Saturday, February 18, 2017

TL;DR You're An ASSHOLE

Hey, I appreciate you and your ideas. I agree with most of what you say. 

And just because you have an education and memorized the correct quips and references to code your conversation as sparkling wit, doesn't mean that you're not an asshole. 


I see that you believe your intellect or simply your strange and backwards sense of entitlement give you the illusion that you do not have to assume any responsibility for any offense or any hurt that you have bestowed on friends and strangers. 

Who are you?

'I'm just being honest...' You know who you are. Honesty is a virtue and you have decided to use it to mask your poor manners. There's a difference between being honest and being too narcissistic to keep your mouth shut. This is a way for you to insult people because its what you HONESTLY think, not because it's an HONEST truth. Get the fuck out of here with all that mess. You're just trying to get away with being an asshole AND get applauded for your moral virtues. 

'No offense...' Ah, you impenetrable colostomy bag. You're SLIGHTLY less intelligent than ' I'm just being honest' but just as insufferable. You see 'no offense', if used correctly, is a way to present CON-STRUC-TIVE CRITICISM. It  SHOULD be a way for you to say to your friend or acquaintance ,

' Hey now, I know this might hurt, and I'm not telling you this to hurt you, I'm telling this to help you because I want to see you do well in life, and while you may take offense, I want you to know this isn't a personal attack.'

THAT is the purpose of 'no offense.' It is NOT supposed to be a way for you to say, 

' I'm about to take as many personal attacks on you as possible and I enjoy giving you advice to reinforce my moral superiority and patronizing you makes my dick big and my clit swell and IF YOU GET MAD, you're an overly sensitive fuck who needs to get their life in order.'

And you, of course, wait for a moment to use this. Wait for a moment of weakness when your friends ask for help and you have to be careful to hide your mental erection. 

'Not all...' or 'EVERYBODY MATTERS'

Oh fuck off. You get scared because you see your behavior or biases reflected in the voices of the oppressed. You get worried because you're a 'good white person'  or 'a good man' or 'I don't see color.' Oh go fuck porcupine you little sniveling sycophant. Everybody sees color. There are differences- pretending that their aren't any trivializes reality. And you think that people striving for equality is the same thing as people shitting on others, because that's where you fit in historically. It isn't- stop pretending you're not a racist. MOST people- not all- MOST,  and MOST is enough. 


'Calm down.'

For anybody who's every had this said to them when they are venting their frustrations, I give you permission to skin their face and wear it as a vegan leather patch.

Rant #345 On Enforcing Ideas



I think there's a new way for people to get themselves off. I think that when you get lonely, you either get sad or you get mad. Sad because you think you deserve it or mad because you think you don't. You have a group of people that revel in cruelty and insults and you have another group who has designated themselves as the protectors of the cause, removing any sense of personal responsibility from the way they defend their ideas.  

And I think we're all very lonely, operating under the guise of connectivity and knowledge. Since we're all very lonely together, there's even more solace found in the group identity. It fools us into thinking that we are forever loved and protected. 

However, group identities have been manipulated to somehow satiate our need to be unique. So you can be part of a group and be your special little self all at once. Now, I'm not trying to minimize the importance of marginalized voices speaking out. Quite the contrary. I think it's absolutely necessary to scream and thrash and continue speaking. 

But not everybody has something to say. Not everybody has a worthwhile contribution, despite the best of their intentions. And the reason why some people simply have nothing to contribute has to do with certain personality traits combined with certain actions or inactions that make them despicable. 

Race, gender, and religion don't cause these traits; these are traits based on an individual's experience. An individual's experience is colored by the way society treats them or views them based on arbitrary traits like race, gender, and religion, as well as their familial influence. Those who mistreat others utilize select individual experiences or actions of the others to reinforce their argument; they do not take responsibility for their hate bred of fear and insecurity. Those in power always fear that their power will be lost, and that fear mandates their behavior. 

