1. Is your sex partner preference, male, female or farm animal?
Considering that my shadow and I just spent about half an hour compiling several lists, I'd have to say male. Though I do have a taste for the girls...

2. What is your marital status?
None. I am not of or related to marriage.

3. Are you happy about your status?
Can't miss a place you've never been.

4. What is your favorite sexual position?
Bound.

5. How many partners have you slept with?
Partners? Well, I've slept with forty-six people. I wouldn't consider them all partners. And I know what you're thinking... "When you sleep with someone, you're sleeping with everyone they've ever slept with." Ha ha ha! Surprise!

6. What is your method of birth control?
Nuvaring is teh awesome.

7. If you use condoms, what brand?
Outside of a committed relationship: Trojan Ultra Ribbed

8. If on the pill, what brand?
I have to take enough pills to get through the day as is.

9. Besides the obvious, where is the one place your partner could touch you to make you hot?
Surprisingly, most people don't know that my biggest hot spot is on my neck just above my hair line.

10. What is your sexin' jam?
I LOVE sexin to some tunes. Specifics aren't as important, so long as it has a gnarly bass beat. However, I swear if another mother fucker ever "forgets" he's having sex with me and throws his head back singing along with the music, my teeth will find the nearest piercing and rip it out. Daintily, or course.

11. Are you a talker, moaner, screamer, or all?
If he/ she is doing a good job, they know. I'm not quiet about my opinions.

12. Do you like your hair pulled?
hee hee hee...

13. Do you like it on top or bottom?
Depends on how hard I have to work to have a good time.

14. Drunk sex....dissapointing? or more fun?
Should there be an ellipse there, because I think that should be a colon? Oh question, yes. Um... I guess it depends on how drunk we both are as far as quality, but sex is like pizza. Even when it's bad, it's still ok.

15. If you could choose one celebrity to do the dirty with, who would it be?
Johnny Depp fresh off a Tim Burton set. Make-up on only.

16. If you were paid a gazillion dollars, would you have sexual relations with George W. Bush?
You bet. Everyone has a price. His is a gazillion.

17. Have you ever taken anyone's virginity?
Yup. Never doing that again.

18. Silk sheets with rose petals or a soft blanket by a roaring fire?
Um... ignoring how cool fire is... Do you have any idea how slippery silk gets when it's wet? There's no leverage.

19. Best outfit you've dressed up in for your partner?
Never had a guy into Cosplay. Did date a guy who liked cassocks and me in little white dresses.

20. What could your partner wear to turn you on?
More like what kinds of weapons is he carrying.

21. Any embarrassing sex stories you want to share?
After a quickie this one time, the guy came running after me and said, "Hey, hey, wait! What's your name?!"

22. If you had to choose a cartoon character to make some lovin' with, who would it be?
Dude! Jessica Rabbit! And anybody who says otherwise is a fag.

23. Have you ever walked in on a parent or sibling doin' the dirty?
Well, so long as you're asking... This one time my mother came out of shower and I could smell it on her breath. There, now you have it in your head.

24. Have you ever used toys in your love making endeavors?
Anyone who hasn't is missing out.

25. How often do you think about sex?
At least five times a day.

26. How old were you when you lost your virginity?
Fourteen. In a closet. I cried. It was lame.

27. Would you have sex with anyone on your friends list?
Yup. Several.

28. Have you ever had a threesome?
Yup. Several.

29. Have you ever had anal sex?
Yes, but damn do you have to be a VERY good dog to get that that piece of meat.

30. Have you ever been to a strip club?
I think we've decided Rick's Cabaret is the best on the Street.

31. Have you ever worked in a strip club?
I think I would spend more money than I would make there.

32. Have you ever been involved in an orgy?
Tough question. Had sex with more than one person at one time. Had sex with several people over a twenty-four hour period. Had sex in front of other people. Please refine the question.

33. Have you ever been called a slut?
By many better than you. Don't lie. You probably already slept with me and you're thinking it.

34. How often do you have sex?
Not near the fuck often enough.

35. Do you consider yourself a freak in bed?
Only when people bug their eyes out when I talk.

36. Do you like it rough?
Usually. Preferably. Please?

37. Do you masturbate?
HA HA HA!

38. How often?
... lots.

39. Are you horny now?
That's not a drive, my dear. That's a short put.


This or That:
40. Whips and chains OR Feathers and silk?
I think my silk sentiments were clear. I'm more of a rough and tumble kinda girl.

