What I need asap!

I need men who are unapologetically feminine, witchy, kittenish, silly, sentimental, lovers of high heels and experts in outrageous make-up. I need women butchers and wolves and Valkyries, planners of pandemonium, movers and shakers. I want to see people who defy every gender characterisation stepping forth and making this world a better place by destroying every notion of normality, sexuality, appropriateness and categorisation. Fuck this world, fuck society, fuck normal. We're the demon lovers of those witches you did not manage to burn. We're their familiars, their cats, their succubi and incubi, their toads and sprites and their fits of madness. Fuck this world and pass on the rainbow, bitchy, fairy ammunition. We'll infiltrate this brothel of a dimension and make you desire us, fear us, worship us. Do you hear me? We'll make you wish you were us.

If you belong to my cult, here's visual material for your needs. Let me begin with a male model and continue from there...

https://www.facebook.com/valentin.van.porcelain/

https://www.facebook.com/MahafsounArt/

Now this guy can be found here...

https://www.facebook.com/marcin.nagraba.artist/

And this guy can found here.

https://www.facebook.com/tintiucmichael/

Yes, male, or rather agender. Taken from here.

Photo by girltripped.

Rain Dove, female model.

And as I said before, let the wonderful freaks come to me. Let them come out of their closets and rock my world. I need them more than ever. This world needs them more than ever. And anyone who has a problem with that can go get stuffed.
(If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.)

The 'curse' of feminism.

I did not write this, but it expresses my views and experiences on the subject. So I might as well put it on my blog.

Article taken from here:

http://viralwomen.com/post/honey_i_want_you_to_stop_being_a_feminist

My mother phoned a few weeks ago, and she sounded purposeful but hesitant, like she had finally worked up the courage to tell me something important. 'Honey,' she said, her voice broken with concern. 'I want you to stop being a feminist. I love you too much to see you turn into a terrorist'. As she went on about her concerns, I quietly amused myself with the thought of coming home to a room full of concerned faces and a big banner reading: INTERVENTION. Muffled sniffles of my loved ones. 'We fear it's gone too far,' someone would say. 'You need to stop being so conscientious of the social inequalities and hierarchies of power that plague this world. Before it's too late.'

I've been a feminist since before I knew there was a word for it, and it has always baffled me how it was even possible for a person not to be. If feminism is the belief that women are as human as men, that women should be able to own their bodies and make choices about their lives, who could possibly disagree with it?

It seemed so outrageously simple to me, and it confused and saddened me that so many men and women who were so clearly aligned with my beliefs, not only refused to identify as feminists, but out of some obscure understanding of feminism as a grainy, black and white montage of women burning bras and chopping off their husbands' dicks, went as far as condemning it as a destructive movement, or dismissing it as an irritable fad that needed to cease. Why weren't these people feminists? It was a question I just couldn't crack. Eventually, in the midst of flipping the bird at a group of particularly rowdy cat callers, the answer came to me: because it's easier not to be. 

Feminism is hard. Being a feminist isn't as simple as putting up your hand and saying that you think women are humans too- though that's a start. Feminism is not a mere political orientation; it's a process- a long, difficult, exhausting, and often disheartening process of unlearning every problematic 'truth' one has internalised over their life, about sex, gender and race. It involves a lot of self-education and self-reflection, which requires initiative, and a very thick skin.

A person who identifies as feminist never does so because they've been taught that it's a swell thing to be, but rather the opposite- they are feminist despite society's efforts to demonise it. You don't declare yourself a feminist expecting a pat on the back; you do it knowing there'll be backlash, knowing that your friend will roll her eyes every time you exhibit even a trace of it, knowing you'll make yourself a leper in the eyes of your cute-as-hell date, that as soon as you say the word he'll cringe away like it comes with a side of herpes and a sixth toe.

We all exist in the thick of it; of rape culture, of slut shaming, of glass ceilings, body shaming and the normalisation of humiliation porn- and it takes a certain kind of person, a certain analytical mind, a certain amount of open-mindedness and courage, to question a culture from within it. It's incredibly hard to question what you know to be true. To locate and then pick away at your own internalised misogyny, and to try to break down how it came to form such a fundamental part of your understanding of gendered identities. To sit there and think, 'So why do I think that wearing a short skirt legitimates rape? Why do I think women's hormones make them inferior professionals? Why do I think that women are bad at math? That sex is something masculine; what men enjoy and women endure? Who told me that? And most importantly, why?'