I think some people masquerade under the guise of 'the cause'. This isn't just liberal causes; the maligned conservative and nazi rallying cries are other more tangible examples of this phenomenon. These protectors of men who type furious insults to fight for their necessary imagined preservation. 

You don't have to take responsibility for yourself if you have positioned yourself to be a champion metaphor of a belief system that counts for more than your individual existence. When you steal, you steal for the cause, not for yourself. If you hurt the cause, it's only because of the polar opposite cause that forced you to go against your conscience. 

On paper, this sounds harmless. It sounds admirable, to use your personal platform to speak for others. But in practice, we run into a plethora of difficulties. People are remarkably good at distancing themselves from inconvenient personal truths. I speak from valiant experience. We are exquisite creatures when it comes to crafting excuses for ourselves or minimizing our blame. It's simply in our nature to preserve ourselves and with awareness comes guilt and guilt births anger, envy and everything else that destroys the self. So we either find pleasure in guilt or we find no guilt in pleasure. 

What seems to happen is that people try to transform their ego into altruism. This isn't new; what's new is that everyone, pretty much anyone with access to technology, now has a public platform to display their ideas, or to tarnish, refute, celebrate, or share other ideas. Now there's nothing wrong with speaking your truth; it's when you start to present your truth as objective fact and in turn reject collective reality for one that adheres to your emotions. Instead of allowing for an exchange of ideas, we have simply barricaded ourselves with the ideas that and thoughts that validate our own biases. We have shut down any difference without attempting to defend our opinions; simply laughed at those we disagree with and squeal as they fester in misplaced inferiority. We have let our arguments atrophy by utilizing public shame to win our debates . 

Some ideas are terrible. But you need to know when to hear out the terrible ideas. Terrible ideas serve as a purpose. They make it necessary for wonderful ideas to persevere. They give value to wonderful ideas. And terrible ideas can easily be changed- the same way wonderful ideas can become terrible ideas. It's a wonderful idea to promote inclusivity and equality among all culturally and societally marginalized groups; it's a terrible idea to think equality means the oppression of the oppressor . Willful ignorance springs from organic ignorance. You must be willing to be patient and attempt to show how your ideas and truths will benefit the competing idea, rather than raging against a difference in thought. 

Now, that doesn't mean you give Nazis a chance. That's not what I'm saying at all- I'm sure someone might want to call me out for being another white girl who thinks we should all get along. Punch a nazi. Go after a bigot- but there's a difference between a confused octogenarian and a skinhead. You have the ability to change people who believe things out of habit versus necessity. A skinhead must believe he is superior since he must blame his inferiority on external causes, rather than himself. Some people, unlike the skinhead, simply don't realize that their ideas, while passive, are part of a larger oppressive pattern of thought. 

I don't think you need to get along with someone to exchange ideas. You just need to listen to them and make sure that you can defend your ideas with facts, not emotions. When you utilize the same tactics that you're fighting against, it makes it difficult to ensure victory. And if those ideas are actively seeking to oppress your beliefs, then by all means, fight. Just know when you're fighting for your own personal gratification and public validation and know when you're fighting for the cause. That makes the difference as to how well you can defend your beliefs. Emotional arguments often have weaknesses that are unseen to all but the enemy. 

Get mad- do what you need to do. But also fight that urge to call someone an uniformed piece of shit before you give them a chance to figure that out for themselves. Don't get so consumed by your anger and indignation that you resort to the means of the oppressor. Set fire to the right buildings. 

Quite Frankly

I've had a superior luxury granted to me. I've been granted time without the usual anxiety. With this time, I've inspected my unhappiness and I grew horrified to discover how much I had destroyed myself in the name of self preservation. Let this be a warning call.


I had made up my mind at an early age that I would escape the worst of what love could bring me if I resigned myself to becoming impenetrable. I had devised a tactic wherein I would study and understand what men required of women and I would imitate it with cynical relish to possess the power and certainty of a queen. My only objective was to become a fantasy, to be untouchable and to reject the pain of vulnerability.