41. Whipped cream and cherries OR Ice cream and chocolate syrup?
Are fucking after? Because both of those choices involve milk products.

42. Kitchen counter OR Shower?
I like to offer every surface the opportunity to feel the brilliance of my ass.

43. Doggy OR Cowgirl?
D) All of the above.

44. Dirty Sanchez OR Rusty Trombone?
C) None of the above.

45. Threesome OR An hour of receiving oral?
Threesome.

46. Watching porn OR Making your own porn?
Watching or making, so long as there's clowns.

47. Biting OR Licking?
One then the other... in either order.

48. Black Leather OR Pink frilly lacey what-nots?
Little boy or Daddy?

49. Rug burn OR Neck hicky?
In New Orleans, I think, the question should be Wood splinters OR Neck hicky?

50. Fall asleep OR Snack after?
Entirely depends on how good the sex is and how quickly I want to get the fuck out of there.

Did you know you kissed me awake this afternoon? You sure did. Jolted me wide awake. I have been wanting to write you a letter for a weeks now. It just gets so complicated, you know. I was on my way to work about two weeks ago, and I had forgotten my iPod. I must have switched the radio on at the end of an ad, because everything was quiet. After a moment, the guitar kicked in. Soft at first, then moved into a steady, recognizable strum. I had to pull the car over, because I started to cry. I hadn't thought of you like that in a long time.

Remember when we stood outside that horrible girl's house that we both hated, so we wouldn't go inside? I sat in the passenger seat, while you stood on the curb and leaned against the car. I smoked. You sang to me. I was sixteen. It was that song. That song we said we would never have as "our" song even though it strangely fit, because that would be lame. Time passed, and I forgot hearing the song and pulling my car over to clear my face up before work... Until I dreamt of you this morning. I woke up. I put on Darkest Days by Stabbing Westward. Would you believe my CD is so old and worn now, it wouldn't play on anything except my computer? I made my coffee like I always do... with cinnamon, just like you like.

This dream was so real, soundtrack and all.

I was driving down Lamar Road in Austin. I was going to your house because you were hosting a huge party (like always). Yet the dream was taking place in the future. I had moved back to Texas and you wanted to see me and asked that I'd come. I was all done up and I was driving past that look-out spot on Blanco Road you took me to that over looks the city. The night was a true Texas autumn night. The road was full of memory and anticipation. The air was crisp, cool, and cracked your lungs. I was adjusting my lipstick when I pulled to the address you gave me and started laughing. "Well, that fucking figures!" I said outloud in my car.

The house you lived in now over-looked the Gardens in San Antonio. I thought to myself as I shook my head, "If anybody could pull a feat like that off, it would be one of my boys." Your house was on the cliff edge where we used to sit and over-looked the pond. They looked like they did with you. You were standing on the porch, leaning on the doorframe, with that same smug grin. The one I only have pictures of, now. You already knew.

I got out of the car and walked up to give you a hug. "So, what do you think?" you said. You hugged me hard with your eye-brow cocked. You looked so good. You had lost a little weight. You cut your hair so it was short and gelled again. You were wearing a tight, black, cotton tee-shirt, poured-on blue jeans, black boots, and my favorite jacket.

I whispered in your ear, "I've missed you so much."

You laughed at me, as you're prone to. "Come on, what do you think?" I stepped back, stared at you, blinked several times, and told you that you looked amazing. You laughed at me again, as your prone to. "Of the house, baby! What do you think of the house?" You took my hand to start leading me to the door where I could hear the party raging. You rubbed my hand in yours, smiling your beautiful smile.

I blinked, confused. "It doesn't matter what I think, doll. It matters what she thinks. Does she like it?" You shrugged and changed the subject as we reached the door. You introduced me to the people I didn't already know. Nearly everyone was there. I marveled at how all of these people fit in your house. I screamed laughing at one point when a friend of yours I'd never met used on himself the term "old-school crowd". I politely mentioned that if you get much older than me it's family, which made an old roommate of yours choke and spit his drink out. He gave me a dirty look and I smiled sweetly and excused myself, realizing you weren't with me. I looked around and saw you across the room moving toward the back door. I followed you outside. "Hey, what's going on?"

"Nothing," you said, "I just had to get away from all that for a minute." You put your elbows back on the hand-rail. Your whole back porch was fresh, rough cedar. Big, beautiful oak trees hung over it.

