I HAVE TO GO OUTSIDE. PLEASE HUG ME. I NEED YOU. THIS IS MORE THAN ONE WORD. I WISH THE PAIN WOULD STOP. NOW. I love you, too!
Unless you’re in love with The Truth, this blog is a waste of your time. But not of mine. For me, this is catharsis.
This library is just disorderly enough, so I know it’s not a Police State. I’m relieved when there’s a little disorder.
I’m still an alien. I miss my cat. My body is a heavy sack of blood. The tampon is quickly turning into a vampire’s teabag. There are women my age who have lost ovaries, breasts, and uteruses (uteri?) to cancer. I orgasm the way I do because I still have all the moving parts!
I just now prayed. I heard someone who sounded like they were n distress. I invoked Love and Kindness. I feel better! A Courage In Miracles says that “All that I give is given to myself.” I highly recommend it. Visit http://www.acim.org for more information.
Moaning One just was heard in the gentleman’s toilet. A guy with a red jacket sniffles loudly to my right. I wonder, does he have a cold? He looks Hispanic. Or mildly white. I dunno.
Cindy my roommate, just moved out today. Meredith, my new roommate, is moving in. I have a feeling I”m supposed to be home. I’m not the kind of writer who normally brings “my ordinary life” into my writings. I figure my ordinary life is going to be boring beyond belief. That the only exciting thing about it is my sexier fantasies. And clairvoyant visions. Everything else is so blasé!
Yes. Because otherwise I must fall in love. And he’ll find out how ugly I am. And then he’ll divorce me. I must never let this tragedy happen! I must not go through heartbreak again.
I must crush all hope of my having intimacy on purpose. I”m scared. Inside, I have no inhibitions. I am pure fertility itself.
So, I must remain a stranger. Americans are the loneliest people on Earth. TV, computer, smartphone. I’m talking about myself. Foreigners have more social connections. In real life. But do they have it any easier than us?
Nevermind. Be specific. I sit with two long shelves of books stretched out on either side of me. Two large wooden tables; two power strips. Attractive young African-American couple in front of me. They kissed. She leaned into his shoulder. I’m glad for them. I pray I am never part of a couple. I don’t want my boyfriend to see how ugly I am. Deep down. Too many tears left uncried. My dead cat. Sampson, I miss you. My 17.4 pound anti-depressant!
I see more shelves of books. I want to cry a bridal veil of tears. I want to let my husband see me cry. I want to let my husband see me weep. Weep without shame. Weep without being yelled at. Weep without being medicated. Just bawl my eyes out. I know there’s no such thing as sexual fulfillment without grief. That’s why I eschew sexual fulfillment. There. I’ve said it. A terrible secret.
Inanna weeps for her dead Tammuz. Someone was afraid he would be King, and she would be Queen. I see light falling on this iPad. I’m grieving for my unborn chkildren, the family that never was, the woman I know I’ll never be. I’ll never be a wife or a mother without dying first. I’m gonna turn 49 this July. Then, I hit 50 next JUly.
A woman who is afraid of her own power. That’s me. Suicide is not an option. So, I must live. Live… and stagnate? I haven’t stagnated since last July.
I chose bad eyesight. So that I don’t have to see what and whom I don’t want to see.
The first time, I chose bad eyesight, I was 10. I’d just figured out what sex was. I knew Dad and Mom didn’t do it. I didn’t know what it was. I know they hid it behind that door, and a big, solid piece of furniture. They always told me to watch television. I never did watch television. I heard noises. I heard breathing. I heard the bed moving. And that’s it.
I feel sorry for myself. It sure is easier than letting myself be beautiful and owning my power.
I am a terrorist. Because I hide from myself.
My vision is double. And it is very very blurry. And I refuse to wear my glasses. I prefer my fantasy world to the real world. The real world is such a nasty place. I do not want to fall in love. I do not ever want to fall in love.
I want to stay ugly. I want to drink in their beauty. I want to stay an alien. I want to cut them off. I want to be forbidden terroritory.
I want to be a tragedy. I want to be the victim of my tragedy. I want a sad, sad ending to my soap opera.
I’m giggling. I said some comic things. Somebody blasted some reggae music way too loudly in this library. Yes. I’m at a public library typing this. And I am tremendously lonely!
Writing keeps me out of trouble! It makes me less annoying in the public library.
I saw a dead woman in the bathroom. She was Maya Angelou. I wrote her a tribute poem the moment I heard she died. Like her, I am a poet. Unlike her, I am not yet famous.
I know that being too addicted to logic can drive you crazy. That’s why I invented art! Mermaids and seals and rock stars all dancing in the glimmery waves. Sometimes naked. I want to rebuild a world on love and rainbows and genitally obsessed people! Do it all with love!
I love the Spanish language. I love the Arabic language. I truly need to watch more Al-Jazeera. Al-Jazeera is Arabic for “the Island”. I can’t string together too many ideas in one place. Everything comes out of my mind like a water stream from a fire house. Rainbow faery drops of water. Pure H20.