I made an awful mistake. I adhered to a set of rules and regulations that only debased my worth as a free-thinking individual. I was not free-thinking at all. I thought I could make a mockery of the patriarchy by making myself a caricature- I thought that validation came only from men and only through desire. I thought I had discovered a wanton truth that allowed me to eschew delusions.

I did not. I suffered from trying to dissuade myself of being in love. I suffered from cynicism that grew like a comfortable tumor. I had reduced myself to what the worst of society reduced women to; I had done it with my consent and I was the only one to blame. I did not nourish the most important aspects of friendships. And the ones I nursed were unhealthy, one-sided and in my favor. An apathetic vampire finding solace in rebuked advances.

Because I spent so much time in chemically induced Elysian fields,  I hardly noticed how dissatisfied I had become. There's no use in working towards finding your own happiness when you can take the instant flood of joy that comes with very little effort. Finding joy in others takes time and sacrifice. Drugs just take money and reinforce false comfort in solitude.

I got used to waiting it out; I didn't do anything to become better or to flourish. I just waited. I got high and found action in wayward fantasies, forged projections of old dreams.

I'm still waiting. I have no idea what I am or what my purpose is. I used to love indulging in narcissism and reveled in my beauty. I am ashamed and terrified of what's left to become.

I'm alright though. Even though I've never felt worse, I know that I've probably never been better.

Friday, February 17, 2017

He's really.... NICE

I haven't been having an easy time lately. And I can't blame anyone outside myself for my total lack of direction at a time in life that is becoming alarmingly late.

In these times of cruel and paradoxical isolation, I turn to the few but meaningful friendships I have been lucky enough to have despite myself.

Most of my friendships have been with men, out of a fear of competition with other women. I didn't want to get eaten up by jealousy and adhered to the belief that women are simply more prone towards social cruelty then men. I don't think that's true, I just think certain people are more sensitive to social and emotional poisoning. I adhered to a set of beliefs about women SET UP BY MEN. I have been having a difficult time reconciling my past and forgiving myself for catering to something so idiotic.

Anyway, as I have stopped utilizing my sexuality for public validation. I'd like to celebrate myself again but I cannot find the ignorant confidence I once had.

I have also lost a lot of friendships. Now, some of these were meant to be lost. They were undoubtedly one-sided. I would maintain the barest thread of conversation only when I would succumb to loneliness and boredom. And I knew that these individuals needed a word, any word, to have hope explode into a thousand darling daydreams. I was gruesomely at fault within that regard.

However. Once I made my intentions clear, explicitly clear instead of practically explicit, I found that I was met with anger and remarks about my lack of discerning ability. That I, poor lovely empty thing, was missing out on the only savior that the world had left to offer.

The reason I write about this, and I'm still trying to make sense of this and organize this idea of romantic entitlement, is because I had a friend, an ex-friend, tell me to come over and spend the weekend at the beach with him. This is an old friend from college, and since I still don't have anybody out in California, anybody who knew me before I became this congealed lump of static thoughts and useless actions, would be comforting.

Now, I always try to be polite. I've been in many many awkward situations that I diffuse by ignoring how awkward they are. I try to spare the embarrassment of both parties involved.  Now, this guy tells me that IF he hits on me, because he probably will, that I shouldn't be bothered by it and should just say no.

I had made it very clear I have no intentions beyond those of a platonic nature. I had made that explicit. Even if I hadn't, I was shocked to see this incredibly insidious manipulation. You see he expected to be celebrated because he was just being HONEST, which sure, great, it saved me the trouble of having to be stranded two hours away from home while some fat fuck tries to grease up his dick after cursing my name for rejecting him to his face.

I flaked on him, as I do, which I've done as a defense mechanism because I was too polite and too insecure to say "No" or simply to ignore responses. Generally, this has kept me very safe, although spineless.

