Friday, April 3, 2009

It's Impossible For Me Not To Look Over At His Gmail Chat Window, So, Yeah, I See Exactly What Y'all Are Writing.

How is it that I used to write so much and, now, I can barely push out a paragraph? Any creativity or drive or whatever the fuck you want to call it is no longer directed towards the (precious, precious) world of blogging.

"Loved your post! Awesome! Especially loved this part where you wrote, blah, blah, blah."

I don't have that luxury anymore.

What once seemed like a big, rolling sea is a little bathtub now and I have to actually hoard my meager supply.

You see, my job has pulled the writer's soul out of me, I'm afraid. My miserable fucking job which shoplifts so much of my happiness did what I used to think was impossible.

So there it is. That's the answer to all the emailed questions I've received about why I don't write as much as had in the past.

By the time I get done dealing with my clients and my frightening manager, I'm done. I'm eaten up. The bathtub has drained.

I feel fucking robbed.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

My mom died a miserable death a year ago. This is supposed to happen to other people. Not me.

Recently, I placed a framed picture of my mom above my desk. The picture is probably 15 years old which freaks me out. It freaks me out the oldness of it. And how old that makes me.

A few weeks ago, I took the picture out of its outdated frame and put it in a newer, cooler frame which is all metal and heavy. When you pick it up, it has some real heft to it.

So she now stares out at me smiling more than she usually did in pictures wearing a print dress she looked great in. I remember that day because I took the picture in our backyard after church when I was still mostly a kid.

A few things.

I just want to send it out to the world and the universe today that I miss her. I miss her everyday and I think of her everyday.

I want to say that I'm sorry it took me so long to settle down and she will never know her grandson or any future grandchildren because of it.

When I look at that picture, I can see her picking up my son and holding him and I can feel how happy she would have been.

I also want to admit I was too stoic at times with her because I felt like if she knew I was afraid of her cancer, she would be afraid.

She was one of those rare genuinely good people with a great sense of humor and she always did the right thing.

I don't know what else to say.

I really like looking at that picture.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

She said it helps to be a lesbian or hint of it if you want people to go cuckoo for your writing. I'm like, fucking disgusting.

Let's all sit around and talk about writing ad nauseum rather than actually doing any.

I'm 30,000 words into my manuscript. How about you?

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Not using punctuation makes it a poem. Right?

Ivy grew out of the laptop

and caught me he said

encircled his man wrists

as he reached for his hot tea

whilst I slept with our son

in front of the wall of

pulsing television

Friday, February 13, 2009

Mice

So, what you do is hold the mouse down by the back of the skull with two fingers and, using your other hand, pull their tail with a quick, decisive snap. It’s called cervical dislocation.


I mean, you have to really snap that tail though. No gloves. Better feel if you don’t use gloves because they’ll turn around and bite you if you aren’t careful.


You must be cruel to be kind because if you doubt yourself for half a second, if you hesitate, if you don’t pull hard enough, if you second guess the positioning of your fingers on their itty-bitty cranium, you will only wound them. Probably, you’ll break their back and cripple them and they will scrabble awkwardly on the table in front of you. Suffering.


At that point, the sick adrenaline roars through your body and your hands shake harder.


Trembling hands pinning the injured, struggling mouse down again for another go round.


Or you could do what I did the first time and start yelling for help.


Awful battle in my head. You have to be brutal or you hurt them. But you really don’t want to hurt them so you hesitate. Your heart’s not in it so you don’t pull hard enough. Such a dilemma.


It wasn’t my favorite thing to do.


And you’re calling me a monster? Well, fuck off. Fuck you!


Fuck you, especially, if you are a meat-eating, leather-wearing hypocrite.


Those mice served a higher purpose. A much higher purpose than ending up as floating brown shit in the city’s municipal sewer system.


Maybe you wanted that steak because you got a big ass raise and think you deserve it or maybe you went for the grilled chicken. (Grilled chicken is such a pussy thing to eat, by the way. If you order that in a decent restaurant, the chef knows you are a total pussy and so does the waiter.)


Whatever. Hypocrite.


The PETA people can kiss my ass, too.


But back to our little mouse. It’s a ‘she’ by the way. Because not only do we have to sacrifice her but we allowed a male mouse to have his way with her two weeks before her execution date.


So, she’s carrying his pups. And we need’em. Gots to have’em.


And now she’s dead. Flip her over on her back and squirt some alcohol on her. (I preferred ethanol.) Take scissors and snip a hole through her skin, low on her belly. Put down the scissors and rip her abdomen open. Sort of like you when you are on a one and a half hour flight to a medium-sized city and all they give you is a tiny package of peanuts.


