Of all my myriad fears, real and imagined, the worst has always been losing you. And yet, I stand upon the edge of a precipice and I tremble at the chasm that splits the earth between us. For all my vaunted words, I have nothing to say. Nothing right, at any rate. Nothing to bridge that canyon and bring you back to me. Perhaps, finally, I have nothing left to offer you. It's been said that I could talk anyone into love with me, but maybe that, like all the warmest things, is only temporary. Perhaps I'm more magician than anything, casting my illusions until I've no energy left to maintain them and they fall away like dissipated smoke and shattered mirrors.
I feel something, some way, but I can't say with any certainty what it might be. I'm jealous, to be certain. Jealous of myself, or my past self. He, at least, felt less like the jagged egde of something meant only for slicing, shedding blood, destroying. He knew what it felt like to build something with these hands.
My hands are harder now. Once, I touched everyone as a lover. Now, the only sincerity I feel in touching another is the sincere desire to crush between my fingers what might, one day, be powerful enough to wound me. The only pleasure I feel in a touch is the knowing that, before long, it will be over.
Revulsion rises in my throat. Hot, acidic, burning away the lining until bile and bits of flesh spell into my mouth, catch in my teeth, and become trapped there. Never expelled, just filled to the cusp. Nausea blossoms like horrid orchids in my esophagus, chokes my larynx, fills my lungs, and nothing ever comes out.
I fill my guts with poison and I'm thankful the gods allow me at least that reprieve. I've never sought substance as a crutch, but I'd rather have the crutch than face anything more on my own two feet. My legs, I find, are tired of standing.
Perhaps I'll drown. That, I think, would be a suitably archaic way to go. I've always figured the day I found the best way to die would be the day I actually died. The only question, then, was which came first, the finding or the dying? I nearly drowned once, as a child, and since then I have reserved both a fascination and a terror of it. Odd, now, that the things I hold most dear have been swept out of my hands and I am left treading in something deeper, more sinister, than any water man has ever laid eyes on.
I feel like shards of porcelain just held together by a thin layer of flesh. No muscle or sinew. The bones, porcelain, and the organs too. All of it crushed to sharp little needles and held in place more by habit and force of will than anything else. My bowels are lined with bits of glass. I, myself, am a mass of convulsions, smatterings of agony here and there, shifting with each step.
I've tried to find comfort in rage. That has always been a sanctuary from this. No matter what other feeling wound its way into me, rage was always my solace. The one thing capable of burning away everything else and leaving me...blank, if not precisely cleansed. But there is none to be had. No comfort and no rage left in me. That old well has finally, perhaps permenantly, run dry.
All the loves and lovers I have left behind will say, have said, that they were the ones that broke me, but I wonder if I ever let them close enough to put that kind of knife in me. Some days, I wish I knew myself half as well as I think I do. There are parts of a man that, once broken, can never be as they were. Old flames and romances will claim to be the Great Destroyer, but I think they flatter themselves. Anything with that kind of potential would have to be cast aside before it grew. Doing otherwise would be suicide,right?
And yet, here we are. Opposite sides of this chasm. I'm curious how it makes you feel, whether you even notice that the passage of time has ripped me so far away from you. Or do the phantoms of me that I've left behind suffice? Am I better in memory or in reality?
Am I even dear enough to command that sort of rememberance?
There is something to be said about one-sided affections. Unfortunately, I'm not interested in thinking about it, much less saying it.
What if I just jumped? If this is all a metaphor, then I should be able to leap this fucking chasm and land beside you, where I belong. What's the worst that could happen?
Fear is for the weak.
Alone,
-S.R.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
The Price of Freedom
We Americans take our patriotism, like most everything else we do, entirely too seriously. Now, I'm not going to bash America or even the people who live here. Thor knows, I'm one of those people and self-deprecation, while fun, isn't really useful in proving a point. Let it be known that I think this country is a fine place to live and raise a family, for the most part. And Americans are a great group of people, for the most part.
Except the ones who self-identify as patriots.
Here's the thing about it: You walk a very fine line between patriotism and bigotry. Find someone out there that calls himself a patriot (most of them are men or middle-aged, married women with husbands that call themselves patriots) and I'll bet you dollars to ball-bags he also hates other countries. Not in the flaming, racist, burn-a-cross sort of way. He just doesn't like them because he's seen some shit on Fox News or the Blue Collar Comedy tour that has inspired him to believe that America is the best and there is no close second. Rather, the rest of the world are half-wits playing in their own excrement that would literally set themselves on fire if Papa America didn't show up every now and again to save the day.
I see no problem with being proud of where you're from. Unless that pride makes you look down on where other people are from. Then, I see that you're an asshole.
This mostly stems from the idea that people insist on telling me our troops overseas are fighting for our freedoms. Look, that just isn't true. But, before you lynch me, let me explain my point.
Those men and women over there are doing something arguably more honorable than fighting for your freedom. They're fighting so other people, people with a different heritage, different customs and traditions and languages, can share your freedoms. To fight for our freedoms, they'd have to be fighting someone that is directly seeking to oppress us. Let's face it, that's not the case. Terrorists don't want to oppress us, they want to kill us because we threaten something they hold dear: batshit insanity. I wouldn't dream of justifying what that type of person does. But by telling me our soldiers are dying for me, personally, you're actually trivializing their secrifices.
See, those people, or rather the people that ordered them over there (we'll touch on this later) are doing something much bigger than making you able to protest at their funerals or call the president and threaten his life because he smokes a different brand of cigarettes. They're protecting perfect strangers that would otherwise be completely helpless. They're actually doing what you keep telling me America does for the world. Sure, it isn't the entire world we're helping. But, to be honest, a lot of the world is just fine. A little different, sure, but just fine all the same.
So, seriously, eat a dick.
