No Seriously, I Heart Gingers

I was gonna write this dreary post about boys.

I was going to write this sickly cloying note about how tired I am of having the "Oh shit, we probably shouldn't have done that" sex.

I was almost about to scan in this note I wrote a few years ago that is unintentionally hilarious in its "I'm SO depressed, and this acid is totally not helping, and probably the low serotonin from coming down off that tab I took earlier, but man, what is wrong with me?" naivety.

Honestly, I wanted to sit down and have this lovely little masterpiece come out of my fingers to my keyboard and really show all of my readers (sup Malaysia!) that I have some fucking talent, and that I'm not some waste of space on the internet.

But my muse is taking a fucking smoke break out back right now, and I'm too grossed out by my inability to create anything of value without her.  So today I'm just going to post this thing about boys and feelings, and hope that it will stand alone without a bunch of me rambling about who it is about, and why I hate it, and why I have such a sick obsession with redheads.  Enjoy.

F-L-A  (or, The Inspiration Strikes at Odd Hours)

Marble skin gets bent over a marble sink, and the decadent acts destroy all feelings of purity that could be construed from the portrait of white. A cold hard exterior trimmed in flame, but no hidden heart lies beating beneath. Only unemotional eyes that seldom if ever convey the truth. He sinks his teeth into me, and sucks out every drop of warmth I have. He keeps me as his pet, to him only am I subservient, obeying, willing. I beg for mercy, for a sign of compassion beneath the cruel games we play. Eventually his amusement falters, and no longer am I the girl he seeks to feed upon, no longer does the blood run freely. So he finishes the job. I lie alone in a strange bed, far from home, empty, dead, sucked dry. My last sight is his flame trimmed cold marble body streaming away from me as he runs.

Guest Post

(While I go back to the floaty cloud world of painkillers, enjoy this guest post by my dear friend Kiki.  He is a brilliant and talented writer/director, and my future baby daddy.  And while he may not be a villain of this comic book world, he has perfected his evil laugh.  -E)

The only aspect of art that I am certain of is my complete inability to create something on command.  No matter how much or how hard one of my best friends urges me to write, if the inspiration is not there, there’s nothing to write about.  Fortunately for us, the lives we live are nothing shy of tragic.  Boys being the vice that bonds us; more specifically: our terrible taste therein, you’ll soon find we should rarely lack inspiration to vent.  I wrote a piece for New Years after hearing everyone bitch and moan about their love lives and shitty relationships and I began to ponder the quote, “It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all,” and unfortunately, I fall into the latter category as of late.  I know love isn’t everything, but it seems like it should be a big part of my life since I’m not much for money or success.  But as much as I try to keep my wits about me, there is a part of me (be it penis, brain, or heart) that is almost on the verge of absolute fucking panic.  Luckily for me, I have a fallback plan:  to be The Crazy Cat Lady-Man.  Despite my flagrant animosity towards felines, I’d rather be insane than alone.  Perhaps one in the same.

Away with Birds

My New Year’s resolution was going to be giving up coffee, but let’s face it—ain’t gonna’ happen.  I’ve been drinking the shit until my world glows and my fingers tingle, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m in a dead-end job where I’m under-worked and over-paid.  However, my resume is circulating and it’s a damn good one.  My second revelation was to stop falling in love with douche bags, but I’ve decided that’s a character fault and I can’t change that; I love them more than I like the hot stuff, and it takes a self-loathing individual to go for the narcissistic fucks I fall for.  What’s sad is how in tune we are with one another—I’m in love with them and so are they.  Ergo, I need a change in frequency, a complete shift in phase.  This exuded pulse of desperation that sounds remarkably similar to the tick of a biological clock will only go as fast and as far as I allow.  Time slows the more you become aware, and aware I shall become.  2012 is the year I learn the difference between love and infatuation.  Love shall become habit and infatuation a hobby.  I’ll live my life by the famous words of John Waters, “If you go home with somebody and they don't have books, don't fuck 'em!”  I’ll acknowledge I’m going to get a lot closer to achieving my goal of learning a new vocabulary word each day (which is going quite mellifluously) from a closet full of classics than I am from my inbox on a personals website.  I’ve decided dating on Grindr is a lot like looking for a diamond in a dumpster.  Sure it’s possible, but more than likely it’s going to be fake or belong to someone else.  This year I’ll acknowledge that “lonely” doesn’t have to equal “sad”, and perhaps I can use this time to better myself through reading and reflection.  Which reminds me, I think I drink too much coffee. 

With Great Power

I ripped a muscle in my neck last week, so I've been a bit high on painkillers and such.  So if this next piece which I wrote today seems worse than all the other bits of trash, let's blame the drugs.

I had a conversation with an old fling of mine recently about how hard it is to find a dominant man.  And sure, we might have been talking about it in a sexual nature, but I mean it in a relationship way as well.  I realize it sounds absurd to say that, what with us living in a patriarchal society and all, but I have found it to be true.  All of the emasculating things in our culture lately have been making a new breed of man, one that asks what YOU want to do, and can cry, and wants to know what you're thinking.  Which is all great, but I want a take-charge dude, and we seem to have lost that somewhere along the way.  I don't mean a cruel man, but someone who takes the initiative and makes executive decisions (Pardon the boardroom speak, I guess I'm just a very corporate villain).

This becomes a problem for me in that I tend to be a very powerful lady.  Not like, stronger than a speeding car or whatever, but emotionally.  I am a loud dominant kind of chick, but I still want a guy that can stand up to me.  A guy that I can't just trample.  And because I'm such a strong proud person, people often seem to forget that I need emotional support too.  Yeah, I'll be fine, I'm a survivor, but it's nice to be asked once in awhile if I'm ok.

Anyway, before I have the chance to write out all the things I hate about this next piece until I just throw it away (#selfsabotage), I'll just post it and let you out there make your own conclusions.

Whale Oil

I am a warrior, and you are behind enemy lines.  Amidst all the shrapnel and the red mist that comes from exploding flesh, it is easy to forget that I am a porcelain doll under these fatigues.  Never able to wash off the war paint and the harsh grimace of the world-worn that seems stuck on my visage.  I am so tired of Florencing all of the broken fucking nightingales I come across, and I’m running out of bandages and patience.  Just for once, I’d like to be the one lying in a cot waiting to pinch the ass of the lady in white stockings.  Instead I find myself being used again as the spoils of another man’s war, the rape victim of soldiers high on their own adrenaline.  “God dammit, this tough bitch has a gooey caramel center!” I want to scream as they shove their bayonets deeper in.  I crave the knowledge that in the end I won’t just be buried in a mass grave full of all the desperate and lonely, choking on shovelfuls of dirt.