He wrote me a message asking if it was because of what he had said. Again- this infuriates me because he was well aware of what he was saying. He knew me in college. He's a domineering boisterous person. I tend to agree with anything to minimize conflict. I tend to be terrified of a lack of approval. I also tended to view come-ons as compliments or minimize the awkward moments that followed. I played everything off.

But thankfully, this time, I didn't care. I didn't care if he thought I was a bitch. I didn't have to read anything he wrote.

I realized that this was not a friendship nor would it ever be; I was nothing more than a novelty. And I should be flattered that I would be SO attractive to him. I should be deeply grateful for the fact that he doesn't see the need to control himself or restrain himself in any regard. Because, as he put it, he's 'just a guy.'

Now before you all nice guys tell me I earned it, tell me how you have to suffer through women yapping and get left with scraps.... I want you to realize how fucking stupid you sound. There's nothing wrong with falling in love with a friend. It happens to everyone. However when it happens, you have to respect the fact that your friend may never love you in the same capacity. Either you continue with the friendship or you distance yourself from the friendship in order to protect it. If that needs explaining, I'd be happy to write a separate post for those of you that cannot seem to understand that concept.

You don't think of people in terms of anything more than how they serve you. You consider yourself inferior to your competition so you try to find the more insidious methods to validate yourself. If women are scraps, then you are blood-streaked shit pouring out of a corpse.

And I told a neighbor about this, a guy who happens to be 'a nice guy' that women conspire to shit on.  He tried to defend this man child, explaining that so much time had past and since I had complained to him about some of my rough times, it was only natural as a way in. And because he had to listen to me without fucking my pussy, it means at a later date, it'll be wrapped up for him when he wants it because he was SO NICE.

So... when  I tell you that I got raped, is that another hard-to-get cock-tease code for 'come fuck me big boy'?

Well, well, motherfucker. Let me explain something to you, on the behalf of all people everywhere who have had to deal with this type of individual:

Describing someone as nice ( discounting small children's descriptions of adults) is the same thing as describing a piece of food as edible.

It should go without saying that someone is nice, this is something that is extraordinarily basic and generally necessary. It means that you enjoy and celebrate the success or comfort of another without having yours in mind at all. And even if you DO expect something in return, you also accept the equal and valid possibility that you will get nothing in return and while you might be upset, you also refrain from blaming the other party.

To say someone is MEAN is more of an exception. Mean tends to be more exciting, but is woefully misunderstood. Mean is usually upfront and blundering in its approach; MEAN doesn't have to necessarily have the intent to hurt so much as it has to have the intent to preserve the self. Cruelty would be enjoying the pain inflicted on others while mean is disregarding the comfort of others to protect yourself or insure your comfort isn't questioned or removed. To be mean is usually to be defensive. To be cruel is to solicit pleasure in the results of being mean.

But anyway, NICE people are sphincter plunging fucks. A nice person who uses friendship as a means to a physical end is a dried elephant cock. These are people who abuse the vulnerability and emotional generosity afforded in friendship. What we give to one another in friendship, isn't emotional availability and trust that is usually afforded in other avenues of life. The betrayal of that is all too common but is never less of a shock.

Why is it that we can fashion ourselves surrogate families out of friends? It's necessary for human progress and survival to be part of and ensure the success of our community, no matter how big or how small. And to have someone violate the trust that comes from friendship can be akin to emotional incest. No, I do not AT all equate having a fuckboi try to slobber all over you as the same thing as incest in any means, BUT I do think that there's a familiarity between friends that can mimic the emotional proximity of family members.

 Sex should lead towards an exchange of vulnerability. Vulnerability shouldn't lead to sex, but it does, very easily. These fuckfaced predators take emotional vulnerability as a means to get their dicks marginally wet because they can't see women (or men or whatever you want) as their equal. Other people are just there to fulfill their fantasies.



I have more to say but I'm getting my bearings back in. I know this all over the place and poorly edited, but I need to have somebody read my thoughts again before I go crazy. I know I talk about women, but this is applicable to anyone. Women I think have had more societal pressures to be polite and are thusly more susceptible to this but that all seems to be changing as girls are being reared to stick up for themselves. How NICE!!!