I feel like being a feminist is a lot like having shards of shattered glass in your body that you have to painstakingly remove one by one. Some shards are hidden so deep, lodged so stubbornly that it may take you years, or even a lifetime to locate, let alone remove. Unlearning internalised misogyny is something you must do alone, and navigating the twisted labyrinths of your own prejudices is not a happy pastime. The truth is that it hurts, so much, to be a feminist, and to consume or be involved in feminist dialogue.

It is gut wrenching to learn about the 8-year-old Yemen girl who died of sexual injuries on her wedding night to her 40 year old groom. It is soul crushing to see the slut shaming and victim-blaming that followed the brutal assault of actress Christy Mack, who is now in need of a facial reconstruction after having her skull crushed in by an MMA fighter's vengeful fist. It is infuriating to learn that sex education practitioners still pass around chocolates around the classroom, to demonstrate how the more a woman is touched, the 'dirtier' she becomes, the less fit she will be for male consumption, and thus, the less she will be worth as a human being.

It's impossible to become immune to images and tales of misogyny, and it's incredibly painful to have to seek out these images, to follow stories of the shaming, abuse, rape and death of women, day after day, to expose old wounds and create new ones, in the name of education. It is so, so difficult, and nobody tells you that.

Feminism is not for the faint hearted. God, I wouldn't wish it upon anybody. But alas, I believe in feminism like I believe the earth is round, like I believe that burritos are delicious and that Mark Ruffalo is beautiful. So for all of you poor bastards that have been cursed with the belief that women are full human beings who deserve to live as they please, and feel the need to label yourself with the dreaded F-word, my deepest condolences to you.

If you feel like you're consuming or contributing to feminist dialogue only to be filled with sadness and dread, hang in there. If you feel like you're constantly defending your character against people who deem feminism to be a pollutant of it, aren't we all? If you feel like you're a little sammie swimming upstream, it's because you are. And you're a damn soldier for it. 

Gia London

(via stuff.co.nz)

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.

Exceptional

Combining talent, humor and sensational movement. Him being French is just an extra bonus for me, since I love the damn chauvinists. Anyone who doesn't like belly dancing, or deviations of the norm (like male belly dancers) can go watch something else.

Enjoy.

Male/ male erotica.

Picture taken from http://www.reviewsbyjessewave.com/

Please visit if you're interested in reading reviews on male/ male erotica books.

I am a re-reading a collection of male/male erotica I have, Flesh and The Word 2. The one who compiled it as well as commented on various parts of it is a man, John D. Preston. The same goes for almost every writer in there, save for three or four women. It gave me a bunch of thoughts to deal with and try to unravel.

Now, I myself write male/ male erotica, and I've read some, including yaoi, which is Japanese comics focusing on male/ male relationships written and drawn by women. To be honest I have not read that much of this genre. The vast majority of m/m erotica I come across is written by girls to be read by other girls. Most of it is godawful. It's not about men having sex but about a female fantasy, and to be more precise, a teenage female fantasy, of men having sex. I am not sure why so many teenage girls find the idea of a male/ male erotica piece more appealing that the idea of a male/ female or a female/ female. Perhaps the disassociation from their own bodies and gender restrictions allows them to experience greater freedom in expressing themselves. There is only one catch. Not having the necessary equipment (penis and testicles) nor the hormone responsible for the function of the aforesaid equipment (testosterone) effectively deprives a woman of knowing what it feels like to have sex like a man does. And I am obviously not referring to receiving sex anally since both sexes have an anus. Even from that aspect, men happen to have the prostate at very close proximity, something again a woman cannot know what it feels like. But even more than that, how can a woman possibly know what it feels to have an erection, or to ejaculate?

With that in mind, let me touch on what bothers me even more than lack of a penis.

Men are not women. I am not going to analyse why that is and whether it is social conditioning that creates differences in our behaviour, or whatever. I am not a biologist or a sociologist. I just take it as a given fact. Men are not women. They don't function in the same way. They are not attracted by the same things, and more than anything else, they don't behave like women. Here is the key to understanding why most m/m erotica written by women is about as related to men having sex with other men as the Muppet Show is related to porn.

