Example of a conversation at my job.

Customer, man in his thirties: Hello, uh,  do you have any single wet hankies?

Me: Yes, I do. How many would you like?

Customer: Dunno. 3-4 I guess. They are women's stuff.

Me: Keeping your hands clean is women's stuff?

Customer: No, I mean the hankies. I wash my hands.

Me: Oh, I get it. You have a portable sink. Well done. The rest of us will just have to use hankies, I guess.

Prayer: Please Satan, Buddha, Christ, and Spaghetti  Monster, I want my next job to involve the general public as little as possible. Lighthouse keeper sounds ideal. Thank you.

Burning down the Heavens

Life is degrees of hard and absurd. Maybe it’s the planets. I can rephrase a famous poet’s last words and say I had a lover’s quarrel with God, not the world. 

These aren’t good days. These are days to stay indoors and avoid all electrical appliances. Psst. Wear a helmet too, just to be sure.

Life is also degrees of unfair, and the only actual source of solace and comfort are friends. You can pray all you want, light all the candles that you want, but there will be no answer. Or maybe I am persona non-grata, and the rest of you are fine with the Almighty Asshole, so don’t listen to me. Pray on. See if He gives a fuck.

I scratch my head as I am considering ways of burning down the heavens. So far I’ve disregarded three plans and I am looking for possible flaws in a fourth.

I am also considering having more tattoos and blowing my brains out, but those are just silly thoughts, the exasperation of the slave that has been a punching bag, a toilet girl, and ashtray and a mule for her entire life. Oh, did I mention free therapist/ healer as well? Write that down under everything else. Now look at the title, it has my name, my photo, and the 'mysterious' inscription ‘idiot-sucker-moron’ next to it. In impressive big red letters. With the additional information/clarification “desperate to please” noted just under that. What a CV.

I valiantly offer my middle finger and piss on the shadow of every power hungry pantheon of the planet. I am so sick of you, you fucking pushers, pimps and bullies of human despair. I shit on you. I defy you. I deny you. I’ll make you pay, Spider Jerusalem style. I swear I will, even if it takes away everything I have. I haven’t got much left to begin with, since you took it all away. Sanity isn’t compatible with the kind of life I am left with.

I refuse to live here. I want to pack my stuff and leave, go away to some plane that isn’t governed by deities with a small dick and a big opinion on themselves and their equally small-minded Renfield-like followers. Those sad idiots do the dirty work for free, they are so narrow-minded and easy to control that they create a living hell in a place that was supposed to be neutral ground aspiring to heaven. And I see these humans everywhere. Everywhere. They are the threshold keepers, always knowing better and deciding whether you are to be allowed in the ‘elite’ or not. They are the priests, or the defenders of normality in various positions, telling you what is normal and what isn’t natural and God looks down upon you and will burn you for it. They are politicians, licking the asses of each other and the asses of multinational corporations and banks and stepping on the backs of everyone else. They are even the rude person who steals your place in a queue, the neighbour that minds your business instead of theirs, the parent who raised you to be unhappy for the rest of your life.

By the curses of my grandmother, I fart in their weddings and shit on their properly mowed grass. They can go suck my fuck.

I want an exploding vagina. I want big fucking guns and ammunition. I want lethal boobs. I want to rid humanity of a few dozen deities who drink the blood of the innocents and revel in our pain and entrapment. I want to squash these bloated leeches who are feasting on our dreams, our happiness and our good fortune. I want to stomp and dance on their corpses. I want to find a way to bring down the veil and release the planet of this tyranny. First and foremost I want to release myself from their tyranny. 

They say if you want something, really want something, you might get it. I won’t leave this to chance. I'll work towards it. We’ll see. You’ll see. You have been warned.

Aristocratic

 

Would you look at that. Those fingers, those nails.

And I presently look like a homeless woman who's trying to give birth to the Antichrist through a zit on her forehead. Or maybe I am on my way to becoming a unicorn. The possibilities are endless.