My other problem is with the inherent patriotism of soldiering. I like soldiers. I like war. I think that's a great career path to pursue. Probably not for me, because I like to smoke and drink and I'm pretty lazy, but for some people I have no doubt it rocks. But that's just it, it's a job. I'd be willing to bet that far less than half of our armed forces members joined up because of their high ideals of defending freedom, duty, and country. More of them joined up because its a well-paying job that offers job-security in a shitty economy, unrivaled health benefits (unless you get blown up) and a whole slew of other, admittedly awesome, perks. Sure, there are downsides. Any job has those. My whole point here is that it is, in fact, a job.
Of course, after a time they may come to believe in those patriotic things. By then they're usually douchebags, too. Weird how those changes come at the same time.
Which makes another valid point. By telling me that every soldier joined up because his DNA is striped red, white, and blue you're actually minimalizing what the military has to offer. It isn't all gung-ho America. Some of it is, you know, actual work. Like, difficult work. Like, all the shit that goes into soldiering. The logistics, the supplies, the transports, and so on. No one decides they're going to spend three months in AIT learning to coordinate the movements of large shipments of pre-packed meals because they love America. They're doing it because it's a good skill to have in the work place and they're guaranteed a fucking job.
Overall, what I'm saying is, you self-identified patriots are really only good at two things: oversimplification and providing examples of why our school system is rapidly falling behind countries that are still hurling rocks at each other.
Read a book, nigga.
Love and kisses,
-S.R.
Except the ones who self-identify as patriots.
Here's the thing about it: You walk a very fine line between patriotism and bigotry. Find someone out there that calls himself a patriot (most of them are men or middle-aged, married women with husbands that call themselves patriots) and I'll bet you dollars to ball-bags he also hates other countries. Not in the flaming, racist, burn-a-cross sort of way. He just doesn't like them because he's seen some shit on Fox News or the Blue Collar Comedy tour that has inspired him to believe that America is the best and there is no close second. Rather, the rest of the world are half-wits playing in their own excrement that would literally set themselves on fire if Papa America didn't show up every now and again to save the day.
I see no problem with being proud of where you're from. Unless that pride makes you look down on where other people are from. Then, I see that you're an asshole.
This mostly stems from the idea that people insist on telling me our troops overseas are fighting for our freedoms. Look, that just isn't true. But, before you lynch me, let me explain my point.
Those men and women over there are doing something arguably more honorable than fighting for your freedom. They're fighting so other people, people with a different heritage, different customs and traditions and languages, can share your freedoms. To fight for our freedoms, they'd have to be fighting someone that is directly seeking to oppress us. Let's face it, that's not the case. Terrorists don't want to oppress us, they want to kill us because we threaten something they hold dear: batshit insanity. I wouldn't dream of justifying what that type of person does. But by telling me our soldiers are dying for me, personally, you're actually trivializing their secrifices.
See, those people, or rather the people that ordered them over there (we'll touch on this later) are doing something much bigger than making you able to protest at their funerals or call the president and threaten his life because he smokes a different brand of cigarettes. They're protecting perfect strangers that would otherwise be completely helpless. They're actually doing what you keep telling me America does for the world. Sure, it isn't the entire world we're helping. But, to be honest, a lot of the world is just fine. A little different, sure, but just fine all the same.
So, seriously, eat a dick.
My other problem is with the inherent patriotism of soldiering. I like soldiers. I like war. I think that's a great career path to pursue. Probably not for me, because I like to smoke and drink and I'm pretty lazy, but for some people I have no doubt it rocks. But that's just it, it's a job. I'd be willing to bet that far less than half of our armed forces members joined up because of their high ideals of defending freedom, duty, and country. More of them joined up because its a well-paying job that offers job-security in a shitty economy, unrivaled health benefits (unless you get blown up) and a whole slew of other, admittedly awesome, perks. Sure, there are downsides. Any job has those. My whole point here is that it is, in fact, a job.
Of course, after a time they may come to believe in those patriotic things. By then they're usually douchebags, too. Weird how those changes come at the same time.
Which makes another valid point. By telling me that every soldier joined up because his DNA is striped red, white, and blue you're actually minimalizing what the military has to offer. It isn't all gung-ho America. Some of it is, you know, actual work. Like, difficult work. Like, all the shit that goes into soldiering. The logistics, the supplies, the transports, and so on. No one decides they're going to spend three months in AIT learning to coordinate the movements of large shipments of pre-packed meals because they love America. They're doing it because it's a good skill to have in the work place and they're guaranteed a fucking job.
Overall, what I'm saying is, you self-identified patriots are really only good at two things: oversimplification and providing examples of why our school system is rapidly falling behind countries that are still hurling rocks at each other.
Read a book, nigga.
Love and kisses,
-S.R.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Nymphetamine, or, Scorched Earth Erotica
He sees her, and can't decide if he's awake, or dreaming, or lost somewhere in between. Trapped in some celestial void where he neither sleeps nor wakes. She seems wrapped in sunlight, gilded, as if the sun himself yearned to touch her skin and could not bring himself to let go. He fears that just brushing his fingertips along her jaw might blister his skin, set him ablaze. And yet he, like the sun, cannot resist her.
He needs her, but not like he needs air, water, food. This is something more primal, more instinctual than even these baser functions. He needs her in ways he can no longer fathom, so far has he fallen from the gods. She appears to him, sings to him sometimes, and he wonders where she goes when she dances out of his grasp and vanishes.
He wants her, a powerful craving unlike anything he has ever known. He imagines until he can see, feel, and taste every bare, glistening inch of her body. Flushed with desire, chest expanding and contracting as she draws in deep, impassioned breaths, spills his name from her throat or her mouth or her fingers. He can't say where, just that his name emerged from her and he became something infinitely more powerful with its utterance.
He can see the way she laughs, sitting beside him in the car, bare feet propped up on the dashboard, August sunlight trapped in her smile, her golden hair, the lilting of her voice as she responds to something he has already forgotten he said. He is lost in it, dazed, out of breath. He isn't sure this ever happened. Perhaps he only dreamed it, imagined it, created it.
