As time stops.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Rendered
I trip into
Another time,
Into a place where you used to be mine;
This hollow soul
Has gone astray,
Waiting for another rainy day;
Trick-or-treat,
It tastes so sweet!
I want it all,
But I get defeat...
I feign my spiritual suicide,
Destroyed by what I put inside!
-----------------------------------------------------
Would you take my heart?
Would you take my soul?
Well, I'm giving you everything,
When I give you control!
-----------------------------------------------------
I denied you,
When I fell:
I sold my soul for a life in hell...
And though I ran,
So far away,
Now I'm back, and I'm here to stay;
Now I lay me
Down to sleep;
I pray the lord my soul to keep...
I'm tearing down the walls within -
- And giving you my heart again!
-----------------------------------------------------
Would you take my heart?
Would you take my soul?
Well, I'm giving you everything,
When I give you control!
-----------------------------------------------------
(Trick-or-treat,
It tastes so sweet!
I want it all,
But I get defeat...
I feign my spiritual suicide,
Destroyed by what I put inside!)
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Rough sex
So I was talking with a friend today, and she asked me if I liked rough sex (yes, there was a perfectly good explanation for the existence of that context, no worries), and I answered, "90% no, 10% yes."
Which is 100% true.
It bores the fuck out of me.
But I hadn't really thought about it beyond that, and I suppose I probably should - seeing as how I am the guy who refuses to do, be, say, or in any way acknowledge anything unless it makes perfect logical sense. Yes, I know every girl is hard-wired to crave rough sex like monkeys crave bananas - and no, that allegory wasn't coincidental AT ALL. And, of course, I'm hard wired just the same way. That leads me to number 1 on my list of reasons I don't like rough sex:
1) FUCK my hard-wiring. I'm better than that. My body is the only thing determined by my genes; front end behavior is 110% choice. Giving in to natural impulses is... of course, totally natural. It's also completely fruitless, contributes to absolutely nothing at best, and outright prevents progress at worst - as proven by a few thousand years of human social history. And worst tends to be the norm.
2) Meaningless. Really rough sex really should best be described as "banging," because it so perfectly represents what is essentially a random, undirected cacophony of two objects chaotically thrashing each other with nothing but brute-force. How the hell can that be anything but boring to anybody? You might as well just go at it with toys or your hand; once you stoop to the level of simply having sex to achieve orgasm, it really doesn't matter whether you're doing it with somebody else, with a machine or with a doorknob for all I care - it's just a simple mechanical act from start to finish intended to culminate in exactly one result: spurt spurt, quiver quiver. No meaning, no significance, no value; at that point, your "partner" really is just an object - and so are you.
3) Boring. Once again, there is nothing special about chaos; you know exactly how this is going to end, so why ever do it more than once? Are you really so addicted to the fleeting hormone high and skin flush that you'd trade your potential for a meaningful exchange between two unique people for a simple act of mutual hedonism that could be done with anybody at all? That's not fun; that's called social dysfunction. You should probably see your therapist. While you do that, I'll be having genuinely therapeutic sex.
4) Too much work. Guys aren't constructed like women. We're predisposed to blowing our loads after 30 seconds, and anything you ladies get beyond that is sheer charity on the part of your guy, assuming he works out and is actually capable of control, that is. I can last as long as I'd like while having sex, and it doesn't require anything more than a 3 second position change every fifteen minutes or so. 2000 thrusts per minute requires actual concentration - and who are we kidding? Ladies get to sit back and enjoy the ride; that's really beside the point, but the simple fact is that sex is supposed to be 100% enjoyable for both people involved. So I'm going to take it easy and savor the experience.
For those of you poor ladies who have trained yourself to be unable to get off without your motorized toys or a guy willing to imitate one by 'roughing you up all night long'... I seriously feel bad for you; you choose what you enjoy, and if you chose the only nonsensical option out of the giant book of perfectly reasonable other ones, it's going to backfire on you. You're going to run into a roadblock in your late 30s or 40s where you suddenly realize that the guys your age have figured out that they don't have to go out of their ways to entertain you, and might actually resent you for expecting it - and then you end up one of those nasty ladies going after guys half your age because you can't get your dysfunctions satisfied by guys more mature than you. Sucks pretty hardcore, don't it?