Wah.

:-/

Go away, 2013. Just go away.

You suck.
[Sherlock]

An urgent announcement

http://dangerousminds.net/comments/awesome_native_american_grandmothers_capture_and_burn

This made me laugh like a mad woman. Way to go ladies!!!

Ever tried googling your name?

Here are some of the weirdest (and least related) results I got after I googled Elizabeth V in images:

Maybe more related than I think, this one. xD

It's amazing.

If my life was a comic, there would be no background in the panels. Every single frame would be filled to the brim with brain flotsam and jetsam and random whatnots. That's what I do. I manage to squeeze in humble everyday life insane amounts of tasks in order to avoid thinking. Thinking makes me depressed and depressed is not good. 

I think it's time to start threatening deities again. I am good at it. The deities can testify it. If something happens to me you should all know that the usual suspects are Jehova, Raphael and some asslicks of similar magnitude. Now that I said "asslicks", I just remembered popular Supernatural (the series) swearwords. Bobby uses "eejits" but the medal goes to angel Castiel for his ingenious "assbutt". A man after my heart, Castiel. I love you for managing to fit the word ass twice in one swearword. Four ass-cheeks in one go. And there's always Alistair, a demon, referring to angels as, "you righteous dicks!" Oh indeed. With exceptions, of course.

I got my short stories back, corrected by an editor. I opened one of them, saw countless red lines. Closed the document again and went away to clip my nails. The next day I opened another. Another red sea there. I closed it and went to feed the geese. (I have no geese but I am sure you know what I mean.) It was the same with essays in my university years. I would go home, clean everything, re-arrange furniture, fold all my clothes in the closets (because if your closet is in disarray, you obviously cannot write an essay. It's self-explanatory. Closets are vital to essay writing) and then I'd go grocery shopping. In the supermarket, I would put goods back on their right place on the shelves, making exasperated remarks on the irresponsibility of people. When I went back home, I'd spend copious amounts of time re-arranging everything on my desk. Doing the laundry. Taking a shower. Anything to delay writing the damn essay. I'd enlist for an astronaut if it was possible. Same with the short stories now. I only started going through them after a month and a half. And now, instead of checking them I write in my blog. Procrastinating? No way!

I go now. I need to feed the bears. The polar bears. :) See you later.

The voices inside my head.

Liz: No, no, don't do it that way. Too easy. It's just too easy. Plus, if every time something wrong happens she appears and saves the day, there is no stopping it. She'll be deus ex machina every goddamn time. You can't do this.

Elizabeth: Yeah, smartass. And what do you propose? He saw them, he will alert the rest. What if they kill him? This is the logical thing to do.

Elizadeath: I want to die. It's all meaningless. I don't know why I bother writing. It's going to be a failure anyway. I'll never be good enough. English is not my first language. Why do I even try?

Liz and Elizabeth in one voice: SHUT UP, MORON.

Liz: They can't kill him. She won't allow it, and none is powerful enough to do it. He has to stay alive. But if he remains alive, cut the memory loss crap. It just isn't a good idea. Work your way around it.

Elizabeth: For the fuck of love. Why make things complex? He saw them, she erased his memory. If he dies it will be World War three in London. The Overseers from the other capitals will fly there and then London will be turned upside down. Two out of three protagonists will have to flee. How the hell am I supposed to write a book with two of them in different countries?

Elizadeath: I have become so fat. My tummy is like I am pregnant. I will never get laid again. Look at how white my hair has become. I want to die. I want to eat an ice-cream. Everything is meaningless.

Liz and Elizabeth: SHUT UP, MORON.

Liz: Plus the "erase the memory" thing is basic in Identity Crisis. You cannot do that, you know it's not really a solution. You really need to find another way of doing it. Even if it means killing him.

Elizabeth: I thought about that. I am not sure I can handle the way this will go if I kill him. Simple solutions always work best.

Liz: That's not a simple solution. It's a sell-off. You can do better than insult the intelligence of your readers. You need to find another way to do it. Quit it already with the 'no can do' routine. You can, and you'll do.