He can hear the way she cries, though the reason escapes him, and he feels a powerful desire to tear the moon from the sky and hurl it into the earth if it means she will never know another second's sorrow. Poetic, perhaps. Adolescent and foolish, but being in love does strange things to the minds of men.
He can feel her hearbeat, thrumming just inches from the tips of his fingers. They tremble where the cup her breast. Whether in passion or in some gesture of protection as she drifts off to sleep in the wake of passion, he can't decide. Both draw him and he can't draw a conclusion.
He can taste strawberries on her lips. He thinks. Its sweet, reminds him of late summer. The days growing shorter, but the sunlight still falling gloriously. Winter is approaching, and the sun always seems more bellicose than benevolent when the cold settles in. For now, he wants nothing more than to kiss her again, and then spend every moment kissing her until he is but a dessicated husk on the rotting back of the world.
She is sense and sensation. The perfect compliment to all the things he wants to be, knows he can be. She's a molten gold Aphrodite. She's stolen Zeus' thunder. Apollo's chariot. She makes lesser gods bow like unruly children come to the switch. he is torn between standing at her side, and kneeling, subjective. For all the strength of will he possesses, she possesses him.
He covets her, despite the sin. Or, perhaps, to spite the sin. He would paint himself her Messiah, and then burn away the canvas lest she see what he desired. We all have silly thoughts, he thinks. Then he paints her smile with starlight.
He calls himself a writer. A man who makes his living with words. A man who lives for words and muses. Poems and songs and stories crafted with more love than children. Without heed of the world rushing by. He creates his own. Yet he finds himself speechless at the sight of her emerging from a stream, clothed only in the air between them. He finds himself unable to speak a single syllable when she brings her lips to his.
He finds himself unable even to breathe when the sun burns him to ashes in her palm and she revives him only to scorch him again with a kiss. And yet he, like the sun, cannot resist her.
Lovingly,
-S.R.
He needs her, but not like he needs air, water, food. This is something more primal, more instinctual than even these baser functions. He needs her in ways he can no longer fathom, so far has he fallen from the gods. She appears to him, sings to him sometimes, and he wonders where she goes when she dances out of his grasp and vanishes.
He wants her, a powerful craving unlike anything he has ever known. He imagines until he can see, feel, and taste every bare, glistening inch of her body. Flushed with desire, chest expanding and contracting as she draws in deep, impassioned breaths, spills his name from her throat or her mouth or her fingers. He can't say where, just that his name emerged from her and he became something infinitely more powerful with its utterance.
He can see the way she laughs, sitting beside him in the car, bare feet propped up on the dashboard, August sunlight trapped in her smile, her golden hair, the lilting of her voice as she responds to something he has already forgotten he said. He is lost in it, dazed, out of breath. He isn't sure this ever happened. Perhaps he only dreamed it, imagined it, created it.
He can hear the way she cries, though the reason escapes him, and he feels a powerful desire to tear the moon from the sky and hurl it into the earth if it means she will never know another second's sorrow. Poetic, perhaps. Adolescent and foolish, but being in love does strange things to the minds of men.
He can feel her hearbeat, thrumming just inches from the tips of his fingers. They tremble where the cup her breast. Whether in passion or in some gesture of protection as she drifts off to sleep in the wake of passion, he can't decide. Both draw him and he can't draw a conclusion.
He can taste strawberries on her lips. He thinks. Its sweet, reminds him of late summer. The days growing shorter, but the sunlight still falling gloriously. Winter is approaching, and the sun always seems more bellicose than benevolent when the cold settles in. For now, he wants nothing more than to kiss her again, and then spend every moment kissing her until he is but a dessicated husk on the rotting back of the world.
She is sense and sensation. The perfect compliment to all the things he wants to be, knows he can be. She's a molten gold Aphrodite. She's stolen Zeus' thunder. Apollo's chariot. She makes lesser gods bow like unruly children come to the switch. he is torn between standing at her side, and kneeling, subjective. For all the strength of will he possesses, she possesses him.
He covets her, despite the sin. Or, perhaps, to spite the sin. He would paint himself her Messiah, and then burn away the canvas lest she see what he desired. We all have silly thoughts, he thinks. Then he paints her smile with starlight.
He calls himself a writer. A man who makes his living with words. A man who lives for words and muses. Poems and songs and stories crafted with more love than children. Without heed of the world rushing by. He creates his own. Yet he finds himself speechless at the sight of her emerging from a stream, clothed only in the air between them. He finds himself unable to speak a single syllable when she brings her lips to his.
He finds himself unable even to breathe when the sun burns him to ashes in her palm and she revives him only to scorch him again with a kiss. And yet he, like the sun, cannot resist her.
Lovingly,
-S.R.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
A More Wretched Hive of Scum and Villainy
I wanted something to seethe and rage and write scathing, angsty commentary about. So, naturally, I went to Facebook first. I do this because I haven't been feeling exactly cryptic or metaphoric lately (although, neither of those things are actual emotions and, in retrospect, that sentence probably didn't make a fuck-wit of sense), and because I'm quite in need of an outlet for blowing off steam. Unfortunately, Facebook proved inadequate.
So, I'm going to talk about things that I want to hate-fuck instead.
Do you know what pisses me off? Of course you do. You didn't just stumble on here accidentally. You came with intent and that means you know me. And if you know me, you know what gets my blood boiling until I'm on the floor, stroking out, shrieking nonsense until I'm rushed to the hospital and loaded up on morphine and laxatives.
So here's something else that pisses me off, because I want that portfolio to be the most full when the CIA comes knocking on your door, asking what you know about me (you're on a watchlist just for coming here, so stick around).
I fucking hate it when people demonize something unnecessarily.