-- just the way you like it.
But I'm not the least bit jaded about being the only sane person in a world full of cuntomatons.
Not one bit.
Nor am I even slightly offended that it seems impossible to find a decent woman who hasn't learned her concept of sex either from watching porn or from long couch sessions with "Dr. Jackrabbit XIVI model no.6000-2."
- or from "romance" (read: porn, duh?) novels... don't even get me fucking started on that crap.
(As if women weren't high maintenance enough? All I can contribute anymore is an unenthusiastic "wtf" for the sake of principle). At least my being "high maintenance" makes the world a better place.
Am I just trying to find worthy women in the wrong country, or what? I'm intimately familiar with all the various typical sexual dysfunctions of American women, obviously - but is it really just American women? Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?
Some lovely woman from another country needs to weigh in on this, please.
Which is 100% true.
It bores the fuck out of me.
But I hadn't really thought about it beyond that, and I suppose I probably should - seeing as how I am the guy who refuses to do, be, say, or in any way acknowledge anything unless it makes perfect logical sense. Yes, I know every girl is hard-wired to crave rough sex like monkeys crave bananas - and no, that allegory wasn't coincidental AT ALL. And, of course, I'm hard wired just the same way. That leads me to number 1 on my list of reasons I don't like rough sex:
1) FUCK my hard-wiring. I'm better than that. My body is the only thing determined by my genes; front end behavior is 110% choice. Giving in to natural impulses is... of course, totally natural. It's also completely fruitless, contributes to absolutely nothing at best, and outright prevents progress at worst - as proven by a few thousand years of human social history. And worst tends to be the norm.
2) Meaningless. Really rough sex really should best be described as "banging," because it so perfectly represents what is essentially a random, undirected cacophony of two objects chaotically thrashing each other with nothing but brute-force. How the hell can that be anything but boring to anybody? You might as well just go at it with toys or your hand; once you stoop to the level of simply having sex to achieve orgasm, it really doesn't matter whether you're doing it with somebody else, with a machine or with a doorknob for all I care - it's just a simple mechanical act from start to finish intended to culminate in exactly one result: spurt spurt, quiver quiver. No meaning, no significance, no value; at that point, your "partner" really is just an object - and so are you.
3) Boring. Once again, there is nothing special about chaos; you know exactly how this is going to end, so why ever do it more than once? Are you really so addicted to the fleeting hormone high and skin flush that you'd trade your potential for a meaningful exchange between two unique people for a simple act of mutual hedonism that could be done with anybody at all? That's not fun; that's called social dysfunction. You should probably see your therapist. While you do that, I'll be having genuinely therapeutic sex.
4) Too much work. Guys aren't constructed like women. We're predisposed to blowing our loads after 30 seconds, and anything you ladies get beyond that is sheer charity on the part of your guy, assuming he works out and is actually capable of control, that is. I can last as long as I'd like while having sex, and it doesn't require anything more than a 3 second position change every fifteen minutes or so. 2000 thrusts per minute requires actual concentration - and who are we kidding? Ladies get to sit back and enjoy the ride; that's really beside the point, but the simple fact is that sex is supposed to be 100% enjoyable for both people involved. So I'm going to take it easy and savor the experience.
For those of you poor ladies who have trained yourself to be unable to get off without your motorized toys or a guy willing to imitate one by 'roughing you up all night long'... I seriously feel bad for you; you choose what you enjoy, and if you chose the only nonsensical option out of the giant book of perfectly reasonable other ones, it's going to backfire on you. You're going to run into a roadblock in your late 30s or 40s where you suddenly realize that the guys your age have figured out that they don't have to go out of their ways to entertain you, and might actually resent you for expecting it - and then you end up one of those nasty ladies going after guys half your age because you can't get your dysfunctions satisfied by guys more mature than you. Sucks pretty hardcore, don't it?
-- just the way you like it.
But I'm not the least bit jaded about being the only sane person in a world full of cuntomatons.
Not one bit.
Nor am I even slightly offended that it seems impossible to find a decent woman who hasn't learned her concept of sex either from watching porn or from long couch sessions with "Dr. Jackrabbit XIVI model no.6000-2."