"It's a great party. Good job." I crossed my arms as the evening was full in now and it was getting chilly. You just looked at me incredulously and lit a cigarette. You held the open Marlboro pack to me, and I shook my head. "No thanks, hun. I don't really smoke anymore. I work out too much, and I sing now."

"Jesus, is there anything you don't do?" Your eyes were full of ache. I blushed and looked away. I stammerred about how it's no big deal, just a couple of tracks for a friend, it gives me wrinkles, I don't like smelling like tar, it was time to quit... You just rolled your eyes, swept a hand around my waist, and pulled me closer to you. You moved in to kiss me. I could feel your breath on my lips and just before their softness hit me, I turned away. "Please..." you purred.

"I can't. I can't. Maybe if she was here; maybe if he was here. But not like this. I can't do this." I squirmed and pulled away from you. "I'm sorry. I can't."

"Please. Stay with me. Don't go."

"I have to. I won't do this. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to! He doesn't even live here! He doesn't even love you enough to be with you! LOOK! Look at everything I've done!"

"No."

You dropped your head and I cried. In each other's company twenty minutes, and we're fighting again. I wanted to run to you, to kiss you, to apologize for nothing, to hold you, to smell your leather and your hair. I wanted to tell you that I did wait, that I do still love you, that everything is going to be alright, that maybe someday we can try again. I wanted to do anything, but tell you that you were too late. You finally looked up at me through the silence and ash, "He must be a really great guy..."

"He is."

"Well, I hope I get to meet him someday."

"No, you don't."

"One kiss."

"No."

"Just a cheek... for old time's sake... to say goodbye..."

I'm very happy to hear that most of you have either made it out, or have decided to leave now. I would like to post a further update on my situation. I am in San Marcos, Texas. For those unaware, it is positioned between San Antonio and Austin. If any of you are thinking about evacuating on buses (or if you're just stuck somewhere lame) and you can afford a flight, because the buses are only heading north, anything cheap to any major city in Texas: San Antonio, Austin, Houston, or Dallas, we can come and get you or we have a place for you to go. My family has commited, my sisters in particular, to help house evacuees. Hell, there's even work here if you are worried about your finances while staying in Texas. Do not fear for your animals, several people have offered pet friendly homes or boarding. A big thank you also to all of my friends and family in Texas. All of you have been very understanding and I appreciate all of your support, compassion and generosity in this time of sorrow and fear for so many of us. You are all so beautiful to me.

Shadow is out for any of you concerned who aren't friends with her directly. She is in Alabama and if you have further questions about her, please email me. (Most of you should know, I never post anybody's personal business on the internet. Read her blog yourself or email me.) Trish is still in. For those of you who have sent me prayers and well wishes and voodoo, please send it to her instead. There is little I can do for her from here, but some of our friends and family are doing everything they can to persuade those they reach to evacuate University Hospital. At present, they will not be evacuating the hospital until after Gustav passes and before Hanna hits. If any of you are friends with the President, now is a really good time to call in a favor you probably owe me. Again, please send any good vibes her way. She is a devoted therapist, a dedicated nurse, a loving sister, an incredibly giving mother, and one of my very best friends. For those of you who pray, please pray for her.

If anyone needs to reach me, or if you decide you want to leave and have no where to go, my sister's landline number is 512-878-1869. She and her husband have been incredible and will be very happy to take as many people as they can house and have made further provisions with friends of their's just in case. Again, I also have people in San Antonio, Houston, Austin and Dallas. You have options. Please, just get out. I love all of you.