Men don't speak like women. They don't engage in long winding descriptions of how they feel. They don't use pretty words when they fuck. In fact, as soon as a good rock-hard erection steps in the game, you can safely presume that the vocabulary drops down to perhaps one hundred words, a large portion of which are swearwords. The blood goes somewhere else. Brain switches off. Fact.

Gay men don't walk hand in hand and murmur sweet nothings to each other's ear in public view. When they have a relationship, neither of the two is the 'wife'. They don't give vows of everlasting love under candlelight, in beds with rose petals. They are not cute.They tend to fart, burp and curse as much as any man does when in the company of other men. They don't comb each other's hair or put flowers in it. And they most certainly don't have cocks of eight, nine and ten inches each. Pretty please. Have mercy. If you think that gay erotica is about substituting Snow White with a second Prince Charming, then you need to learn the ropes. And while you're at it try taking a wrist thick, eight inches dick up the ass and then we'll discuss about how easy it is.

I have gay men in my circle of friends and acquaintances. Sometimes I had had to ask them some very awkward questions concerning how they practice and experience sex. And I love to read gay erotica written by men. There is a multitude of feelings and sensations I cannot describe or convey. There's something purely hormonal, animalistic and raw about the way they experience sex and attraction. Something urgent, straightforward, bordering on the violent. They are not attracted to the same things a woman would be attracted when she ogles a man. I personally don't know any woman that would find tufts of armpit hairs sticking out an exciting sight. I also don't know of any women who would enjoy licking them. Most women would not blatantly admit to enjoy rimming. (Licking  and probing with your tongue your partner's anus). Probably some do, but how many chances are there to come across a scene of a woman rimming her male partner in mainstream erotica? Slim to none, methinks. And this is why most m/m erotica written by women just doesn't work. Perhaps it will get another woman horny, but not a gay man. Which is neither good or bad. It just is.

With that said and done, let's see how I'll fare in that particular field. Hehe. I am really curious... But all in due time.

Hmmmmmm...

Because people will always mouth off stupidities and tell you what you can do... or cannot do, according to your gender.

Fuck me sideways Mr. Illan.

Friends from afar

I would not possibly be still alive if it wasn't for my imagination. Whenever I have been depressed, angry or overwhelmed by reality I run in its arms the same way a scared child runs back to their mother's embrace. In a sense, my imagination has been my mother in a lot more ways than my mother ever has.

However, every gift comes with a an equal price: my imagination runs wild. It's natural for me. I never had younger siblings, so I spent long hours on my own. I tend to project my inner world to the outside just like people do. I literally live in there and consequently get very annoyed that I have to drag around my humble mortal body as well. However my inner world overwhelms, overruns and exceeds other people's worlds the way an ocean outweighs a spoonful. Things are so much more interesting, grotesque, humorous, violent, wonderful and versatile in my own world. 

One downside of this is I often imagine what people are like and fill in the gaps with my inner palette of feelings, colours, ideas. I give them my characteristics and my intentions. I create them anew in my head, dressing them with characteristics they don't possess or imagining that they can't be that bad.

They can.

And now we come to you.

We don't really know each other.

I have never heard you laugh. Never seen you cry. I have not held you in my arms. Never kissed you or sniffed you (as I am so intent on doing whenever we visit each other in dreams.)

Are you sure you know me?

You see, I often think I know others but it turns out I know my fantasy of them. Not the real people. And then I get hurt. And the one thing I do not want to do is hurt you in any way.

I know things about you.

I feel things about you.

Yet the picture of you I have in my head  is my creation.

Let me tell you what I think I know.

You're giving. Giving to a fault sometimes if someone gets past your defenses. You're also giving because you're not interested in material things. You're not stupid or gullible, just indifferent to the concept of possession. You like items for what they give you, not for the item per se.

You're loyal for life. Unless something changes in the relationship, you'll be the last person to leave the boat. Even if it sinks and there are sharks around it, you'll stay. You're in for the long haul.

You're extremely intelligent, both emotionally and mentally. Your mind is restless and always quick to jump from one thing to the next. If you get bored of something or someone, you'll get rid of them, even if you change your mind afterwards. But the way you have grown up has left you very little space for long-lasting regrets.