- or from "romance" (read: porn, duh?) novels... don't even get me fucking started on that crap.
(As if women weren't high maintenance enough? All I can contribute anymore is an unenthusiastic "wtf" for the sake of principle). At least my being "high maintenance" makes the world a better place.
Am I just trying to find worthy women in the wrong country, or what? I'm intimately familiar with all the various typical sexual dysfunctions of American women, obviously - but is it really just American women? Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?
Some lovely woman from another country needs to weigh in on this, please.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Gooood song.
If we smile we can all be the same!
Let's pretend that we're all okay:
Happy numbers in a bullshit world...
Got a gun? Follow me!
-- We can make it all better!
(... aaaand fade into rockin' the f*ck out!)
I'm a TARD!
Alright, people. Here's the scoop. I definitely just pulled a gray-matter-muscle with the following intellectual overkill...
I walked into the kitchen in search of something to satiate my stomach's sensations of starvation. Behold! The pot of tortellini alfredo I concocted last night beckons banally; I never could resist the pasty perfection of pasta, and ME WANT SOMES!!
So opens the silverware drawer, I - and looks in to find me a fork, aye - and spies I with my little eye--aye!--that my roommate took the last god-damned one and probably used it to shovel some rancid-ass cheese-covered cacophony of culinary carnage into her gaping maw and then tossed it somewhere where I'll never find it 'cause she's evil and crazy and sloppy and lazy instead of washing it and putting it away as would a normal person who doesn't hate me and isn't out of her bass-ackward crack-smokin' little rat mind, and the only other freaking fork to be found is sitting in the sink, in another one of her week-old messes.
So I think to myself, "Hrmm... maybe I'll skip the pasta and go for something I don't need a fork to eat." (EDIT: More accurately, I was thinking I was going to brain myself if I had to wash one more of MY f*cking dishes that SHE had dirtied and left to rot for days.)
...So, without another thought, I made scrambled eggs.
=D
I walked into the kitchen in search of something to satiate my stomach's sensations of starvation. Behold! The pot of tortellini alfredo I concocted last night beckons banally; I never could resist the pasty perfection of pasta, and ME WANT SOMES!!
So opens the silverware drawer, I - and looks in to find me a fork, aye - and spies I with my little eye--aye!--that my roommate took the last god-damned one and probably used it to shovel some rancid-ass cheese-covered cacophony of culinary carnage into her gaping maw and then tossed it somewhere where I'll never find it 'cause she's evil and crazy and sloppy and lazy instead of washing it and putting it away as would a normal person who doesn't hate me and isn't out of her bass-ackward crack-smokin' little rat mind, and the only other freaking fork to be found is sitting in the sink, in another one of her week-old messes.
So I think to myself, "Hrmm... maybe I'll skip the pasta and go for something I don't need a fork to eat." (EDIT: More accurately, I was thinking I was going to brain myself if I had to wash one more of MY f*cking dishes that SHE had dirtied and left to rot for days.)
...So, without another thought, I made scrambled eggs.
=D
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Venus
Circa mea pectora
Multa sunt suspiria
De tua pulchritudine
Que me ledunt misere.
(Iam amore virginali totus ardeo)
Amor volat undique
Captus est libidine.
Iam amore virginali totus ardeo.
Circa mea pectora multa sunt suspiria
De tua pulchritudine, que me ledunt misere.
Tui lucent oculi sicut solis radij,
Sicut splendor fulguris, qui lucem donat tenebris.
Multa sunt suspiria
De tua pulchritudine
Que me ledunt misere.
(Iam amore virginali totus ardeo)
Amor volat undique
Captus est libidine.
Iam amore virginali totus ardeo.
Circa mea pectora multa sunt suspiria
De tua pulchritudine, que me ledunt misere.
Tui lucent oculi sicut solis radij,
Sicut splendor fulguris, qui lucem donat tenebris.
My measuring stick
To laugh often and much;
To win the respect of intelligent people and affection of children;
To earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty, to find the best in others;
To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition;
To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived:
This is to have succeeded.