Two prime examples come to mind. Both of them stemming from a conversation I had with a good friend who, I hope, will read this and not assume I'm taking shots at her. That debate was more light-hearted than anything, but the more I've circled over it in my head, the more I feel inclined to offer a real, ridiculous, violent commentary on the subject.
The first is economics. Now, don't get me wrong I'm not claiming to be any sort of expert on the subject. I'm just polluting the internet with more pointless drivel. That said, who the hell decided socialism was going to be the new boogeyman? Seems like everyone who disagrees with the Republicans these days is a fucking socialist. It's like the Red Scare all over again, without the bat-shit insane trials (yet). The Republicans, of all people, should embrace the hell out of socialism. I mean, aren't they the ones who always condemn big government (while simultaneously creating an enormous number of overlapping government agencies for, evidently, no fucking reason)? A socialist system is favored by anarchists because it promotes less government, at least in its purest form. Sure, facist regimes have used it and abused it to their own ends, the same way Stalin abused Marxist Communism to create a dictatorship.
The point of socialism is that the guy who makes the products makes the most return on it. So, if you own a company like most rich, white men do, you'd see the money from the sale of your products as opposed to giving huge portions of your income away to the government. What a novel idea. I'm not saying it's a good system. It has its flaws. It's more than likely some asshole (read: everyone) would abuse it for their own gain. I'm just saying that giving people free health care isn't one-step out from Nazidom.
Now, however, I'm getting pretty fucking tired of people complaining every time a fucking holiday rolls around about how the "meaning" of the day is being ruined by all the marketing. Look, I know you stopped paying attention to everything at the age of ten and now, surrounded by grown-ups you're desperately trying to sound intellectual, but you actually sound like an asshole.
Do any of these people actually know the alleged meaning of their holidays? Or are they just talking this contrived bullshit because it makes them feel good to have a retarded opinion on something that, frankly, doesn't fucking matter?
I'm not going to go into the religious bullshit, that isn't what we're attacking right now. Suffice to say, read a Cracked article. I'm sure they have one about how you're a fucking idiot for believing the bullshit ways you celebrate holidays have anything to do with what the day is intended to represent. My point here, is that capitalism demands marketing. And if people are willing to shell out money because they marketed a heart-shaped enema and it's Valentine's Day, it is capitalism's fucking job to market that shit.
Look, a capitalist system is competitive, it drives progress. Yes, there is greed inherent in any system that allows one person to own more than another, but the desire to accumulate things is entirely human and entirely justified based on the way we interact socially. So what's the fucking problem? is it God? Does God hate marketing? I don't understand why, if we're so damned eager for new products, for new technologies, we can't let the economy have a piece of our holidays too.
Besides, ever have a girlfriend and forget to buy her something for Valentine's Day?
Which brings me to my second example: genders.
If everything you hear about the opposite sex is true then 1.) All women are crazy and 2.) All men are lying sacks of shit.
Fuck you. Fuck you so hard.
I love sexist jokes. I think they're hilarious. But when it comes right down to it, they're hilarious for the exact opposite reason racist jokes are funny: None of it is true. It's all bullshit. Women aren't crazy. Some of them are unstable. They're clingy, sure. Jealous, whatever. But an equal or greater number of them are regular people. Just going about their lives. They don't fly into a shit-flinging rampage every time you mention another girl's name. The ones that do, while terrifying, aren't as common as you might think.
Likewise, not every guy out there is a raging jackass. They don't all lie and cheat and use the same lines over and over again to get a little action. Trust me, girls, you aren't that fucking hard to get into bed. Stop flattering yourselves. Do you know what kind of men feel the need to do those things? Shallow ones. Guys that don't want for anything, don't have trouble getting along with people based on surface attractions, don't actually have anything to offer you. You know, the kind you actually want to fuck. The nerdy guys? The shit-ugly guys? They wouldn't cheat on you. They wouldn't need to. But you don't know that, because you're a shallow bitch, too.
Now how does that feel, ladies? Being called out like that. You're sitting there insisting it couldn't be you, right? Has to be that men are just predators. Just taking advantage of your vulnerabilities. That's a crock. You're just playing both sides. You don't get to be the independent, liberated, fuck-off woman you claim to be and then turn around and tell me a man tricked you and lied to you.
Because it's not true. No one can convince you to go out with them, or go to bed with them, if you don't already want to somewhere. Unless he literally raped you, that shit was your decision. If you didn't manage to do your homework before you agreed to it, how is that my fault as a man? And likewise, just because a few assholes played tricks on you why am I at fault for it? Because we have the same genitals (and his are smaller, obviously)?
That's like me deciding that since one girl lied and told me she was pregnant so I wouldn't leave her, every woman that has ever told a man she's pregnant was lying. Do you see how fucking ridiculous you are?
Now, men aren't any different. You try to play the stud card until a girl find out what kind of person you are and drops your ass like a newborn in a dumpster. Then you cry heartbreak. You're so pitiful, I wouldn't dick-punch you with Chris Brown's fist. You don't get it both ways either. You can be the swaggering douchebag or the emotional, deep-feelings sort but you can't be both. Because they're opposites and its ridiculous.
Likewise, if you go after a girl because she's just so hot you can't believe it, and all your friends agree, and every man you encounter agrees, and she turns out to be not only batshit insane, but incredibly high-maintenance? You're a fucking idiot. Of course she is, because no one becomes that full of themselves without having a whole gaggle of morons kissing her ass. The first time you don't, she'll tear your god damned lungs out. Maybe you, too, should have thought about it before you put your dick somewhere with teeth.
My point is this: These gender stereotypes are utter bullshit. They account for maybe half of the population. If we'd stop being so shallow, maybe pay a little attention, we'd have a lot less of this kind of nonsense to bitch about. But we won't, because we're shallow creatures. So, girls, please keep going after the kind of men that will treat you like shit. Because you deserve it. And guys, keep chasing after that fiery brunette in the jeggings until she's got your balls in a vice and your friends on speed-dial. You deserve every second.