Elizabeth: Arrrrrghhhhh I hate you! I fucking hate you! You make my life hell!

Liz: But you know I am right.

Elizadeath: Stop arguing. You're giving me a headache. Life is meaningless. No-one loves me.

Liz and Elizabeth: SHUT UP, MORON.

Elizadeath: Whatever. I am making tea. Who wants some tea?

Liz: Roasted Japanese tea for me.

Elizabeth: Vanilla flavoured black tea for me.

Elizadeath: Fuck you. I am making some rosemary. Make your own.

Liz: Eat my shit and die.

Elizabeth: Get stuffed.

Elizadeath raises her middle finger to both and goes off to make tea.

Both pictures taken from here: http://pavel-petel.tumblr.com/

Concentration exercises

So what do you do when you finish the first book?

Naturally, you continue to the second. Especially since the first book offers no conclusion whatsoever, but rather, leaves the readers hanging high and dry. And cursing. You don't  know if this is what will happen, which means, the readers being hooked enough to feel personally wronged and cheated if you leave them at that point at the end of the book. You hope it will. At least if you were a reader, you wouldn't just curse, you'd threaten the author with tortures that would make demons blanch. Only it's too damn hot to write, or think. Or even scratch yourself. So you manage to write about half a chapter and even the sound of the keyboard lulls you to sleep.

Still you have a second book to finish. And there is the matter of the edited short stories you need to check.

Bah. So damn sleepy to do any of that. So damn sleepy to keep my eyes open.

Only I am at work. :P

Summer's here

Translation: if I could spend my days half-immersed in a barrel of water and do everything from inside the barrel, I would. I'd fit those small wheels at the bottom and move around. I'd wear a bikini and air my luscious tummy. And splash water on passers by.

I received my edited short stories back. I have not looked at them yet. Or rather I did take a look, but that's about it. I did not bother further. At some point I need to go through the corrections and see what I'll keep from the changes. Noticed my saying, "at some point". It's not as simple as it seems. At least judging from the dreams I see, where I am trying to protect a baby from vampires that mysteriously kill the family and realise at some point that the vampire is the child itself. Child= creation. I need to protect both myself and my creation.

Come on, two chapters left. Move your ass and write them. Two bloody chapters to finish the damn book. Come on, girl. Write and stop your bellyaching.

Bah.

Voodoo and stainless steel panties.

I was reading about Voodoo, Hoodoo, African indigenous religions and Santeria for two or three hours yesterday. It was research for the novel. It paid off, but if someone was to see the history of my computer they'd rub their eyes at first and pack their stuff immediately afterwards.

I realised that the super handsome guy with the long black hair who has been a regular at a penpal's  Facebook is one of the four members of Apocalyptica. In fact the one I consider the funniest and handsomest of all four. That's why he looked familiar. *facepalm* I had not realised, partly because my penpal/ friend never told me and partly because remembering long Finnish names is not my forte. Then again she never said anything about composing or contributing to a lot of their songs either. That calls for some serious ass whacking as soon as I get her ass in my hands.  Not for any other reason, but because I suspect this is merely the tip of the iceberg of what she has not told me. I know she is reading my blog, so buying herself a stainless steel pair of panties for our first meeting sounds like advice she should take. After I cuddle her to her near death, a spanking is in order. Of course, with her being in Japan and everything it seems highly unlikely I'll ever do meet her. Don't ask me what she's doing in Japan. I don't know. She hasn't told me. *sigh and aaarghhh*

I think I am about to finish the first book(?) of my trilogy (???). It came sooner than I expected, after using a tool called 'word count' (bwahaha :D) and the realisation it's actually a good point to stop. But even as I start tying loose ends, I can't help wondering. Wondering about a lot of things. Phoooey. My friend H. says he will read it although in his case the meter for homophobia would show a solid eleven in a climax of ten. In fact he said some very sweet things to me yesterday and helped me snap out of my depression. :) We may disagree on a lot but in his case there is one thing I can count on. He loves me, just as I love him. If he sees me happy, he'll be happy. And he's a person who has always had absolute faith in my writing. I cannot thank him enough for that.