You're headstrong and volatile. If something annoys you, you won't suffer it for a second longer than you have to. And it takes you a lot of time to admit to yourself that you need to make or embrace changes, because that same characteristic that makes you headstrong is what has kept you alive and sane. Your adamant core refuses to break and also makes you respond more slowly to change. However, once you are certain that it is for good, you're one of the people that will let go immediately and jump to the next phase. From that aspect, you're one of the most kamikaze and rush forward individuals I know. You don't rush because you're foolhardy but because you're certain.

You are one of the most talented people I have come across. You have a unique sense of colour and texture and know how to combine elements in a way that is ingenious, balanced, elegant and beautiful. Your hands make music out of anything they touch, whether it's paper, colour, cloth or a musical instrument. Your 'melodies' are at the same time deep like ancient waters and delicate like lace. And I have seen you creating music with so many different items that most people view as surfaces.

You make reality sing songs of haunting beauty and feelings so intense the majority can't even suspect they exist.

You make others laugh. Your friends me tell how playful you are and I believe them. You're like a little teasing bee. I can see you sometimes, always restless, busy with something or other. You need to drop dead with exhaustion to stop.

You're beautiful. I do not refer to your good looks only. You're beautiful as a bird or an animal is beautiful. Natural and not self apologetic.

Your kindness springs from the well of pain. It is not sugar coated with ignorance but has a coppery taste instead. Like blood and water coming from the deepest core of the earth. Coming out to bless this world, reality, the whole of existence. You make flowers grow in people's hearts and gardens.

You hide under a million guises and half-spoken phrases. You hide behind cautious glances, you hide behind thoughts, silences, words, smoke screens, doubts, and the secret pleasure that it's a game played at your own time. And you're safe. If you choose the timing and the amount of information you'll disclose you're safe.

I wish, I wish, I wish I could have kept us both safe back then. I wish I could have opened a door and guided you the center of my heart, inside my secret garden. You and your brother and your two sisters. But I could not. I cannot. No matter how much I wish, no matter how much I try. Even if I knock my fists against the wall of reality till my knuckles are reduced to bloody shreds I can't. We only have today and tomorrow and the next day.

But we can build a garden together.

I promise you it will be safe. I promise that even the roses in there will have no thorns.

For as long as you want to stay.

You'll be safe.

It is official.

It is indeed. I understand nothing.

I have an authority problem.

I have issues.

I also have many cats.

I want to go and hide somewhere so that I don't have to talk to people anymore.

I want to shave my head and wear on it a pot with flowers.

I want to fuck half a million people.

I don't want to fuck anyone ever again. Safe, my head screams. You're safe. You must be crazy to want to get in trouble again. Think of what can go wrong. Pregnancy, disease, falling in love and losing control, getting hurt. You're safe in this place of non- action. And all this danger, all this risk, for what? Getting sex that you don't even enjoy? You must be mad.

Indeed. But I may change my mind in a month or ten minutes from now. And I probably will.

All this thinking gets me tired and depressed and gets nothing done.

If you ask me what I want to do, the answer is never again get involved with anyone on any level.

If pigs had wings they would fly. Naturally.

It's almost hilarious.

I am running away again. At maximum speed.

I wish I was more consistent in the way I feel.

I wish I was uncaring.

I must discover a different way of being and feeling.

I am a member in thealterium.com, an alternative social network. Like Facebook but with no censorship. Nudity is allowed, in fact encouraged. They are pretty much nice guys and girls there. But the roles I can play are limited. Yes, yes, yes, I can put pictures of my ass and get many flattering comments. But I am not an ass, or a pair of boobs, or my vagina. I am a human being. There is so much more to a human being than just body parts.

The game is played with flawed rules.

I refuse to play the game with such rules.

And then I wonder why I feel I lack something and what am I doing wrong, as the game can only be played with the aforesaid rules.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. And so tired I feel someone turned me upside down and emptied my very soul out of my body.

It's your fault.

I can think of three people I can accuse for my present state of being. But accusing others for where you stand is just silly. If you don't like it go somewhere else.

I need to get more tattoos done on me. They won't help me resolve my confusion, but they may prevent me from getting laid, or even help me get laid. I am not sure what would be worse at this point.

[All the above can be concentrated in ONE word: scared.]

Busy...

...with a million things. Trying to change myself. Trying to become better at what I do, no matter what that is. Also trying to work out the mundane bit of life. Very hard.

