, never again.
Beyond the bleakness,
-Nemesis
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