cj

My fellow New Orleanians,
My friends,

As of this afternoon, the anniversary of Katrina, Gustav is a hurricane and headed right towards us. Like many of you, I bought canned food and candles. I was prepared to wait it out and perhaps help others once it passed. However, now Gustav is projected to hit land as a strong category three. For me, that was where I decided to draw the line. It is also entirely possible with such a slow moving storm, it will be even stronger when it does hit. Worse than that, Hurricane Hanna is running right along side it. Due to a northern front, Hanna is projected to cross Florida and enter the Gulf of Mexico. I, for one, am not prepared for two storms.
As per usual, the state of Louisiana has begun evacuations of the lower parishes. What I found interesting, is that the president of St. Bernard parish was on the news this morning declaring evacuation of that area as of tomorrow morning. That parish is about two miles from my house. With such assumptions being made already, I am inclined to believe that the upcoming weeks are going to be very difficult. As I am writing this, Sen. Landrau is on the news saying that we are in a “much better position” than we were for Katrina. Though I think anybody with a half a brain can agree, it's still too soon after Katrina to think that our natural defenses are prepared for what will potentially be a strong three and possibly a four level storm.
My friends, I have decided this afternoon to leave. I am worried for my animals. A storm doesn't worry me. Flooding in my area does. This is where I live and I feel I am left with little choice. I understand that many of you are reluctant to leave and there is little I can do to persuade you. I only wish to make it known that I have a car with some space left in it. I also have been in close communication with my family over the last two days, and as most of you know I'm from Central Texas which is a very secure location from these storms. My sister, Bonnie, whom most of you also know, has already declared that she is more than happy to take people in. My other sister, Merritt, whom most of you also know, lives right outside of Dallas and I'm sure would be very happy to see you. I also have many friends in the Austin/ San Antonio area. There are very pretty, cheap, and vacant hotels in that area. I have more than enough places for people to stay.
I beg you all, please don't believe that you have no where to go. I ask that if you have a car with no destination, come with me. If you don't have a car of your own and you want a way out, come with me. There will be much whiskey and tequila, I'm sure. There will be lots of good food. We will be more than happy to welcome you, all of you, into safety. At the end of the day, we are all family. I am scared for my family, not my city. Perhaps you are family that I have never met, but you are still family. Please, please, don't be stubborn. Don't be nonchalant. Don't believe that because you have not known me, that I don't care about you. J, for all our differences and I know you don't want to leave your investments, come with me. Of course I'll take care of her, but let's get a u-haul and pack you up too. I have always loved you both, never doubt that.
I am willing to do whatever is necessary to get as many of you out as I don't have to hog-tie and drag. I know a lot of you don't have family or friends near by. I do. Please don't think that any of you don't have options. Let me know as soon as you can. You may contact either myself, 504-810-8586, or Shadow. I look forward to hearing from you.

Claire

I had a dream about you last night.

To be honest, I don't believe I had even thought of you in days. Until recently I would never have believed that possible. In my mind, I saw your face more clearly than any picture can capture. I always thought that as time passes your smell would fade from my clothes, your features would slowly fade, my memories of you would glaze over. The last time I dreamt of you was in January. Yet even now, so long after waking, I can shut my eyes and see the exact color of yours.

I had a dream about us being happy.

It was really beautiful. We had a sweet little apartment all our own. We had our four cats. You took care of the house and wrote. You wrote all the time, and you had just published your novel recently. I think we were engaged. That contented sort of time when two people are just completely comfortable with each other. We had amazing sex. You kissed me everyday when I got home from work. We were so happy.

I woke up reaching for you.

I felt your skin on mine like a shadow. You were soft air in my bed. I wanted to hold the curve of your jaw in my hands. I could almost hear you telling me over and over that we were going to make it go away, all my pain and all my anger. I remembered your goofy smile and the way you used to flirt with me even after the glow of newness had dulled. You loved the shape of my nose. I could see you dancing and missed your arm around me. You loved music like I do. When I was sick, you went to every drug store in the neighborhood at four in the morning until you found one open. You said you were never going to let anything happen to me. Every time you left the house, you came back with flowers. I remember the longing in your eyes when you would look at me. I missed you like I never have. My fingers sought you under the hum of the afternoon. I wanted you to kiss me and tell me everything would be ok. I wanted to hear you say "go back to sleep." I wanted you to stroke my hair and hold me to your chest. I just wanted you near me.

I woke up confused and scared.

I didn't know where I was. There in the ghost of sleep, where nothing's dream and nothing's real, I remembered why I was scared. My memories and my dream and my memory of the dream all started to blend together. I remember using concealer for the first time. I borrowed it and was trying to force it into my skin-tone. I could remember that time I sat on the steps and pulled broken glass out of my feet for hours. Then there was the navel of the wall across from the bathroom, the dent two feet from the floor where my head hit. I had to wear scarves to work. I had to grow my hair long. I remember sitting on the porch. Crying as the cop came over and counted around my neck four marks on the right side and a larger one on the left. She asked me if I had anywhere to go as she held up my face and continued counting. I remember one of the roommates once complaining that we were fighting too loud. He asked you if we could keep it down because he had to wake up early. Sometimes I would shut the bathroom door and stand naked in front of the mirror. I'd stare and never cry. Yet each time I saw myself, I cursed every tear you shed in front of me.