Money problems drive me up the wall.

Reworking past poems. They give me hell.

Reworking past stories. Usually typing them. Boring.

Taking photos of myself, too. In some of them I resemble an old whore, in some of them I look like an alien. My charming dark circles in combination with my olive skin give the impression I haven't slept properly in months. And it's a pity because I love to take photos, especially when they have an interesting theme, like beautiful handmade clothes or a darker theme. I can't pull that off anymore with the weight I have gained, but I may try to do some unusual make-up in my next batch. 

Here is a decent one:

You can see my fat orange cat sleeping like a log in the background!

The big stage production called life

Dear Elizabeth,

you are the genuine article of strangeness. Sometimes, I cannot understand you at all.

Your feelings live a separate existence from you, pretty much like your personality does. You observe what is happening but very often you don't really identify it as your own. I doubt there is a single thing you identify as your life or you. Most of the time, you are trying to scrape an existence by mimicking behaviours considered acceptable. Like a person who has never learned acting does when they suddenly find themselves on stage. You keep glancing at what the other actors say and do and try to understand what is expected from you. You are too intelligent for your own sake and have managed to blend in so well that no-one has a clue that you are not an actor, or part of the show. They even find your moments of awkwardness or puzzlement endearing. You are doing such a good job you have almost believed it yourself. And day after day you go to the same place and do what is expected from you, but deep in your heart you hide the same panic of that first time you found yourself on stage. That sooner or later, someone will look at you and understand you're a stranger, an imposter that has no right to be there. You're not an actor. You're not part of all that. How come you're playing this role, you'll never understand. You're no part of it and you'll never be.

You form friendships and manage to make yourself irreplaceable. You know what to say and when. You manage to worm your way into their deepest secrets and the inner chambers of their hearts, and when you find yourself there, you don't know what you're supposed to do. You say to yourself that you care, and perhaps you do care after a fashion. But at the same time you know it's going to last as much as it is going to last and then game over. Nothing is forever, nothing is really important. Life is about change and endings and new beginnings, all of them as important and as trivial as the ones before them. You know it's all dust in the end. And you're not even certain you care about it.

You fall in love and the chemicals of your brain have a party with your glands and the rest of you. You desire, you crave, you want the other person's attention, you want to be one with them. You say to yourself that you want them, but lately I have the strong suspicion that you merely want to use them as anchors to this nonsensical reality. You know they're not really important, just what you need right now to advance in your learning, and afterwards... afterwards you'll get over them. The fast way or the slow painful way, you'll get over them. They are anchors, they're things to be used or to use you for as long as necessary. Necessary for what? Probably to feel that you're no different than the rest of the people you see around you. You have a life, friends, a love interest. Therefore, you belong somewhere. You are safe, and other such bullshit you don't really believe for one moment. You just need it for your disguise as a human.

You look at yourself in the mirror and you see your face and body change and really wonder who that person is. Yes, you feel familiar with your body in the same way someone would have felt familiar with a T-shirt they wear every day, but at the same time you often stare at it in bewilderment, in wonder, and with genuine restlessness. You wonder when you'll be allowed to finally shed it because it's faulty and uncomfortable and it cannot do half of the things you were used to. You don't hate it, just wear it in the same way an actor has to wear a really uncomfortable article of clothing for as long as the show lasts. And you wonder when the day will come that someone will come and smile and caress your hair and say to you, "it's over now. You don't have to do this anymore. We can go home." And you'll cry in their arms, and those will be the first genuine tears in your entire life.

You know Elizabeth, you truly make very little sense. But still love you so much that I'd kill anyone who dared look at you the wrong way...

Be brave, my little actress, and smile.

Smile as much as you can.

(If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.) 

Cute as a crocodile

I am restless. I can’t calm myself and I don’t even want to try. I partly know what’s wrong, but there is nothing I can do to make things better. Sometimes what is here bites me, sometimes what is not here cuts me. I am trapped in the exact middle of suffering. Suffering? Not really. I am trapped in the exact middle and refuse to feel anything. (See previous post). Save for my heart that yelps like an abandoned kitten and my brain that is filled to the brim and overflowing and my loins that have once more started their never-ending whining (end of period, beginning of ovulation) everything is fine. Everything is peachy. Everything is great.