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Grey-White

You would stroke my cheek.

Your palms facing away

from the chemical blush.


We would be warped in bedsheets;

tangled together like

pieces of careless string.

We would forget noon,

wake to twilight,

eat dinner for breakfast

leave the crumbs on the counter

by the flowers in the bottle.


You would fall asleep.

I would slip away

pull your arm off my waist,

gently place it on

the place I lay.


Then I would wrap myself

in my mother's camel-hair coat

surreptitiously stolen

from neglected closets.


Naked on the balcony,

legs drawn up close and tight,

toes cold curled on the metal.

Smoke spilling from my lips

numb fingers tracing

steps of the dancing steam

before it disappeared

in the seeping dawn.


Blue Hairs

The world turns

boils and burns

While the lil ol blue-hairs

come to collect expired cares,

like the coupons used

to bait conversation

with any bored girl

behind the register

picking the polish

off the acrylic,

slivers of neon

stifling  yawns.

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

A Fancy Tale PT 1

Her eyelids fluttered, charmed by the boisterous light of the new sun. As she hurried along the grey-white dunes, carelessly plucking the long strands of sharp blue grass that brushed past her pale blue skirt she proclaimed, "Fuck my tits Mr. McGravens, it's hotter than an altar boy's asshole!"

Henry McGravens smiled warmly at Winifred and found himself soothed and thrilled all at once by her child-like grasp on his arm, charmed by her attempting to mimic his nimble stride as the dunes began to slope down before the ocean. 

"Oh Winnie, you're just a walking, talking sugar-titted abortion- but I'm a necromantic pedophile."

She smiled wryly, trying to distract the sudden blush that bathed her cheeks. While twenty-five years her senior, Mr. McGravens  had a way with words that even the most seasoned and dower hag could hardly resist any of his possible requests.  . 

"Mr. McGravens... You make my insides feel like they're getting suffocated by a 600 pound Samoan Dolly Parton look alike... only my insides are lonely middle school guidance counselors who go out of their way to pay for it. "

He had never heard her be so bold before. But then, they had never had the pleasure of sharing  such delicious solitude together. The dawn of new womanhood had hardly broken upon her, but the swell of her nascent breasts beckoned in him something he had long ceased to believe existed. 

"The fact that you look like a kid gets my dick harder than... well than a priest cock in an aletrboy's sweltering asshole!"

They shared a laugh and Winifred offered Mr.McGravens a clementine she had surreptitiously swiped from the kitchen while Mrs. Bobbins tended to the rollicking clamors the the children playing hide and seek in the pantry. 

"Hey you fuck-faced buck toothed statutory rapist, you want some of this midget orange?"

"Yeh.. give it here you sebaceous kinderwhore."

She exaggerated a great air of caution as she gingerly choose the most pristine segment to offer him. He outstretched his palm, expecting the tickle of her fingertips as he waited patiently for his share. 

Winifred ignored his palm and stared at him, seemingly hesitant but strangely assured.

Slowly, she brings the piece of fruit to his lips. 

"Show me how to make pussy pudding."

He takes it eagerly, curling his lips before biting down hard on the pith.

"Smile like a donut you frivolous cum bucket."


A Fancy Tale PT 1

Her eyelids fluttered, charmed by the boisterous light of the new sun. As she hurried along the grey-white dunes, carelessly plucking the long strands of sharp blue grass that brushed past her pale blue skirt she proclaimed, "Fuck my tits Mr. McGravens, it's hotter than an altar boy's asshole!"

Henry McGravens smiled warmly at Winifred and found himself soothed and thrilled all at once by her child-like grasp on his arm, charmed by her attempting to mimic his nimble stride as the dunes began to slope down before the ocean. 

"Oh Winnie, you're just a walking, talking sugar-titted abortion- but I'm a necromantic pedophile."