Tear her abdomen open just like that little bag of peanuts.


When you do it, you’ll never forget the smell of her. It’s sharp. It’s bloody. Raw. It combines with the alcohol fumes and I know someone who swears they salivated every time they sac’d a mouse.


They weren’t proud of this though. They weren’t bragging or anything.


You’ve opened her up now and there they are! Her pups and they’re still alive. But, alas, not for long.


As far as a fetus goes, they’re really cute so you frown a little as you pull them out of their little casings.


Now pick that scissors up.


And snip off their heads. Take a good look at their tiny, sad heads and sigh to yourself.


Nobody said research was easy.


You have to dissolve them now so drop the headless bodies into tubes and add some hungry enzymes.


They’re ready now. It’s the cold, cold chill for them.


Pop the tubes into the liquid nitrogen tanks and throw away their mother and the heads and the gore.


Justify it to yourself once more.


(Hey, that rhymed!)

Saturday, January 31, 2009

I was looking through his blog roll and I'm pretty sure he keeps half of you on there because he feels some obligation. Sorry. Just being honest.

Also. There's one person who goes beyond obligation. I read your posts and they make me feel as uncomfortable as when Mikey on Swingers kept calling Nickie back when he got home from the club. Over and over and over.

You OVERSHARE. It's hard to feel sympathy for you. Yuck.
I'm sad Elvis is dead but I'm glad I don't have to see him with horrible plastic surgery.

Um. Somebody forgot to close their Blogger account.

My favorite part of Ty is his giant wang.
Ty Bluesmith is the pimpest of pimps and I adore him forever.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

My Traitorous Computer

Back in the day we wrote and wrote and wrote on our blogs and loved our new innerweb friends and some of us put up pictures of ourselves.

= )

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Monday, March 10, 2008

Steve

I've decided to outsource the overwhelming anxiety I've been feeling of late. I can't decide if China or India would be the right choice for my anxiety. Whom we will call Steve.

My anxiety's name is Steve.

I fucking hate Steve! Steve needs to go! Steve, you're killing me!

Steve!

You need to go to India, Steve. Put your less than 3 ounce liquids into a quart bag and head out of Terminal E on a jet plane!

Steve is super attentive to me. He likes to hang out next to me in the early hours of the morning so he can be right fucking there when I wake up.

I think some of you know Steve, too.

I remember there was a stretch of a couple years when Steve hung out with other people. But he's back and, for the last 2 weeks, he's been kind of a super hero in his devotion to me.

Super Steve!

Thursday, February 28, 2008

If you read this before, now you know it's me. (I hope you're not dead, Patrick.)

I’m lying on his bed facedown and breathing in his smell and I love it. I fucking love it. Even the smell of those silly clove cigarettes he smokes.

We are both fully clothed.

I turn my head and look away from him. There’s a bloodstain on his pillow three inches from my face and I wince.

“You have to stop piercing your ears. Isn’t seven times enough?”

He laughs. I’m exhausted. We’ve been tussling, tangling, writhing, wrestling on his bed for two hours. Door closed. His mom just up the stairs.

He crawls over the bed until he is on top of me. A six foot tall boy nearly grown into his broad shoulders.

He grabs my wrists and presses them to the mattress. I smile. He’s not done playing yet.

“Tell me you love me,” he says.

Before I can answer, he has both of my wrists caught over my head with one of his hands. His free hand slides down my side to my waist. I know he will tickle me senseless.

He pauses. Waiting.

I rebel and try throwing him off me but he outweighs me by pounds and pounds and he’s far more strong already than I’ll ever be. I begin laughing.

He leans his head down to mine. I go still.

“Shhh…you wouldn’t want my mom to come in, would you?”

We stay like this for half a minute. I’m panting. I can feel his heartbeat against my back. It’s racing.

“Come with us Friday night. I swear the bars over there are safe. The worst part is walking back over the border but I’ll watch out for you. I always do.”

“Will Cindy be there?”

I feel him smile, his lips touching my neck now.

“She’s my girlfriend. You know she’ll be there.”

I frown and wonder how many times he’s fucked her on this bed.

“Don’t you dare pout.”

His hand tightens on my wrists and he gives them a hard, little shake.

“You know I love you. Long before her, I loved you.”

His hand moves away from my waist and carefully pushes a lock of my hair from my face.

“I’ll always love you,” he whispers.

My resolve rolls away from me as it always does with him. His grip loosens around my wrists and he rolls over on the bed. Facing me with a knowing smile.

