Showing posts with label Petite Grim Reaper. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Petite Grim Reaper. Show all posts

Saturday, February 16, 2013

What to say, how to explain, who cares.

After spending a whole month struggling with two chapters, I wrote two more in the last week/ ten days.
The very last one is death and despair. Which is good. It reminds me of what writing should be about. A good kick in the behind. Reading can be pleasant, informative, a way to kill time and all that. But sometimes, just sometimes, reading should be about as pleasant as a hand gripping your heart and squeezing it, then throwing the remaining meat to the crows. To hell with pleasant reading and my pleasant ass. There are vampires in there, not smurfs or care bears. And there is death, madness, despair, and the knowledge that no matter how long you may live, some things will not leave you, or be forgotten. They'll stay.

"If you ask me why bad things happen to people who don't deserve them, I'll tell you I don't know. I never figured that one out. Perhaps there is no why. Am I sorry about everything I did to you? Of course I am. But if I met you tomorrow, I'd do the same all over again. I can't help it. I just can't."

I can also refer to the fact there are two new erotica pieces in my arsenal. One finished two days ago, one finished about half a month ago. Both male/ male. I don't know what I am supposed to do with them except read them and feel horny, which is why they were written in the first place. But other than that... The gay couple I know can't read my English to give those pieces to them. :( I think they'd enjoy them. I think after all is said and done, gay people will give me a medal of honour. Or something. But nothing is said or done yet.

Well, there is always my homophobic friend who's really eager to read the next chapters of my story, and he has a surprise in store for him in chapters 24 and 25. That should teach him to make strange comments whenever I upload feminine men in my facebook photos.

Saturday, October 08, 2011

How to kidnap rock stars

The battle rages on… And I try to win by writing poetry. And listening to Dir en Grey, of course. What else.

I have not written here in ages. It has been a busy time. Most of the time, not in a good way. But as I said before, the battle rages on. I don’t give a flying fuck. I will win. I will win because I am on the right side. The one that has butter, that is.

I am trying to be positive. I already am A positive as a blood type. It counts for something, I guess. I also am watching the True Blood series. It has a positive impact on me. I think. Vampires and rednecks. Why the hell not. Thank you, K. for giving the series to me. I have always hated that part of US and now, watching vampires trampling rednecks underfoot I swear I would have gotten an erection if that was anatomically possible.

Ahh… There is so much I would like to write about. This time I’ll refer to a fantasy I have, if only to please my black velvet heart. I have a friend of mine who looks like a crossover between Vin Diesel and the guy from Machette, only with less scars and more ways to kill. Let’s call him P.G.R. (Initials stand for Petite Grim Reaper.) As expected, he has more male friends like him who are of equal dimensions and skills, if only to be able to play with the boys without any repercussions. Read between the lines: exchange friendly slaps and pats on each others’ backs and be casual about it. To help you understand, slaps and pats that would have knocked professional wrestlers unconscious and would have caused the average person to suffer multiple spinal fractures. So I have this fantasy of my friend P.G.R. and two of his friends knocking on the door of a specific rock star saying “packet for you sir, signed delivery please”. As soon as the rock star answers his door he’s silenced with a friendly concussion-causing knock on his head, grabbed and ushered inside a large wooden box. Next scene is taking place in a sunny green field, where I am sat on a director’s chair sipping chocolate milk from a large mug and watching those three friends playing rugby using the aforesaid rock star as a ball. There is also this curious brick wall serving no obvious purpose, built in the middle of the field. Idyllic, isn’t it? Just think about it. Think of how many times he’ll slip off their grasp and land on the ground, preferably head or face first. The number of times they’ll miss and send him though the brick wall, onto tree trunks, into the small picturesque piranha-infested stream nearby. And if he doesn’t slip we can always undress him save for a loincloth and cover him in Vaseline first, then continue. Oooooh, naughty! I think I am getting wet. I go do other things now.

PS: I had a friendly conversation with P.G.R. a few days ago. I was complaining to him about the need to practice my speaking skills in a foreign language and once more he offered to kidnap and bring me the same rock star to help me. Then he added, “of course, I’ll break his pelvis first, in case you get any funny ideas.” When I complained to him that the rock star speaks too fast and I won’t be able to follow, he offered to rip off his jaw, too, if only to assist him in speaking more slowly.