She smiled wryly, trying to distract the sudden blush that bathed her cheeks. While twenty-five years her senior, Mr. McGravens  had a way with words that even the most seasoned and dower hag could hardly resist any of his possible requests.  . 

"Mr. McGravens... You make my insides feel like they're getting suffocated by a 600 pound Samoan Dolly Parton look alike... only my insides are lonely middle school guidance counselors who go out of their way to pay for it. "

He had never heard her be so bold before. But then, they had never had the pleasure of sharing  such delicious solitude together. The dawn of new womanhood had hardly broken upon her, but the swell of her nascent breasts beckoned in him something he had long ceased to believe existed. 

"The fact that you look like a kid gets my dick harder than... well than a priest cock in an aletrboy's sweltering asshole!"

They shared a laugh and Winifred offered Mr.McGravens a clementine she had surreptitiously swiped from the kitchen while Mrs. Bobbins tended to the rollicking clamors the the children playing hide and seek in the pantry. 

"Hey you fuck-faced buck toothed statutory rapist, you want some of this midget orange?"

"Yeh.. give it here you sebaceous kinderwhore."

She exaggerated a great air of caution as she gingerly choose the most pristine segment to offer him. He outstretched his palm, expecting the tickle of her fingertips as he waited patiently for his share. 

Winifred ignored his palm and stared at him, seemingly hesitant but strangely assured.

Slowly, she brings the piece of fruit to his lips. 

"Show me how to make pussy pudding."

He takes it eagerly, curling his lips before biting down hard on the pith.

"Smile like a donut you frivolous cum bucket."


Monday, July 13, 2015

Use Your Left Hand (While You're On Your Back)

so...

I inadvertently kind of founded ISIS...

IT'S NOT WHAT YOU THINK!

It's not what you think.

All I was trying to do was organize a bunch of disillusioned and wholly unsatisfied donkey fuckers I met off craigslist. In Syria. Because if you want to party...don't be a little fucking pussy about it and smuggle a bunch of Bill Cosby's forgotten ludes to Syria. I have a strap-on and rape mentality.

I was just trying to empower them a little bit. I don't speak Arabic. What I tried to tell them was, " God loves you, even when you fuck a donkey- provided said donkey is willing."

I THINK what they heard were, " If you want to fuck a donkey freely, find something in the Qur'an that justifies it and LIE in the name of God."

So Jihad... more like Jizz hats trying to shame-fuck donkeys. Goes to show that good intentions lead to nothing but gun powder dusted donkey dick.

But I'm back now. And I won't leave you. No, no I can't leave you because I'm going to use my left hand.

So, I don't know if you know.... but if you get yourself off in one very specific way, all the time, it can be extraordinarily difficult to get yourself off in a new way. ( See: Donkey fuckers.) I was using my right hand, pinky out and party hat tiled twelve degrees to the left.


I think of writing as emotional masturbation. Not all writing. Writing that leads you to nowhere but the wet dreams of overweight psychopaths in a public library is emotional masturbation.What I write. It's a verbal manifestation of emotions and opinions that validate a schizophrenic ego. But it used to have a singular REAL LIFE purpose.

That release was driven by a passionate suffering.  I kept indulging the gluttony of perpetuated intoxicating misery because it was EASY. There were so many FEELINGS. Every minute bearing a gnawing anxiety that was high enough to fear its' height. Words were vessels that flowed with the ease of passion.

Well, all that time with the donkey fuckers and... I stopped being miserable. Or I stopped being miserable in a way I was used to.

 And it was TERRIBLE. I couldn't figure out how to write. I just couldn't figure out how to fuck myself the way I had been fucking myself for years, producing massive amounts of beauty and self-indulgent trash.

My old tricks became a  dangerous waste. Those chemical epiphanies withered into an inertia wrapped in down and Egyptian cotton, peppered with negligent cigarette burns. Where I had found a glorious muse, I found myself trapped in time, lost in oblivion.