I am stunned for I cannot fathom what made me dream such a dream. That last dream I had of you in January was typical. You had me pinned to a wall by the throat and you were screaming. You were getting ready to beat me. I cried and I screamed for help and everyone just walked past me. Yes, that dream scared me. Yes, that dream was real. Yes, that dream means I am still scared of you. Sometimes it made you cry when I would flinch at a movement. Honestly, sometimes I still do and I haven't laid my eyes on you for almost four years. I used to wonder whether you think of me ever, even now. I wonder also if you will read this. Would you care? What would it make you feel to know that the reason I woke sad and scared is the loss of your laughter? What would it make you feel to know that the nightmare I want soothing from most right now is you? How would you fix that? How can you make you better for me?




Still,
Sketti to you

seriously, i'll give anyone a dollar if they can tell me how to get just one good night of sleep, just one...

do you think you dream if you asphyxiate? if i do that thing where you hug your knees and hyperventilate maybe? what about drugs? does anyone dream on drugs? does anyone have any drugs? do people actually overdose for real on advil pm? how much can i take? isn't this why i was given alprazolam in the first place? do you think perhaps it's not working?

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Anyone who has both MySpace and LiveJournal, or has ever known me for that matter, can certainly grasp the dichotomy of my personality. Then again, I use that word specifically "known". At the moment, I can only think of one person who has ever really known me. It wasn't that they looked at me, or touched me, or heard me, or fucked me, or liked me. There's been one person in my life that saw me, felt me, listened to me, loved me. Problem is, if you noticed, all of those verbs are past tense.

I'm writing a lot more these days, but it's not here. It's in a real journal as problems. It's in notebooks as fiction. It's in my mind as dreams. The main reason being I can't stand the sound of my own voice when it's complaining about the needless. Everyone says it's getting better, but in reality all I want is an overdose. Writing here is just whining and others wishing I didn't bore them. What's the point? It's just typing. Even the bum screaming "FUCK" on the sidewalk over and over again is still heard. This internet bullshit, these clicking letters; nobody ever has to care about that.

I am so fucking lonely.

My brain was not awake until one in the morning today. This sucks. I'm never going to sleep now.

More coffee...

So, my mind is... a little pre-occupied lately. I have... stress. There's, well... there's a lot going on with me. One of those, "I guess you had to be there" sort of things, despite the fact that you would "have to be there" for like the last month or more. Under such times, I find different outlets to focus my unwanted energy. I've been reading and studying a great deal, obviously. However, I've also started meditating in the last month. I try to do it everyday, but don't always commit to it. Slacking this last week--because of more fun with stress, but I've been working out a lot. Even more amazing, my muse is no longer drowned out and has whole bunches of shit to scream about.

What did I do with my dead-ass night at work after I finished my homework?

I WROTE A FUCKING SONNET BITCHES! BOOYA!

Oh yeah, I'm fuck-all motivated these days. Novel's going slow, but I'm at least writing again. Now I'm going to smoke, study some more and then get to work on either the book or a new sestina. Sestinas make happy! I like playing with words as numbers. I swear if it weren't for the little things in life, I'd've shot myself by now.

Ok, ok...

So I asked for it. Yeah, I know I did. I did this to myself. This is my own fault. Deep breath. It's almost over. Four more days. Just breathe. I can do anything. Just breathe...

As some people know I was originally jazzed as hell (hands and all) about this Deviant Behavior class. After the first couple of days of class, I realized what a bust that was. It's horrible and I hate it.

1) Not only is some of the material wrong, and I don't mean I don't agree with it. I mean it's FUCKING WRONG! I thought I was being a big ole ego bitch too, so I looked it up. Yeah, took me three minutes to find the info I needed. It's that easy to find and still fucking wrong. We read journal articles published in a nationally accredited journal that are wrong. And I am not even going to comment on the grammatical structure of said literature. I thank god for the text book... but we'll get to that.

2) Typically one imagines that testing would be a useful tool to gauge a student's understanding of the material covered. In Sociology 108, testing is used by the teacher as a masturbatory tool to stroke his own ego. He asks the class to study things he doesn't test on. He might formulate a question looking for the specific outcome of one aspect of a study never discussed in class when we read about a dozen before each class period.

3) Speaking of which, I understand it's summer and all. However, you have some kinda big, hairy balls expecting a classroom (composed of people you know to all be working full time jobs) to read two hundred pages in two days. Fuck you, dude! Do you think I wake up every morning and just can't wait to rub theory all over my probably naked body? I have much better things for that, and better ways to spend my time with better people. And guess what? You're only one of two classes at the moment! You are not special. There is nothing distinctive about your intelligence. You are ugly. Like Polish Jew with high waist pants and a huge bald spot ugly. Get over yourself.