I refuse. Refuse to make myself cheap, to mingle with people that drag their hearts (or what’s left of them) in the mud of every day exposure, of meaningless facebook chat, that throw their hearts in the mincing machine. I refuse to dress my heart as a whore, dress my body in a way that hints “available” and go out, to bars and cafes in order “to meet someone”. I am not “someone”, an interchangeable vague quantity. I refuse to shut up, to feign stupidity, to become “cute”. I am 5’10’’. I don’t do cute. I do tall with generous curves and vicious fists, I do tall with ritualistic tattoos, a stinging tongue and an acidic intellect. I also do vulnerable as fuck for animals and innocents. I don’t do spinster, agreeable, easy going, conventional or safe. It does not matter if my heart cries its loneliness at night because I know who I am and know what my heart needs. We’re priceless and we don’t sell out. There is no trial period, no reduced prices, no nothing. There is genuine feeling, or nothing. There is passion or silence. And even if I don’t find what I am looking for, I won’t regret it. I am not here to live a normal life. I am not here to be agreeable or charitable. I am not here to be an example for the social standards that raised all those robots that piss and shit on the planet, relationships, their children, themselves. If I wanted to be such an example I would have opened a fashion blog to advise airheads to buy $600 and $3000 shoes to be looked at as ascended deities from the Hell of credit cards. I would be “cute as a button”, “social” and married with two children, a car and a dog. I am none of these things. I hope I’ll never be.

I only wish I could feel that there is at least one person, except for my friends, that feels I am the most interesting, attractive and challenging individual he or she has seen in a long time. And that I would feel the exact same thing. But I am not here for that either. I am only here to live as best as I can with anything that this entails, relationships or lack of them, desires or lack of them, hope or lack of it. I am just here to live as best as I can, period, and if I am honest with myself the rest will follow.

In the mean time: whatever. I am looking at the wabbit and melt. Fuck off and leave me alone. I am too hard-boiled and tough to be swayed by any overdose of fluffy cuteness. That's the spirit.

*Starts making silly voices at the wabbit again because she thinks she is alone*

A meeting with Death

Ok, now I am seriously wondering.

What’s wrong with me? Have I become so skilled at suppressing my feelings I fully lost contact with them?

(And more importantly, who cares? A little voice adds here. It’s really convenient that most of the time I am numb to, well, everything.)

It’s really convenient that I care about no-one save for myself. But I don’t care even about myself that much as it seems. Well, I don’t care about anything. The feelings switch is stuck to 'off' with permanent glue and six inch nails to make it more secure. Instead of feeling, I go through the motions. Half-assed at best. I am expected to feel sadness and pretend I feel it, or happy about something and I pretend about that, too. In reality don’t feel anything. I expect nothing, hope nothing, fear so much.

Funny how I am listening to Anathema now and the lyrics say:

“Today I introduced myself/ to my own feelings./ In silent agony, after all these years,/ they spoke to me…/ After all these years.”

I dread the day the feelings will speak to me again “after all these years”.

It will be similar to a handshake with a tornado. It will rip off my hand and then my head. And that’s probably what I deserve for denying my inner voice for so long.

But you see, I somehow have to preserve my sanity. I somehow have to keep functioning, keep working 75 hours a week only to watch the mountain of bills grow bigger with each passing month. To work from day to night in order to sink more and more in debt. To deal with the fact that if I want to do something creative or simply different than eating and dropping dead on my bed I need to sleep less. To somehow deal with the loneliness that always lunges and bites me at the jugular when I am least expecting it. To deal with everything. If I let my feelings run amok the way I used to in the past I’ll resort to breaking things, screaming at people, screaming at mirrors, hurting myself, hurting others. I have been there and I don’t want to revisit that place. It’s not constructive in any way to cry about where you are. In the long run it always makes me a lot more depressed and desperate. And I can’t afford desperate and depressed right now. I have to keep my wits about me somehow, in some way, and I’ll do anything it takes to do that. Anything needs be done. I have to stay focused, sharp and NUMB.