You dumbass.
Yours,
-S.R.
So, I'm going to talk about things that I want to hate-fuck instead.
Do you know what pisses me off? Of course you do. You didn't just stumble on here accidentally. You came with intent and that means you know me. And if you know me, you know what gets my blood boiling until I'm on the floor, stroking out, shrieking nonsense until I'm rushed to the hospital and loaded up on morphine and laxatives.
So here's something else that pisses me off, because I want that portfolio to be the most full when the CIA comes knocking on your door, asking what you know about me (you're on a watchlist just for coming here, so stick around).
I fucking hate it when people demonize something unnecessarily.
Two prime examples come to mind. Both of them stemming from a conversation I had with a good friend who, I hope, will read this and not assume I'm taking shots at her. That debate was more light-hearted than anything, but the more I've circled over it in my head, the more I feel inclined to offer a real, ridiculous, violent commentary on the subject.
The first is economics. Now, don't get me wrong I'm not claiming to be any sort of expert on the subject. I'm just polluting the internet with more pointless drivel. That said, who the hell decided socialism was going to be the new boogeyman? Seems like everyone who disagrees with the Republicans these days is a fucking socialist. It's like the Red Scare all over again, without the bat-shit insane trials (yet). The Republicans, of all people, should embrace the hell out of socialism. I mean, aren't they the ones who always condemn big government (while simultaneously creating an enormous number of overlapping government agencies for, evidently, no fucking reason)? A socialist system is favored by anarchists because it promotes less government, at least in its purest form. Sure, facist regimes have used it and abused it to their own ends, the same way Stalin abused Marxist Communism to create a dictatorship.
The point of socialism is that the guy who makes the products makes the most return on it. So, if you own a company like most rich, white men do, you'd see the money from the sale of your products as opposed to giving huge portions of your income away to the government. What a novel idea. I'm not saying it's a good system. It has its flaws. It's more than likely some asshole (read: everyone) would abuse it for their own gain. I'm just saying that giving people free health care isn't one-step out from Nazidom.
Now, however, I'm getting pretty fucking tired of people complaining every time a fucking holiday rolls around about how the "meaning" of the day is being ruined by all the marketing. Look, I know you stopped paying attention to everything at the age of ten and now, surrounded by grown-ups you're desperately trying to sound intellectual, but you actually sound like an asshole.
Do any of these people actually know the alleged meaning of their holidays? Or are they just talking this contrived bullshit because it makes them feel good to have a retarded opinion on something that, frankly, doesn't fucking matter?
I'm not going to go into the religious bullshit, that isn't what we're attacking right now. Suffice to say, read a Cracked article. I'm sure they have one about how you're a fucking idiot for believing the bullshit ways you celebrate holidays have anything to do with what the day is intended to represent. My point here, is that capitalism demands marketing. And if people are willing to shell out money because they marketed a heart-shaped enema and it's Valentine's Day, it is capitalism's fucking job to market that shit.
Look, a capitalist system is competitive, it drives progress. Yes, there is greed inherent in any system that allows one person to own more than another, but the desire to accumulate things is entirely human and entirely justified based on the way we interact socially. So what's the fucking problem? is it God? Does God hate marketing? I don't understand why, if we're so damned eager for new products, for new technologies, we can't let the economy have a piece of our holidays too.
Besides, ever have a girlfriend and forget to buy her something for Valentine's Day?
Which brings me to my second example: genders.
If everything you hear about the opposite sex is true then 1.) All women are crazy and 2.) All men are lying sacks of shit.
Fuck you. Fuck you so hard.
I love sexist jokes. I think they're hilarious. But when it comes right down to it, they're hilarious for the exact opposite reason racist jokes are funny: None of it is true. It's all bullshit. Women aren't crazy. Some of them are unstable. They're clingy, sure. Jealous, whatever. But an equal or greater number of them are regular people. Just going about their lives. They don't fly into a shit-flinging rampage every time you mention another girl's name. The ones that do, while terrifying, aren't as common as you might think.
Likewise, not every guy out there is a raging jackass. They don't all lie and cheat and use the same lines over and over again to get a little action. Trust me, girls, you aren't that fucking hard to get into bed. Stop flattering yourselves. Do you know what kind of men feel the need to do those things? Shallow ones. Guys that don't want for anything, don't have trouble getting along with people based on surface attractions, don't actually have anything to offer you. You know, the kind you actually want to fuck. The nerdy guys? The shit-ugly guys? They wouldn't cheat on you. They wouldn't need to. But you don't know that, because you're a shallow bitch, too.
Now how does that feel, ladies? Being called out like that. You're sitting there insisting it couldn't be you, right? Has to be that men are just predators. Just taking advantage of your vulnerabilities. That's a crock. You're just playing both sides. You don't get to be the independent, liberated, fuck-off woman you claim to be and then turn around and tell me a man tricked you and lied to you.
Because it's not true. No one can convince you to go out with them, or go to bed with them, if you don't already want to somewhere. Unless he literally raped you, that shit was your decision. If you didn't manage to do your homework before you agreed to it, how is that my fault as a man? And likewise, just because a few assholes played tricks on you why am I at fault for it? Because we have the same genitals (and his are smaller, obviously)?
That's like me deciding that since one girl lied and told me she was pregnant so I wouldn't leave her, every woman that has ever told a man she's pregnant was lying. Do you see how fucking ridiculous you are?
Now, men aren't any different. You try to play the stud card until a girl find out what kind of person you are and drops your ass like a newborn in a dumpster. Then you cry heartbreak. You're so pitiful, I wouldn't dick-punch you with Chris Brown's fist. You don't get it both ways either. You can be the swaggering douchebag or the emotional, deep-feelings sort but you can't be both. Because they're opposites and its ridiculous.