4) My text? My all holy text? The last piece of enjoyment I took in this class? Yeah, equal fail. Of the myriad of interesting material in this collection of humanities indiscretions, this jack off douche bag has us reading... no wait, guess... Accounts of child molestors and kiddie porn creators! Woo hoo! My favorite! This material is not suited for a fucking classroom. This is the most disgusting thing I have ever read. One of these bastards that was trading child porn, was trading his kids. It's ok, read that again. Fucker was taking porn pictures of his own children and trading them on the net for other people's collections. It's not like the information's not important. It is. And very useful for preventative measures. No, really, I get it. It just doesn't need to be addressed like this is a classroom setting. It really doesn't. A classroom is not the appropriate place for these maggots to be explaining the appeal of sucking an eleven-year-old's clit. And I really don't need thirty pages of it.

I'm sorry if I grossed anyone out again. I do that, I know, but this is ridiculous! I almost just threw my text book across the room at this foulness and wrote my teacher an email calling him various forms of douche bag. I was encouraged, by a dear, that such a reaction to an assignment might not maintain my ginormous grade in that class. I wanted to be in college. I want to know everything there is. Deep breath. It's almost over. Four more days. Just breathe. I can do anything. Just breathe...

I swear to god, I just got back from the Twilight Zone. I now understand, after years of observation, why it is that people get lost in it.

1942 just contacted me through the radio. I am so goddamn confused right now.

Shortly after I got to work this very beautiful evening, I realized I left my computer out in my car. Considering that all I am going to end up doing is reading and listening to S.K.Y.fm--I heart classical and S.K.Y.fm loves Vivaldi and Mozart. We are a match made in musical internet heaven.--I decide to bail and turn on NPR instead. The radio at the desk is rather strange in and of itself. The station you are aiming for is not always where you think it should be. Sometimes. The max volume allows you to hear the broadcasts, but only if there is very little traffic on Decatur. Motorcycles essentially act as a touretted censor.

So I pull up the wee thing from under the desk and fiddle with the dial to stifle the whine of emasculated men who can't get laid and therefore need to shoot everyone. I spin it down and listen hard. I hear talk radio. It's many different voices all speaking quite accurately, though somewhat dramatic. Huh, well maybe I snagged TUL by mistake... wait... What is this?

A group of people, two of which from South-side Chicago I learn, of all personality types, drunk, hot chick, old bat, stud, and millionare, are all on a boat. They have tried to capture a Nazi (no joke). Somehow the Nazi, who's name is Willy (seriously), comes to control the ship (because he's a Nazi) and directs their course to a concentration camp in Bermuda (no joke). Well, they hit a storm and the ship sinks. All of these people end up on an another boat somehow. Yes, they all fit and yes, the Nazi is still in control of the situation. He proceeds to start rowing. Everybody thinks he's a lunatic and they can't figure out how he can manage this when nobody on the boat has had any food or water for five days. It isn't until the Nazi finally kills the annoying drunk (because he's a Nazi) by throwing him overboard, which nobody hears, that they realize he's sweating. They all bum rush him after he says that of course he grabbed some water from the old boat before it sank, as well as vitamins and energy pills so that he could save them all by rowing. By this point he's speaking in English not German anymore, because he says he realizes he could trust them. They all get pissed and throw him overboard too. Then they see a boat and realize it's a contact for the Nazi they just threw overboard. They overtake the ship--let me repeat myself, THE SHIP--but don't kill anyone (else) because these poor Germans are just automatons who don't know what they are doing.

All music for the broadcast as well as two commercials after it all had that same dippy music you associate with throwback 50's diners, all rollerskates and poodles. The two commercials had creepy jingles. One of which, I swear, talked about how the radio is awesome and can still be great for, and I quote, "fire-time chats". Not the exact phrase, I know, but who the fuck uses that anymore?!

I ended up stepping into the back for something in the second one, and when I stepped back out, it was gone. The station was just talk radio again. Albeit a station name I didn't recognize and all kinds of not NPR, but just your normal talk radio. I am left with WTF, man, WTF...

