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.

Salt and Sand

I had this horrifying nightmare the other night.  Skip ahead a bit if you hate it when people talk about their dreams.

I was on a band trip, and we were in a school bus in Florida.  I had opened my window, and the other kids put a pair of water wings on my arms because we were on our way to the beach, and they knew I couldn't swim (I can't).  All of a sudden, a hurricane hit, and the entire bus was lifted up in the air.  People started screaming, panic ensued.  Then the bus was dropped directly into the ocean.  As water was pouring into the bus and it was quickly sinking, I managed to crawl out my open window and floated up to the surface, care of my water wings.  I was one of a handful that actually made it out.  A few friends and I were huddled in a shelter underground somewhere wondering if we were going to have enough food to last the 21 days that the radio said the hurricane would rampage when I woke up.

I woke up cold and terrified.  Because I can't swim, I've always been terrified of water.  Not like, a shower, but open water.  The ocean is a cruel bitch that only wants to drag me down to her bottom and rip me to shreds on the rocks.  So this dream left me a little shaken.  I told my roommate about it, and she said, "Interesting.  Even in your dreams you're a survivor."

This next piece I present to you runs along a similar vein.  At the risk of over-explanation, I titled it "No One in Particular" because it was the first piece I had done in a long time that wasn't written with a specific person in mind.  It was more of a few images and phrases that I liked, and one ridiculous joke, that I managed to string together into a somewhat coherent piece.  I mean, the woman is sort of based on myself, but a very Rambo version of myself.  This is an interesting glimpse into the myriad of reasons I am fucked up in the brain.  My mother's family has this massive inferiority complex that verges on the obscene.  They are never worthy, and are always staying behind to fix the broken birds of men.  While my father's family has this grotesque megalomania.  They have such sick delusions of grandeur and think they are better than everyone else, including each other.  So I got a bit of both the god complex AND the abandonment issues.  I am the absolute BEST terrible person.

But enough self-psychoanalysis.  Time for the feature presentation.

No One in Particular

I lay my head back and say, "Where did you learn to DO that?"  He shrugs and looks embarrassed.
"You're like my own personal Marilyn," he says, "You remind me so much of her."
"What, bleach-blonde and size 14?"  It's now my turn to look embarrassed.  I find my clothes and after a brief kiss at the door I shrug into the cold shrill light of Sunday.  On my way to the bar the man of logic and the lady of emotions argue in my head to the point where it just turns into a siren, loud and piercing.  I turn up my music so loud my ears hurt.

"Make it a double."  I carry my drink back to my little table in the corner, so scratched up with drunken scrawls that very little of it is even legible, and sit.  I think about the latest faceless man in a long string of mishaps and disasters, and wonder who's winning this particular war, if I am the one using or being used this time.  The siren grows louder and louder, shattering the windows and shaking the foundation.  I stamp out cigarette after cigarette and take pleasure in watching the life go out of each one with so little effort from my nimble fingers.  Nimble agile fingers, and I'm back to thinking about him.  I shake it off, get another drink, and try to think of happier days, but the siren only grows more relentless.  I know what will stop it, but I'm trying to move on from the kill.  Only in the battlefields was my head silent, only when justice was my name, and each slaughter got me closer to god.

"One more, please."  One more drink, one more cigarette, one more boy, soft and smooth in all the right places, strong arms, hands running through hair, a pale thigh peeking out from under silken covers.  I pinch my leg to see if I can even feel the pain anymore.  One more drink.  I close my eyes to the siren, and his swim into my inner vision.  One more drink.  Someday I'm sure this echo chamber will stop.  I'll make it stop.  Either I'll find happiness, or I'll slink back into the warzone.  Or I'll jam a pencil into my damn temple.

"Last call!"  As the world becomes more and more fuzzy, and fades into a muddled blur of browns and grays, I raise my glass of whiskey.  Tonight, my dear, I drink to you.

A Few Words on Evil

So I was realizing that I didn't really explain the title of my blog.  I mean, I know it seems sort of self-explanatory, but maybe I have retarded readers?