Likewise, if you go after a girl because she's just so hot you can't believe it, and all your friends agree, and every man you encounter agrees, and she turns out to be not only batshit insane, but incredibly high-maintenance? You're a fucking idiot. Of course she is, because no one becomes that full of themselves without having a whole gaggle of morons kissing her ass. The first time you don't, she'll tear your god damned lungs out. Maybe you, too, should have thought about it before you put your dick somewhere with teeth.
My point is this: These gender stereotypes are utter bullshit. They account for maybe half of the population. If we'd stop being so shallow, maybe pay a little attention, we'd have a lot less of this kind of nonsense to bitch about. But we won't, because we're shallow creatures. So, girls, please keep going after the kind of men that will treat you like shit. Because you deserve it. And guys, keep chasing after that fiery brunette in the jeggings until she's got your balls in a vice and your friends on speed-dial. You deserve every second.
You dumbass.
Yours,
-S.R.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Fucking and Punching?
The first time I took her, she wore nothing. Whether by chance or intent, I stumbled upon the room where she stood nude, surrounded by bare floors and walls. Perhaps there wasn't even furniture. Without time to register what I saw, I can't say for sure. Without thinking, I was on her, in her, all gnashing teeth and claws, leaving my marks on her throat and breasts. Territorial, of course. There was a hammering in my chest, a feeling that this was wrong. I paused, long enough to decide if she was protesting or encouraging, and I can not recall what I decided. Only that when I was finished with her, neither of us remained asleep long enough to know if it was all a dream.
In my dreams she wears mini-skirts and thongs, thigh-high stockings and stilettos, blouses only half buttoned, hair falling down around her shoulders like molten gold, eyes burning into mine like sapphires. She all but commands me to take her, the very antithesis of that erotic innocence she wields like a dagger in the real world. She needs me here, buried up to my hips, thrashing, screaming, my name falling from her lips like a curse or an oath to some high god. And yet, even before the shudders have subsided she lies folded carefully in my arms, a precious thing that I would see the world burned to protect.
I recall the first night in clips and bits of sensation, all out of order. The feel of denim beneath us, the soft ground, the smell of fallen leaves, the way her throat tugged on me when she swallowed, the way her cries of pleasure were soft, but insistent, like spurs in my flanks. There was darkness.
Most of all, I remember the bruises I left. Biting and scratching until your back was a mass of blacks and blues, hues of yellow and purple and red, swolle welts scattered angrily about skin that was, just a few hours before, pure and white. I remember why that night taught me never to vent my fury with a lover, regardless of how much she deserved it.
I remember the couch, and how I wondered when I awoke if she was ever there at all or if my mind had somehow made a nightmare out of a blowjob.
In all my fond recollections of her, she always seems more skilled than anyone should be. Its romantic, in a way, how I forget the awkward change of position, the occasional, unintentional collision of heads, the sharp intake of breath when something became suddenly painful. Instead I recall fluid motion, the rocking of hips in steady circles, rising and falling down the length of me, the oddly attractive wet slap of flesh on flesh, the way my fingernails looked when they raked down her back and dug into her thighs. The way her lips tasted.
The taboo here is delicious, in a way. I find it exotic, somehow, like making love on bleached white sand without the risk of syphilis. She can never be the things I dream of her, and I would never ask those things, despite the often overwhelming desire. Instead, for once, I am content to push boundaries, to explore, to be patient. All things I thought unattainable. Attachment does strange things to a man.
The images of her are burned into my retinas like tattoos on the surface of my eyes. Lying naked, vulnerable, entirely at my mercy, flushed from the neck up with desire, fingers absently wandering over her breasts. I remember watching as my cum settled onto them and wondering if I would ever see something more unbearably pleasing. I remember the need that washed over me in the wake of another orgasm as it littered her back, her ass, her legs, as if even that part of me felt some intrinsic need to touch her everywhere at once. And suddenly I felt both supremely satisfied and insatiable at the same time. A paradox, if ever I have been one.
I am still sorry for all the times I pulled her hair. She claimed to like pain, and a man that young does not understand the finer points of sadism.
I clawed at her throat as if she were more enemy than lover. An idea that there is some degree of truth to, I think.
She left gouges in my back that bled like mortal wounds or the beginning of stigmata. I, in turn, left her. Not for the pain, which was dulled with the aftermath of coming, but for the simple, undeniable, disgust.
I would take her as if nothing in the world mattered, and when I was done, not even the world she knew would remain standing. I mean that not as boastful, wishful thinking, but as the word of a man who knows nothing of failure.
Erotically Yours,
-S.R.
In my dreams she wears mini-skirts and thongs, thigh-high stockings and stilettos, blouses only half buttoned, hair falling down around her shoulders like molten gold, eyes burning into mine like sapphires. She all but commands me to take her, the very antithesis of that erotic innocence she wields like a dagger in the real world. She needs me here, buried up to my hips, thrashing, screaming, my name falling from her lips like a curse or an oath to some high god. And yet, even before the shudders have subsided she lies folded carefully in my arms, a precious thing that I would see the world burned to protect.
I recall the first night in clips and bits of sensation, all out of order. The feel of denim beneath us, the soft ground, the smell of fallen leaves, the way her throat tugged on me when she swallowed, the way her cries of pleasure were soft, but insistent, like spurs in my flanks. There was darkness.
Most of all, I remember the bruises I left. Biting and scratching until your back was a mass of blacks and blues, hues of yellow and purple and red, swolle welts scattered angrily about skin that was, just a few hours before, pure and white. I remember why that night taught me never to vent my fury with a lover, regardless of how much she deserved it.
I remember the couch, and how I wondered when I awoke if she was ever there at all or if my mind had somehow made a nightmare out of a blowjob.