I felt the need to share my misadventure in time, and my amazement at my inability to turn it off. By the time they threw Willy-the-Nazi overboard I was all like, "Woo! Take that fucking fascist!" The Twilight Zone completely ran amock with my brain and I did nothing, NOTHING, for the over half hour I listened to the show. No work, no homework, no reading, nothing.

... jesus christ

It's that deep tickle you feel in the dark when you know someone is right behind you. I can't explain it any better than that. I have to leave. I'm going home. I am assured that everyone is ok, but something's off. I hate this feeling, and it's just getting worse. I'm sorry, Atlanta, but tonight I drive the other way.

This entry is going to either be incredibly boring, disgusting, insulting, or arousing. Your reaction to it says a lot about you, now don'it! Apology not necessary, as you have been warned.

I am so completely sexually frustrated right now it's ridiculous. I seem to be developing a crush on every even semi-attractive male that walks past me. I think my eyes have learned to drool. Either that or there's been so much time it's starting to back-up in me up to my brain. I swear I could look at a picture of myself right now and wonder if I'm seeing anybody. I might also add that it makes for very boring conversation most of the time. One of my co-workers has taken on the crusade of finding me a quick and easy lay just to get me to shut the fuck up about it. The worst part is that there are plenty of people who want me and are plenty attractive themselves out there. It's just goddamn circumstance! There's a whiskey-voiced, sadistic juggler up north, a kilted, red-neck barbarian in Georgia with a mean teacup, a little more than a few people back Tejas way with assorted useful equipment, even an eskimo, and I can't get anywhere! FUCK! Yeah, there's a couple people in my general neighborhood that I wouldn't mind taking a roll in the hay with, but... well, I'll just say it. After all, everybody else does anyway. I've already fucked everyone worth fucking here! It's a real short list, people! Despite living here for six years, the crew hasn't really changed all that much. I'm fucking bored! Literally. Besides, it's not like any one of us gives a crap about each other. We're good friends and it's a release of tension. It's rarely worth gossiping about. I'm not knockin' ya boys, but let's be honest. I couldn't have been that good either. We were probably both real drunk and pissed off at something else that had nothing to do with what was going on in the room.

Now, I can ride off into the sunset and well into dawn, and I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose. But seriously though, if I can't get what I'm looking for out of it, I'm just going to get you off as fast and cheap as possible, grab my clothes and toss you a towel on my way out the door. One of my exes holds the current record of three minutes. Most boring and pathetic bastard ever. It's a shame I'm not a teenager anymore, but pulling hair only gets you so far. You don't get to cuddle unless you make me cry. It's shitty, I know, but sometimes that's just reality. And the crying thing, yeah, only three men have done it. Each was only able to do it once. It happened once with a highschool boyfriend the day we broke his metal framed futon (yeah, I'm talking about you again), once with my first dom (still my best fuck to date and you know it, so take a second and roll around in your own ego), and once with my last dom (really wish that one just hadn't happened at all in retrospect). Each in their own way the most fucked up, bat-shit crazy people I have ever known. Now that I think about it, I wonder why Goat wasn't ever able to do it. He takes the cake on the most sadistic person I've ever known. He used to orchestrate scenarios to where one of his "friends" would get repeatedly raped... sometimes with a screwdriver, poor fucker. Shame, Goat was really cute too.

Anyway, back to the point. The point is that I'm tired of settling. I no longer understand the point in having bad sex, or hurried sex, or one-sided sex. I have had very good sex in my life. Making me cum in my own hair is a tricky feat, but that gets you cuddle points too. Drunkenly blundering into one another is just sex. Who wants to just "have sex"? Those who do get A) to watch my cute ass walk right the hell away from them and B) the towel. God help you if you fucked up my make-up. If your sex isn't worth the time it took me to apply this shit, then I don't see why your face needs to look so pretty either. I guarantee I will vastly more prefer playing with the skin on your face at that point than playing with the skin on your dick.

So, my problem is patience. I want to get laid now. I don't want to get laid like that. Back and forth. Etcetera, etcetera. Fortunately, I still have my imported ass to lean on. That's few and far between, though.

*sigh*

I believe, Gentle Reader, that you are owed an explanation. I have not been posting a lot lately. I have been far too busy. Nonetheless, it sometimes sneaks up on me what I righteous bad ass I am. Lately, most of my dusty, dark corners have been shaken out and cleaned. I am entirely unclear as to how entertaining I am when I'm very seriously scared to death. I have been fighting the impulse to believe that I am at a huge milestone. I also fight the impulse to think about it for too long, because then the overwhelming urge to vomit and pass out takes hold.