I’ve just turned sixteen years old and he’s seventeen and I’m still a virgin and my panties are soaking wet.

Monday, February 11, 2008

That cough isn't productive yet. Is it?

I'd wake up hours before him everyday. It didn't matter when I went to sleep. Four different 4-star hotel rooms in less than a week and every fucking morning the sick, gray midwest light slid around the curtain to greet me. Sometimes I walked over to the window and sometimes I didn't. I was too lazy to put clothes on and a little shy about peeping around the curtain.

He hates it but I like to watch him sleep. Years slip from his face and I know the man he was when he was 22. I think up my dirtiest fantasies when I watch him sleep in the mornings.

In the night, it's all different. I hate when I wake up in the night and cling to him and he sleeps and he sleeps. I feel divided from the outside and alone because he's turned away from me. On his stomach with a million pillows. I have to be careful because he's one of those boys who tends to wake up ready to fight and I want to keep my nose unbroken and lovely.

But, if I'm careful, I can wrap most of myself around him or next to him and breathe the best part of a boy. Where his neck and shoulder meet. I try to feel like I'm not the only one up in the entire world but it unsettles me when I'm so awake and touching so much of him and he sleeps on and on and on. Dude, why do you feel so far away from me then?

Occasionally, if the girl gods shine on me, he wakes in the middle of the night and he holds me. He tells me how small I feel to him. How little I am.

Back in the hotel, I woke up remembering him holding me in the night and it's terribly, terribly girly but I really smiled about that shit on those silver mornings.

I know for a fact he's totally asleep while I'm writing this and he's been asleep for hours. I'm several states away from him and my night has been a bit pathetic for those reasons.

Saturday, January 19, 2008

Hotel

It’s 2:02am and the hotel sheets are expensive.

I’m waiting for him. I’ve fretted for three hours in this bed, in the dark, on these high thread count sheets, in a black bra and panties. Three hours.

His flight should have landed hours ago but I stop myself from calling the airline.

He gave me explicit instructions. He wants to find me in bed when he walks into the room.

So I wait for him in silence and the bed is beginning to feel like an island.

Mercifully, ten minutes later, I sleep.

Click. Click. Snick.

Waking up on my stomach, my heart beats so hard I slide my hand to my chest.

But I keep my eyes closed because I know he is in the room with me.

I hear him put something down and I hear him taking off his clothes. I don’t hear him breathing and I can’t smell him yet but I know it’s our time. Finally, my time with him.

Many weeks of him in my head. Imagining him next to me when I fall asleep. Wondering what he smells like. What he tastes like. What his skin feels like. What he looks like when he sleeps, when he wakes up, when he smiles, when he laughs, when he eats, when he cums.

And the guilt is pushed all aside because I want him that badly.

The mattress gives under his weight and I’m shivering now.

Trembling.

The sheet is jerked away and the secret girl muscles inside me clench and twitch. I press my hand harder to my chest.

His hand touches my hip and I jump.

It’s the first time he’s ever touched me.

Grabbing my hip, he pulls me over onto my back but I keep my eyes closed because I can’t look at him yet. I’ve run through this moment a thousand times or more in my mind but the reality of it pushes at me so hard tears fill my eyes.

He lowers himself over me and I can feel him. I can feel his skin stretched over his muscles and I can feel his thick, hard cock settle against my thigh. I concentrate on not moving my hips. Not letting the tears spill out of my eyes.

So carefully. So gently. He puts his hand on my cheek and pulls his thumb across my lips.

“Open your eyes for me, baby girl.”

My lips twitch and I nearly smile because I know it’s him for sure now.

I open my eyes but any smile falls away.

Because he’s pinned me down to the bed with his own blue eyes and he is better than any imagining of him.

And I want him so much. He knows this but I also know how much he wants me. The features of his face are taut with it and, for the first time, I have no words for him. No words.

He drags his cock up and down my thighs and I stretch out under him, under his hard body so different from mine. I’m wet for him now and he knows this, too.

I breathe him in and my hips move in a slow circle underneath him. He leans over me and touches his lips to mine. He kisses me softly, no tongue and we kiss like this until I’m limp. I lose track of time.

When I finally reach for his forearm, he grabs my wrist and loops a long piece of leather around it.

He looks down at me. His expression tells me nothing. He could be gentle. He could be cruel.

All I can say is his name and he answers me. A small smile on his face now.

“Keep your eyes open. Unbroken eye contact, ok?”

And I know I will keep a piece of this man with me forever.