But then it occurred to me... that I didn't have to have a reason. I don't need a muse. I can write and it doesn't have to matter. It only serves me to scam you out of your time. I'm living a love affair; I don't need to rub my clit on an imaginary romance.

Of course I still need to stroke my ego, and I need you to swallow. But I can fuck you anyway I want, without having to dim the lights.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

The End




A dim mirage of a life of luxury marred with the beautiful ills I've had to offer, illuminated in the light I feared. Trembling.  Years trembling, wrecked by the necessary devastation to appreciate our broken reflections.

Trembling in the face of impossible dreams. They lent me their hand in the dawn of a night dusted in bitter confectioner's sugar.

What I've been writing for, the thing I've always wanted, to be the most elegant embodiment of debauchery for a man who celebrates the depths of a lovely tragedy. 

My dreams have sighed, beginning to breath despite the new fear crawling towards the afterglow.


This man I've always known. This man can exploit me properly. This man will save me from an ordinary life.

I'll be famous. You'll be dead.

We'll be laughing in the leather of a black car. 

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Lets Be (together) Frank


Sex is stupid,
Sex is slimy
So why don't you
Just hop up on me?

Lets get grimy gross and shiny-
You can cum while you're still crying.

Drunk enough
to know me better
I won't make you
but if you don't,
I'll tell them all
your dick is small.

Friday, August 2, 2013

The Shift


 It was the strangest thing. There was a shift.


 


I suppose I was distracted when we met. Blindly distracted. Wary.







We get along. We always have. Far away.





Something happened. I have this alarming suspicion that I can see you now.


 


I could see you without the haze I had constructed with a thousand lost phrases.




I couldn't see you when we met. But I can see you now.









Something happened to me that you couldn't see. Something shifted inside of me.




My quiet universe has started to tilt. I began to think beyond the confines of impossibility.



 


 My dreams are beginning to stir.




Wednesday, July 31, 2013

George Julius Julius

I did sex with someone once.

You don't believe me?

No, I really did make sex with a guy.

His name? You want to know his name?

It's George... Julius. George Julius Julius.

Yes he's real!

You're fucking stupid, he's as real as the sex we did together.

How did it happen?

Well I was reading the free newspaper, trying to make sense of my horoscope. I'm an Aquarius but I'm on the Pisces cusp. So I have to read both of them together before I can extract any sensible information. I guess I was talking to myself pretty loud. I usually talk to myself but it's usually very quietly and people usually just become uncomfortable enough to leave me alone. But I see this guy just staring at me. The way old porcelain dolls do. With dead but sexy eyes. That vacant stare that lifeless dolls give off is nothing more than cock lust. The dolls don't know it, but I do. Little rosy-cheeked sluts.

But this guy, George Julius, he wasn't after the cock. No, he was after something else. He walked right up to me and we started a conversation.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes... I think so. You don't think so?"

"You were talking to yourself."

"This is America. I can talk to myself at my leisure."

"You don't have any pants on."

"I already told you this was America."

He stopped talking and drank me in with coal-black eyes. Eyes like a matte trash bag rotting in the sun. He licked his lips. Lips like two enticing slugs cracked and swollen with possible sores along their border. Lips of passion.

His gut rose and fell with each careful labored breath. At 5'4 and 230 pounds, one couldn't deny the sexual appeal of George Julius Julius. The man was a living embodiment of the pleasures bound to fornication.

My heart was racing. It was probably the 8-ball my nose ate for breakfast. But it might have also been the fact that George Julius Julius was beginning to get his dick hard. Maybe it was the porno still playing on his phone. But I'm pretty sure it was me. It's hard to resist a girl with a rattail in a 3 wolf moon shirt, wearing sweatpants casually stained with "ice cream" and marinara.

He took both of my hands and held them in his clammy palms while asked me how old I was. I asked him how old he wanted me to be. He said 13. It just so happens I have a condition that allows me to look prepubescent despite my middle age. So I lied and said 12. His dick nearly busted a cheap stitch.