Why BDSM? It’s like masturbation; it feels good. But it has some real hazards. People can die from being left in the ropes the wrong way or too long. That’s why you go places such as the Society of Janus in San Francisco. To learn classes on how to tie people up safely. You avoid a lot of 911 calls that way!
Pure randomness! I think too much Internet porn is bad for me. My imagination is so much better than reality! I like Larry Page’s face. He’s got Google on the brain. I wonder how much online porn HE’S consumed! I hope I’m in his fantasies. Mmmmm!
Love is pain. Romantic love is the most pain.
They are so beautiful together. She clings to his shoulder. They are black. I can hardly see this keyboard. My hands dance in a pattern that makes no sense.
She giggles. She kisses him. I feel so alone. I pray to God I never fall in love.
I am so happy for them. I want to die. I don’t want to experience the pain.
My hands do make sense. I will never ever let anyone touch my body ever again. My left hand cramps in pain. That’s the hand that writes.
He smiles. My left hand cramps worse. It’s as if my hand were crying.
I’m amazed my blurry vision can see his smile. My blindness is a way of shutting out the world. That is what eyes are for. My eyes are made to shut the world out. My hands are made to not touch the woman in front of me, who is now alone. Where did her boyfriend go?
Lady across the table, you are an alien. And I choose to be blind. Yes. By the force of my own chosen blindness, I shut out the world from me. For I live in excess fear. And I am not yet ready to have that fear be lifted from me.
I wish for pain. And more pain. My mouth is made for silence. I won’t be silent. I wish I could be silent. I wish I were beautiful.
I wish I could see myself as beautiful. I don;t have the courage to love romantically.
Inanna and Tammuz. I wish I were dead. Look at those hands. Look at that tablet in his hands. An instrument of love.
I want to withdraw from the computer world. I want to make love only to my imagination. I don’t want to return to Earth again.
I want to drown in a sea of uworthiness. Thank you, black couple, for helping to trigger my pain. I’m not mad. I”m feeling my pain. The cookie is a buffer against greater pain than I can handle.
I don’t want a forever relationship. I don’t want a steady employer. I”m afraid. I don’t want a steady boyfriend. Oh, yes, I do. Michael says we are just friends. I’m so glad we can pretend we are “just friends”.
I”ll never see my father alive again. I have a feeling the next tine I see him, he’ll be in his grave. I’m glad I’m nearly blind. I shut out the data. I shut out the people. I do not want to let anybody in. But I’m desperately lonely. No. I”ll never, ever let anyone in.
He stood there in the sun, nothing on but long red swim trunks.
I said, “Nice body! I want to lick those man-boobs!”
His girlfriend calls out, “Hey… that’s my boyfriend!”
I tell her, “I won’t do anything! I like looking at LOTS of pretty men and women!”
It’s summertime. Yesterday, I saw a young black (African-American) girl
bouncing down the street, her tits swinging
peeping over her top; I called out “Hey! I wanna squeeze MY boobs and pet the kitty! And think of you!” Not appropriate, I know.
But it’s been so long since I had sex. Or made love. Or fucked! I’m an erotic writer and artist.
The other day, I made love to the air at a Spanish music festival
the Latinos noticed, “called out, “Hey! Come over here! Get some free food!”
I said, “No, thanks! Not hungry! This is the only sex life I allow myself!”
Something about Latin music with all those drums that makes my hips sway
as if a naked lover were beneath, marrying our belly buttons
Bono face-sits, where my pussy meets his smiling Irish eyes and mouth
And Craig Chacquico domination fantasies, where Craig is my new “owner”
stuff no one in mainstream society is supposed to talk about, but everybody’s got the same nasty things on their mind
and I am one of the “sex is sacred” crowd.
So many boners waiting to happen!
I’m afraid that, if I tell you the truth, I’ll lose you as a reader. Or that you’ll think I’m crazy.
The truth is never boring! It zooms through my body like a snake flying a kite. It comes in colors. Truth is a feeling, not just a thought.
The truth is, too much sugar clouds my mind, and makes me a stranger in my own body. This makes me crazy.
The truth is, I’m terrified of walking into the fire of sex. So many expectations! So much fear! So much lack of Sacred Space without Expectations.
I crave ecstasy. That’s why I’m single. The man I love and crave does such a good job of numbing the pain. Just enough alcohol to take the edge off. Without becoming too impaired to drive!
I’ve used just enough sugar to try and soothe my tearful inner kid. Otherwise I’d be a puddle of tears. Crying for Daddy. Crying for sex.
Crying for sex with Daddy.
I’m not the only one intrigued by “incest play”. Incest is a subject of deep denial. But I’ve walked beyond my comfort zone.
Must get back to Disneyland now! Pretend I’m totally G-Rated.
Yeah. And I’ve got a bridge to sell you!