To win the respect of intelligent people and affection of children;
To earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty, to find the best in others;
To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition;
To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived:
This is to have succeeded.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Stuck
Sometimes the simple fact of rain can be so oppressing. I'm not normally affected by the weather in the same way many people in this area are; I like the rain. It's earthy, natural, a reminder that something beautiful still exists, functions, hasn't been completely broken - I like watching rain, usually. I love listening to it. Except today. Today, I really needed to get out of here for awhile. I wanted to just pick a direction and start walking, but I couldn't. Today, the rain was overwhelming.
I still feel like I need to get out; I've got that rising, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I know is a warning to change my train of thought, move on, get going anywhere as long as it's somewhere other than where I am right now. Walking helps, though I don't understand how or why, and I don't really think I want to. I'm beginning to accept the possibility that there may be some things in my life I need to refuse to understand, even when I know it's not beyond me - maybe especially when I know it's not.
The rain has its own voice today, and I can't help but be distracted by it; it's not enough of a distraction - just enough to take the sharpest edge off, I think. Just enough to move the front of my mind a few degrees to the left or right. I'm tempted to hit a bar for the first time in my life tonight, to see about the rest of it. Of course, I'm sure can't afford it, but I'm also sure I don't really care about that right now, or ever. Bones, sinking like stones - all that we've fought for; homes, places we've grown - all of us are done for.
I hate days like this; every sensation seems amplified to the point of pain, no matter how innocuous--or even pleasant--it should be. I know it's the analogy, the imagery, holding a captive audience in the back of my mind just beyond my reach. I know that every otherwise dissenting member is paralyzed in rapture, listening to that disembodied voice sparkle on about realities, possibilities, facts, unavoidable things, accidents, mistakes and ends of beginnings alike - preaching with every fiber of its false little soul to save something, anything it can attach itself to and live to hurt another day. Anything to avoid the inevitable, and it always wins. It always trickles its message just beneath my awareness, and I hate it.
We live in a beautiful world... don't we? Yeah we do, yeah we do.
I don't know why, anymore. But it never lies, and I have to count on something, sometimes. I hate it.
I still feel like I need to get out; I've got that rising, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I know is a warning to change my train of thought, move on, get going anywhere as long as it's somewhere other than where I am right now. Walking helps, though I don't understand how or why, and I don't really think I want to. I'm beginning to accept the possibility that there may be some things in my life I need to refuse to understand, even when I know it's not beyond me - maybe especially when I know it's not.
The rain has its own voice today, and I can't help but be distracted by it; it's not enough of a distraction - just enough to take the sharpest edge off, I think. Just enough to move the front of my mind a few degrees to the left or right. I'm tempted to hit a bar for the first time in my life tonight, to see about the rest of it. Of course, I'm sure can't afford it, but I'm also sure I don't really care about that right now, or ever. Bones, sinking like stones - all that we've fought for; homes, places we've grown - all of us are done for.
I hate days like this; every sensation seems amplified to the point of pain, no matter how innocuous--or even pleasant--it should be. I know it's the analogy, the imagery, holding a captive audience in the back of my mind just beyond my reach. I know that every otherwise dissenting member is paralyzed in rapture, listening to that disembodied voice sparkle on about realities, possibilities, facts, unavoidable things, accidents, mistakes and ends of beginnings alike - preaching with every fiber of its false little soul to save something, anything it can attach itself to and live to hurt another day. Anything to avoid the inevitable, and it always wins. It always trickles its message just beneath my awareness, and I hate it.
We live in a beautiful world... don't we? Yeah we do, yeah we do.
I don't know why, anymore. But it never lies, and I have to count on something, sometimes. I hate it.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Evil Gorilla
I think this is supposed to be cute...
But I'm scared out of my freakin' mind! The wee beast looks like it's halfway into an evil grin, preparing to point its evil finger of... EVILNESS!... just off-camera - presumably to evoke a swarm of flesh-eating locusts to rip into the pediatric ward, or maybe summon disease-ridden frogs, crows with glowing red eyes and frothing fresh blood at their mouths, or some such similar satanic goodness.
It makes me smile...
But only a little bit! And only when I look away from the eyes... those EYES!!!
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