And then we made sex. Right there in the park. Despite the protests of onlookers, I slammed my naked body into his. I slammed it against him till he passed out from pleasure. His dick was soft and somewhat bruised.  His utter delight was undoubtedly expressed in his comatose silence. I did such good sex to him that the paramedics arrived right as I was peeling myself off of him. I think he came blood.

Hey... listen, not everybody can be a Sex Goddess. But I'm not everybody. So don't feel bad about it.

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

The Executioner

Look, before I kill you, there's a few things I have to say to you.

Please don't bother trying to get your hopes up, thinking you're going to be able to get out of this. You're definitely not getting out of this.

 Where would you go? You're trapped here. You can't even move.

Even if you could move, you're too weak to get far enough to save your life. They would catch you before you could get anywhere worthwhile. So don't bother using the last of your strength to fail. You owe yourself that much now that you've ended up here. This isn't a movie. You're not James Bond. You won't be getting away.


You might be wondering why they sent someone who looks like me, pretty with a pussy, instead of those giant men with black glass eyes they usually send.

I'm the angel of death. I've been meaning to tattoo a pair of wings on my shoulder blades to add to the cinematic effect but if you can believe it, I have a bone-chilling and unwavering fear of needles.

I'm the executioner. That's the kind thing I do. These guys figure, Hey, why not add a little sprinkle of sweetness to see you to your bitter and unanticipated end. So they hire me. Nice guys.

I mean...would you rather have your last sight be of a bald fuck with his gut spilling out his suit slitting your throat?

Of course not. This is a much nicer way to die I think.

If you're wondering why I do it, it's simply because I don't have better things to do. You probably assume something awful happened to me, something salacious and degenerating the petals of the bloom of youth. But my life never tested the boundaries of normalcy . I guess that's just why I happened to end up here, with this kind of knack for this sort of thing. Individual justice negotiated on economic terms in a world that operates on its own ethical code. It's no different than a state-mandated execution. Except that this State is a man, and that man happens to have a lot of influence.


I have to make a living. And a girl needs all kinds of things to live.Things cost money. This is how I make it.

I don't want to kill you. I really don't. I don't know anything about you and you look a swollen sight of blood and bruises. But I've been doing this long enough to be able to read past the near total destruction of your face to know that you're a handsome kind of guy. And that's too bad, because I like a handsome kind of guy. I really do.  Knowing the few details of your life, I think you like to have a lonely good time in luxury when you don't have to deal with business. And I do too; except that this is my business. You strike me as a professional. So I'm sure that on some level of professionalism, you understand you have to die.



I think we could have been friends. Friends or Lovers. Or both. Who knows these days?

You didn't make the right choice. You didn't pick the right people to work for. I'm sure you've realized that by now. Don't bother renouncing your loyalty; it will only make you look more worthy of assassination. I despise a coward.There's hardly any sense of accomplishment. A coward is a dead man walking. There's no thrill to killing corpses.

I don't care either way who you work for. You could be an underground troll who outsources Christmas elves, and I would still have to kill you if it happened that my set of orders demanded it. It's the rules of the anarchy we breed and we must follow them in this profession. 

I'm going to give you a kiss before you go. I don't think you'll mind, because I saw you staring at my tits in the lobby. I'd fuck you but I doubt you've got a working dick left at this point. 

It would have been a lot more fun if you didn't have to die. I would have fucked you till your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

Thursday, July 25, 2013

Unwrapping a Gift

Once there was a girl bestowed with a divine and all-powerful thing. Gifted to be given a sense of the nature of a deity or its impossibility. Something ordinarily concealed from an average existence. Something hopeful and tremendously gorgeous.

Couldn't read it. Couldn't hear it. Couldn't Speak it. Didn't know a fucking thing to do with it. Fruit waiting to be plucked off of the puzzled boughs of her mind; fruit ripe and possibly rotting. At the expense of her youth, she mauled at her thoughts alone, blessed with a lovely thing she couldn't see until she broke herself into bitter, untouched, and irrelevant pieces.