From the time I was little I always sympathized more with the villains than the heroes.  In comics and shows and books, I always felt bad for the poor guy who lost his family and decided to end the world.  Or the lady who USED to be the prettiest in the land until that little black-haired bimbo came around.  Or the little creepy guy who just tried to help a lady out, and then had her renege on her contract.  They were always better drawn, had better wardrobes, cooler toys, better lines.  Why would anyone want to root for the boring dude in the white hat that always did the right thing and never had any fun?

So for many years now, I've been looking for a dude who can fulfill my need for evil.  Qualifier: Evil does not equal asshole.  (Side note, why doesn't my keyboard have a "doesn't equal" symbol?  It has an equal symbol.  Just another example of the negative getting trampled over by the heroes.)  I spent way too many years thinking I had found my darling Lex Luther, and realizing he was just a douche.  Hannibal Lector would never be mean to a waitress.  He would be super-polite, and save up the evil mastermind stuff for the people that really deserved it.  You don't just go around being a dick all willy-nilly.  So long story short (too late!) I am still looking.  I have my own evil plans laid out, and I have my own dominations, but wouldn't it be nice to have someone to share the throne with?

So to conclude, I'll leave you with an ad I put on Craigslist a few years ago.  I was pondering the difficulties of finding a truly evil man in the world today, and decided to go where one goes for anything they're having trouble finding.  I'd love to say that I got at least one good response, but aside from all the pictures of dude's dicks, I received a few emails from nerds who got the references, and one guy who claimed to be evil but said he worked for a charity non-profit.  What is this world coming to?

Single White Female seeking Dr. Horrible - 24 (Austin)

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Reply to: [REDACTED]

Date: 2009-01-06, 11:20PM CST

Looking for: Evil super-villain to take over the world with, build death-rays with, generally cause a ruckus. Rich and handsome Lex Luther types a plus, also Dr. Horrible style villain on the rise ok as well. Really only looking for humanoid villains.

I am: attractive slender evil woman, waiting to plot evil schemes. 5'7", short brown hair, perfect for any plans that involve seducing. Will provide henchman if needed.

References to leagues of evil welcome, also picture would help.

A Fresh Beginning

So it was brought to my attention today that I probably shouldn't keep all of my writings on Facebook, even if they are disjointed, and I have no editing process whatsoever, and I overuse my metaphors, and I only ever write about boys and feelings, and I use way too many in-jokes that no one gets, and really they are all just kind of a bunch of crap.

I mean, the dude didn't tell me they were crap, just that they probably shouldn't be on Facebook.  He merely implied they were crap.  But being drunk, I slapped him on the ass and promptly forgot about it.  Until now!

So I made this here blog.  And eventually I'll transfer over all of my little bundles of lovingly made crap.  And eventually I'll try to make this blog not look so awful, aesthetically.  If there are pretty pictures you'll be less likely to tell me that everything I write is crap.

Also since Livejournal is a graveyard of furries and pro-ana pages, I'll probably be doing some regular old blogging about things and boys and feelings.  Or maybe just tacos.  I didn't really think most of this through.

So!  I'll leave you, gentle reader (why am I quoting King now?) with one of my pieces that I wrote last November after a particularly shitty trip back home.  Besides just resonating with my current situation, I chose this bottle to break against my maiden voyage because it's a good example of pretty much everything.  It sort of sums up my overuse of metaphor, my tendency towards the pornographic, and the little hints of serial killer inherent in everything I do.  But I'll stop making you hate it and just post it already.

Burnin' Bridges (OR, bullshit that came to me on the drive home) 

Scorch the land and salt the earth, cause we ain't ever coming back here.  And I can't take looking back to see all those little blades that pierce my body, and remind me how goddamn green it was over there.  My nostrils fill with the stench of kerosene and the terrified aura of nonchalance that we're both trying so hard to keep up.  And as the flames start to lick the bottom of my boots, I turn my back to the shrieks and wails and meaningful glances in the dark.  I wrap my hands around the whole goddamn place and squeeze, feeling the flesh tense up under my fingers as the muscles bulge, until the struggle finally stops, and the cold skin turns limp.  Nowhere to go now but on, to the next silly little place that will try its damnedest to keep my mind from turning back to you.