And then something slips by. Something slips through my guard. It may be a picture on the net, or a song, or an article in the newspaper. Feelings are represented by the element of water. And you cannot imprison water. Sooner or later, water will find a way, as a friend always says. It may be a single drop, but that drop falls on my heart and burns it like acid, like boiling oil, it runs through it like a barbed spear. The pain is so intense that it gives a whole new dimension to the entire concept. It’s brilliant. It’s magnificent. It’s almost beautiful in the way anything final or lethal is beautiful as much as devastating. It cannot be ignored, suppressed or escaped in any way. It’s similar to ending a life, taking the wrong turn in a way that cannot be undone and it will always and forever live with you from that point onward. That’s the pain I experience. It’s so deep the night seems transparent in comparison, the red of blood looks pale yellow beige standing by its side. And I want to stay away from it. I want to keep it at a safe distance. I am not sure if I should blame myself for it. It’s not a passing notion; it’s not a fleeting sensation. It’s nebulae and supernovas and the end of the world distilled in one single moment. The moment the pain switch breaks the glue, spits out the nails and clicks back to the 'on' indication. Then a multitude of other feelings stampede in, and they use me as a pogo stick, with my head down, before kicking seven shades of blue and red and purple out of me. It’s not fun. Desire is the first to rush in and wrap me in its arms, kiss me in the mouth with its breath smelling of chocolate and honey and summer and run its nimble fingers all over me, setting me on fire.

“Remember me?” Desire asks. “Now look at him. Isn’t he beautiful? Wouldn’t you want to smell his hair? Wouldn’t you want to touch the back of his palms, oh, look at how beautiful his hands are, wouldn’t you want to see him with fewer clothes on? Wouldn’t you want him to look at you and feel the same, wouldn’t you want him to inhale your scent as he bites you during lovemaking? Now, don’t lie to me, because I know you want to.” And I want to, I burn with the need to. But I manage to kick Desire's groin and wring the necks of those needs fast and effectively, as if I was dealing with poisonous snakes. And run, while muttering lists with things I need to do in order to distract myself from the urgent demands of sexuality.

Then Creativity steps in. “Hello", it says. "Remember me? Don’t you want more people to read what you write? Don’t you want to speak out loud? Don’t you want to sing when so many others screech and whisper and croak when they write, while you sing? Don’t you want to free every child you have made out there, and see how they fare away from your hands?” 
I smack Creativity in the face, take my whip and force it to put that down on paper instead of yelling it into my ear. And that’s the point I manage to escape that threat. Creativity writes furiously while muttering to itself, one eye blackened, its attention diverted from me. And I run like hell only to stumble upon Death, who gives me the look he has patented and copyrighted and trademarked.

“Hello Elizabeth” Death says. “Remember me? We used to be friends.”

“That was in the past. When I thought I had plenty of time. Now I am running out of time,” I mutter nervously.

“Well, you can always pick reproduction as a means to gain immortality,” Death says with a shrug. “You know, pass on your genes et cetera.”

“What the hell?!? What are my genes to pass them on, a second hand T-shirt?” I yell at Death. “I am not falling for that!”

“And what do you think time is?” Death asks. “You cannot run out of time. There is time enough for your needs. Time is not coffee, or the Herald Tribune in order to run out of it,” he observes. He seems amused, but I am not.

“It’s a trick. Sexuality is a trick to force us reproduce because we fear you!” I shout at him while pointing with my finger. 
Death shrugs.

“First of all, I’d like you to stop pointing. It’s not polite, and you would not want me pointing at you.” I gulp and immediately stop pointing. “Now, you sound like a Cosmopolitan article gone existential Freud. I did not even know such a thing existed before now.” He makes a face as if someone added curry instead of cinnamon and salt instead of sugar to his cappuccino. “I believe you need to sleep and you need to get laid. Not simultaneously, it will be a failure from both aspects. And I cannot bother about any of those, they are your responsibility. And I suggest you sleep now, since getting laid requires company that you presently lack.”

What a perfectly wise idea. Let’s be practical and realistic. Off to bed. NOW.

PS: Damn you. You are good looking, interesting, funny, have similar political views to mine and live a few thousand miles away. This is not very helpful, you know. Or practical.

Dreams of no importance

Why do I bother myself with what your problem may be when you are out there to get what you can?