In all my fond recollections of her, she always seems more skilled than anyone should be. Its romantic, in a way, how I forget the awkward change of position, the occasional, unintentional collision of heads, the sharp intake of breath when something became suddenly painful. Instead I recall fluid motion, the rocking of hips in steady circles, rising and falling down the length of me, the oddly attractive wet slap of flesh on flesh, the way my fingernails looked when they raked down her back and dug into her thighs. The way her lips tasted.
The taboo here is delicious, in a way. I find it exotic, somehow, like making love on bleached white sand without the risk of syphilis. She can never be the things I dream of her, and I would never ask those things, despite the often overwhelming desire. Instead, for once, I am content to push boundaries, to explore, to be patient. All things I thought unattainable. Attachment does strange things to a man.
The images of her are burned into my retinas like tattoos on the surface of my eyes. Lying naked, vulnerable, entirely at my mercy, flushed from the neck up with desire, fingers absently wandering over her breasts. I remember watching as my cum settled onto them and wondering if I would ever see something more unbearably pleasing. I remember the need that washed over me in the wake of another orgasm as it littered her back, her ass, her legs, as if even that part of me felt some intrinsic need to touch her everywhere at once. And suddenly I felt both supremely satisfied and insatiable at the same time. A paradox, if ever I have been one.
I am still sorry for all the times I pulled her hair. She claimed to like pain, and a man that young does not understand the finer points of sadism.
I clawed at her throat as if she were more enemy than lover. An idea that there is some degree of truth to, I think.
She left gouges in my back that bled like mortal wounds or the beginning of stigmata. I, in turn, left her. Not for the pain, which was dulled with the aftermath of coming, but for the simple, undeniable, disgust.
I would take her as if nothing in the world mattered, and when I was done, not even the world she knew would remain standing. I mean that not as boastful, wishful thinking, but as the word of a man who knows nothing of failure.
Erotically Yours,
-S.R.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Beer Cans and Banjo Picks
Today, I feel like I've used up all the romance in me. I've spent all my magic, and I'm left with nothing but cheap parlor tricks and second-hand props. I've given all my secrets away, traded them for the bodies of lovers I never should have taken to bed, but I am covetous of petty things and pretty things. An addict of the flesh. It all just seems so wasteful to me. I've frivolously pissed away whatever gifts the gracious gods bestowed upon me, and I have none left to offer up to you, who are so much more worthy than the rest.
Beer cans and banjo picks are scattered across my desk. An ashtray full of extinguished cigarettes sits beside an empty mason jar that once held strong, Kentucky moonshine upon my bedside table. These are all the things I have become. Notebooks filled with jagged, hurried writing abound, scattered across the floor, and littered intermittenly among them are photographs of men and women I have loved, friends that I have murdered, and things I am not drunk enought to identify.
I can scarcely recall all the horrible times, so overshadowed are they by memories of the good. The laughter, the drink, the knowledge that we are blessed by the gods with youth and life and health. The knowlegde that ahead is love and more laughter, more long nights and short days lost to sleep. And yet, they persist. They hang over me like a black pall, those times of trial. They seem into my lungs like miasma until I wake from dreams of making love to you, coughing up blood, unable to breathe. Cancer fills my lungs, and pours out into my body, twists the naked flesh and bone until I resemble something like a blurred photograph, something too hideous, too heinous to be loved. Too full of rage and loathing to love another.
Today, I feel like all the gifts of tongue and penned word have left me. Squandered on lesser pursuits. I cry out to the gods that, had I know that you would come to me I would have kept those precious gifts. Had I known that they were finite, I would never have spent them so recklessly for a few hours of sweat and breathy moans. I would have, instead, discarded those dead weights before they sank their claws into me and dragged me into their mouths. I have spilled so much for their sake, and only received ugly, welted bite-marks and dried saliva in return.
I can hardly tell if you are Redemption or Salvation, or both. Or neither. You are obscured somewhere, somehow, and I can not be certain you're really here or if the delusions have set in again. I'm in one of my moods, and though you always elude me, you seem even further from my reach when I sink this low. You may be nothing but a mirage cast by my feverish mind. Men cry out for water as the desert turns their lively, strong bodies into dessicated husks. Children cry out for food, or shelter, or love, when lesser gods and their pawns turn homelands to rubble and mass graves. I cry out for your fingers linked in my own, the comfort of your nearness, the brush of your lips and the soft, hushed breeze of your breath on my tongue. Lonliness has ever been my dearest friend, and my most cherished enemy. I will not dry out and die as in the desert. I will not starve and be left in the crumbled streets in a heap as in the genocide. But I will wither and die all the same.
I like to look back at the meandering path I've taken, wound through woodlands and cities and places unlike either. I wonder how many of the turns I took were the wrong ones. I wonder, too, at how unaffected I am by that prospect. Nights like this, all the turns that led me down this path to you seem the right ones, though I am all but certain I should never have come here.
And yet, and yet, I am drawn inexorably forward. It may destroy me, as the gravity well of a black hole pulls in hapless bits of things and utterly destroys them. It may only exacerbate my already woefully collapsing health. It may bring me something more than I could imagine, even in the days before I gave away all my gifts and expended all my vices. Time will tell. Whatever comes, I will bear it, as I have always done. Quiet pride, seething rage, and deep, fathomless things I can not begin to translate. Things all thinking creatures feel and cannot describe. The way I feel for you, the way I feel for my vanished gifts and my forgiving gods. Things beyond words and thought, beyond the simple, liminal paths of things. I will bear it all.
Lonesomely Yours,
-S.R.
Beer cans and banjo picks are scattered across my desk. An ashtray full of extinguished cigarettes sits beside an empty mason jar that once held strong, Kentucky moonshine upon my bedside table. These are all the things I have become. Notebooks filled with jagged, hurried writing abound, scattered across the floor, and littered intermittenly among them are photographs of men and women I have loved, friends that I have murdered, and things I am not drunk enought to identify.