I want ice cream. :P Served on the smooth skin of a teenage elven boy. :P :P :P

I'll say something that is perhaps self-explanatory, or has been said far too often.

Thank God/dess for music, for without music I wouldn't have those last negligible bits of sanity left in me.

Thank the entire Universe for art and the kindness of strangers.

I need to write a blog entry on Jesus Christ. Maybe next time.

Lower back not functioning = hours of fun

Which is exactly what's happening right now. My lower back gave up on me. Funny thing being, I did nothing to provoke it. But since I have a medical history of damage and pain there I just shrugged and accepted my fate. It's not like I can get hold of the pain and scribble on the envelope 'Unknown receiver. Return to sender', then put it back in the post box and get rid of it. 

Unless this has happened to you personally, you cannot imagine what it's  like to have it. From a functioning human you are transformed to a person with special needs. You cannot move your legs normally. You cannot use the bathroom because lowering yourself on the toilet is a very long and delicate process. You can't even get up from bed. You have to try and find a combination of using your arms, legs and body in a way that doesn't hurt.

I have spent the entire day alternatively giggling and crying out. I have a very good relationship with insects and animals, so I feel like a tortoise or a beetle that found itself flat on its back and cannot turn around. I smell that intense odour of ointments and patches, something like camphor and menthol and something else. Unsurprisingly, all that comes to mind concerning my present sexual appeal is a combination of a cupboard and an invalid. I have three patches on my lower back one after the other in parade. I am thinking about arranging them in a triangle next time, to imitate the Bermuda triangle and hopefully make the pain vanish. I wear a special medical belt, walk with a limp and giggle non-stop as I remember Igor from Frankenstein Junior saying "walk this way". I can easily be confused with someone who was fucked to her near death last night. Yes, I could be the poster girl for intense sexual activity at advanced age. Picking up or carrying weight is a joke, like trying to pick up a safe using chopsticks. Weight increases pain without warning and I drop things on the floor. Picking them up is another joke.

Generally speaking, I wait patiently for the pain to subside and go away. I can't do much about it. I wish I could  be in bed right now, but it's impossible. So I cringe my teeth, work and giggle. Don't try this at home kids. Really, don't. I pity all those people who have this as a chronic condition. :(

Ass hugger, or, fapping my days away over a keyboard

Once I had said to a friend of mine that I am an ass connoisseur. Well, indeed I am. I regret nothing.

Why try to hide it; if other people’s destinies lie in the stars, mine is located somewhere near the anal cavity. There is no escape from the pull of the ass. The ass holds for me the gravity of its bigger cousin, the black hole. The ass is grandiose, funny and sexy at the same time. It sings. It can kill with a single whiff. You can caress it and kiss it, slap it, fondle it, bite it. Knead it and massage it to your heart’s content. Pour chocolate on it. Draw on it. Dress it, hug it, squeeze it and call it George. You can find it on both sexes, it’s not exclusive equipment like the penis, the vagina. Boobs don’t count. They, too, can be found on both sexes.

But the ass. The ass is beguiling. It holds tight onto its secrets. It can be stubbornly shut to any approach. Demands respect because it does the dirty job and rarely complains. Poor ass. So underestimated in your struggle for freedom and recognition. So divine in your humble guise. Two perfect semicircles with so much heart in them.

By the way, I needn’t worry about finding a writer’s pseudonym. I am sure I’ll be nicknamed the trench coat author. Not because I wear trench coats often (which I do) but because all my readers will be wearing them, in order to be able to read my wonderful books on the tube, or in the bus, and masturbate without attracting too much attention.

I return to my writing.

Yours in ass appreciating bliss,

Elizabeth Fap

Ass connoisseur and writer extraordinaire.

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