Then again, dreams have no emotional censorship. What I felt was a very powerful blast. You were trying to reach me, to get close to me, and I grabbed you by the face and pushed you away in the same manner a bored prince would push away a concubine that has tired him with her affections. You had three or four other men around you and you were truly desperate to get close. I was indifferent, treating you as an annoyance. In the same dream I could see your house and it was spotless, but there was no kitchen in there. You were only eating cold meals based on very simple and poor ingredients. You don’t feed yourself on any level. You deprive yourself of emotional nourishment because you are an idiot of the worst kind, wanting to control everything. Control again, that old friend of mine. Controlling. What an excellent way to keep yourself busy in order to avoid thinking. I do it myself…

I pushed you away and you grabbed my hand, literally begging. “Please” you said. “Send me away, but at least caress my face.”

Now in the dream I felt pity for you and was more than a little shocked; you are not the begging type. Why, I would have thought you’d rather have your nails torn out than beg, much less beg a woman, any woman. And even less me. Then again, in the dream you were writhing in the arms of those men, and even as I pushed you away you still tried to get close. You were actually tearful. That’s what shocked me the most. You were begging me with your face contorted by agony and tears in your eyes.

Can you fake it so much? My sensible, caring side asks. Can you fake so much feeling? 

You probably can. You can probably do a lot more to gain attention and steal energy.

At the same time, my dark side is having a party thinking of the delicious possibilities of me hurting you, making you beg on your knees. Something you’ll never, ever, ever do in the waking world. You’d never stoop so low as to beg a woman and me in particular. Never. That belongs to the world of dreams, of my soul visiting places of ‘what may be.’ And I’d never try to make it happen either. I don’t think I can anyway; I feel very alienated to myself to believe anyone could feel something so strong for me. It’s not even low self-esteem as much as actual alienation. I can’t identify with the person I see in the mirror and see her as a woman, much less a desirable woman. But I digress. The only real reason I do not wish to go down that path is that I am not sure I’ll be able to keep my sadistic impulses in check. And if I don’t, heh. Then god/dess help us all and me more than anyone else.

Then morning came, full of distressing news. And right now I can’t focus.

I have seen similar dreams before.

Thankfully they fade away during the day.

Thankfully you have no access to me on any level.

I am safe, both from you and my dark side.

At least for now. Later on I may be a different person and not care.

I truly hope I will.

I have an itch I cannot scratch!

And a cat I cannot pick up anymore! Or my kidneys will go "flop" and fall off and just roll on the floor before coming to a stop.

I have also missed the most important thing! Connection with the funny train I wanted to ride in order to be writing here! I caught a connection to an ordinary train and now all I can see around me is boring people and old ladies with hairs coming out of their chins. Which reminds of the fact I have a mustache I ought to be doing something about. I think I am the only person who sees this mustache. However, it is not an imaginary mustache, I swear, and it has all the appropriate conditions for taking over the world. Or the rest of my upper lip. An uncaring owner and lots of space, as well as the hormones of a body that's past thirty and not getting any younger.

Goddammit, I am sure I will wake up one day and it will have developed into a fully blooming gentleman's goatee during my beauty sleep. Perhaps it will go even further, it will cover me whole and I will transform into a female yeti! Yikes!!!

Perhaps I should add fertilizer to it then. I am not getting laid anyway, whether I am male, female or genderless. Perhaps I am hiding something interesting in my pants and don't even know it myself. I am not looking much down there, to be honest. Not much to see. Darkness, spiders, mold. It sounds like a cellar. Not a lady's lower region.

It's interesting to have undiscovered areas on one's own body, isn't? I am falling apart anyway, soon I will have detachable arms and legs on top of everything else. And as I was telling to my best friend, a detachable vagina would also be handy. I would leave it at inconspicuous places, then walk away indifferently as to avoid suspicion.

Someone might even find it and fuck it. Imagine that.

Freedom to vaginas everywhere. Donate them to people who will be nice to them. Put them up for adoption if you cannot fulfill their purpose and fill them. Perhaps someone else will do a better job than I. It's the head's problem, you see. No matter what my vagina dictates, my head refuses. So the poor thing just sings indecent songs to itself during the wee hours of the night. I think it calls out to penises in the vain hope at least one will appear. Whenever one appears, the owner is a dick too, so I just shoo them away and then the vagina complains to me like a child that has been promised ice-cream and I have not delivered.

One of these days it will rebel against me, I know. I will be trying to wash it with nice lukewarm water and gentle liquid soap and it will bite off my fingers, then jump off and run away together with my kidneys. And I won't say a word, I swear. The poor thing will have every right. I have earned it.

I think this is the right train after all. :-)))