I can scarcely recall all the horrible times, so overshadowed are they by memories of the good. The laughter, the drink, the knowledge that we are blessed by the gods with youth and life and health. The knowlegde that ahead is love and more laughter, more long nights and short days lost to sleep. And yet, they persist. They hang over me like a black pall, those times of trial. They seem into my lungs like miasma until I wake from dreams of making love to you, coughing up blood, unable to breathe. Cancer fills my lungs, and pours out into my body, twists the naked flesh and bone until I resemble something like a blurred photograph, something too hideous, too heinous to be loved. Too full of rage and loathing to love another.
Today, I feel like all the gifts of tongue and penned word have left me. Squandered on lesser pursuits. I cry out to the gods that, had I know that you would come to me I would have kept those precious gifts. Had I known that they were finite, I would never have spent them so recklessly for a few hours of sweat and breathy moans. I would have, instead, discarded those dead weights before they sank their claws into me and dragged me into their mouths. I have spilled so much for their sake, and only received ugly, welted bite-marks and dried saliva in return.
I can hardly tell if you are Redemption or Salvation, or both. Or neither. You are obscured somewhere, somehow, and I can not be certain you're really here or if the delusions have set in again. I'm in one of my moods, and though you always elude me, you seem even further from my reach when I sink this low. You may be nothing but a mirage cast by my feverish mind. Men cry out for water as the desert turns their lively, strong bodies into dessicated husks. Children cry out for food, or shelter, or love, when lesser gods and their pawns turn homelands to rubble and mass graves. I cry out for your fingers linked in my own, the comfort of your nearness, the brush of your lips and the soft, hushed breeze of your breath on my tongue. Lonliness has ever been my dearest friend, and my most cherished enemy. I will not dry out and die as in the desert. I will not starve and be left in the crumbled streets in a heap as in the genocide. But I will wither and die all the same.
I like to look back at the meandering path I've taken, wound through woodlands and cities and places unlike either. I wonder how many of the turns I took were the wrong ones. I wonder, too, at how unaffected I am by that prospect. Nights like this, all the turns that led me down this path to you seem the right ones, though I am all but certain I should never have come here.
And yet, and yet, I am drawn inexorably forward. It may destroy me, as the gravity well of a black hole pulls in hapless bits of things and utterly destroys them. It may only exacerbate my already woefully collapsing health. It may bring me something more than I could imagine, even in the days before I gave away all my gifts and expended all my vices. Time will tell. Whatever comes, I will bear it, as I have always done. Quiet pride, seething rage, and deep, fathomless things I can not begin to translate. Things all thinking creatures feel and cannot describe. The way I feel for you, the way I feel for my vanished gifts and my forgiving gods. Things beyond words and thought, beyond the simple, liminal paths of things. I will bear it all.
Lonesomely Yours,
-S.R.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Hey, Fuck You
If you were a colony of maggots in the shape of a man fist-fucking Glen Beck you couldn't be more putrid to my eyes. No more obscene. If you were bleeding out onto the sidewalk, I'd be more upset at the stains on the concrete. If you were beaten and raped and left to die, I'd applaud the faceless men that so abused you, but I'd hunt and kill them for failing to finish the job. You're less than a child, you're less than an insect. You're fetid meat rotting in a cesspool. You're a pile of shit no one cared enough about to flush.
You fucking touch me, I will rip you apart. I'll reach in and take a bite out of that shit you call a heart. I'd rather grab you by the teeth and smash your balls into your lungs than listen to another second of your mindless, trivial worries. I'd rather gut myself with a melon baller than spend another second breathing the same air as something so utterly, impotently worthless as you. You make the worst pedophiles cringe and cover their asses for fear of the greasy, clouded pile of gutter trash walking past might somehow creep inside them.
If you were on fire, I'd shoot you in the balls. That isn't a metaphor, that isn't a clever way of saying I wouldn't piss on you to put you out. I would literally shoot you in the balls because it is the only way I can think to make watching you suffer and die anymore pleasant. Seriously.
My point here, is that I can't wait. I can't wait for you to straighten up your spine and go toe-to-toe with me. You have never, in your wildest imagination, been able to conjure up what I will do to you. I'll tear your limbs off with no more effort than pulling off spider legs, and fill the wounds with razor blades and chlorine. When I've finished ripping you to pieces, the shreds that remain will be so far beyond the sensation of pain, beyond recognition as having once been human, that you won't even remember how to beg for death.
In other words, you are nothing next to me. For all your piss-poor competition and all your mediocre acheivements, you're still a pathetic excuse for a roach buried in a pile of shit.
Whenever you're ready, asshole.
-S.R.
You fucking touch me, I will rip you apart. I'll reach in and take a bite out of that shit you call a heart. I'd rather grab you by the teeth and smash your balls into your lungs than listen to another second of your mindless, trivial worries. I'd rather gut myself with a melon baller than spend another second breathing the same air as something so utterly, impotently worthless as you. You make the worst pedophiles cringe and cover their asses for fear of the greasy, clouded pile of gutter trash walking past might somehow creep inside them.
If you were on fire, I'd shoot you in the balls. That isn't a metaphor, that isn't a clever way of saying I wouldn't piss on you to put you out. I would literally shoot you in the balls because it is the only way I can think to make watching you suffer and die anymore pleasant. Seriously.
My point here, is that I can't wait. I can't wait for you to straighten up your spine and go toe-to-toe with me. You have never, in your wildest imagination, been able to conjure up what I will do to you. I'll tear your limbs off with no more effort than pulling off spider legs, and fill the wounds with razor blades and chlorine. When I've finished ripping you to pieces, the shreds that remain will be so far beyond the sensation of pain, beyond recognition as having once been human, that you won't even remember how to beg for death.
In other words, you are nothing next to me. For all your piss-poor competition and all your mediocre acheivements, you're still a pathetic excuse for a roach buried in a pile of shit.
Whenever you're ready, asshole.
-S.R.
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