~(See? There it is! My anxiety = your entertainment; it's never very far away. Sometimes when I talk about it, the roommates even have to interrupt me and point, “Look! Look! Your cat! It's talking! Look!” Though apparently I still look a bit green around the gills and sway slightly on the couch.)

I was tempted to write a long and winding prose about how pissy I am, how much all the men in my life suck, how mostly that's because I don't have sex with any of them anymore, how exhausted I am, or other such narcissist babble. Yet I find, I can't do it. I can't in good conscience complain about very much today. All I have wanted for a long time is to hear “I love you” from someone that really means it. Unfortunately, most of my compatriots don't really know me very well. This in no way casts fault. The subject just never came up. It's not a big deal, per se, however one cannot value an uneducated opinion. The first thing that happened to me when I woke up this morning, on my way to go get coffee, the mom of the house stopped me. She hugged me hard, said she loved me, and that she was so happy to be living together. I blinked a couple of times, “Well I love you too, Auntie Mims. How is your day going so far?” Without coffee, this rather bowled me over for a second.

I spent the entirety of the afternoon not feeling my peak, so I curled up on the couch with a Eric and watched bad (BAD) horror films. We ordered Chinese and snuggled and laughed and boo-ed at the television rooting for the bad guys. Then teh Shadow woke up and she stretched out too about half way through Ichi The Killer... and there was much rejoicing—yay.

~(Yes, you're right, oh best beloved. I am stringing you along again a bit, yes. I'm sorry, but I started trying to write about everything that's currently going on with me and... well, I'm at work. Green doesn't look so good on me under this lighting. I have no cats to distract me. I can't write about it. I'm not comfortable enough and I just ate a sloppy BLT from Quartermaster. The queeze do not groove with the greasy nom-noms.)

I had a rather relaxing day today, thankfully. After a month straight, I got three days off from work. I still almost got called in to work and three days after 60 hour work weeks for a month is just not enough. Shortly after I got to work, I received the sweetest email from one of my dearest friends. Apparently, I'm a bitch and he loves me. Fuckin rock! If there was just one person I could pick to hear those words from right now. That just kicks ass. I can't wait to be in Chicago! Now, as I'm getting off work and watching the sun come up, I know my comfy, squishy bed is just minutes away. Nothing says happiness like a spooning a sleeping kitty.

Yesserie... yup... just sittin... yeppers... woo, yeah... I might be having a little too much fun right now.

At work, a job where I make less money than I would as a Pizza Hut employee. Yet, I'm still expected to do accounting procedures? Hmm...

Ya know, most of my LiveJournal is pretty fucking depressing. I guess I don't have enough humor to trickle down this many blog sites. (Meaning two.) Oh well... there's time. I might get funny again. My brain is getting better. Then again, if I could kill myself on the net it would totally be a LiveJournal post! It would be like a... cyber-suicide, no, no... a cybercide. That doesn't work either... a suicyber! No, no, no wait, I got it!

Suicybercide! ... oh yeah ...

It's not uncommon that I feel completely burdened with my own intelligence. Most of the time, it really pisses me off. I find myself wanting to shake people like a bad dog and scream, "What the hell is wrong with you?!" I still want the interrobang on my keyboard. Sometimes the idea of kismet bothers me.

How much of one's life is choice? A friend of mine once told me that she believed in reincarnation until nirvana. Nirvana bothers me because oblivion is not fun and Limbo ran away with all its cannibals and dead babies. Buddhism at it's core isn't really a religion. Granted, all of that is beside the point. She told me once that in every life you have to learn a hard lesson or else you are destined to just keep repeating until you learn it. As you progress to the final stage of life (which she thought to be that of a house cat, but I can't really blame her) you become the whole, perfect being. Then you were allowed into heaven, or nirvana, or whatever you believe. My question to her was, "But how do you recognize the lesson?" She said that perhaps you never do.

I roll all of these strange concepts around in my head pretty much all of the time. My wheels don't ever really stop turning, it's just that sometimes the engine gets revved. I guess you could say my brain is forever coasting downhill in neautral. Every once in a while something causes me to hit the gas. I think of the Marquis de Sade and how he helped pave the way to modern thought. I think that, in a way, Al Pacino is the poster-boy for a lot of post-modernism. I don't think that the only thing to Freud was cigars and his mother; I just think that nobody reads anymore. The older I get, the more I think. The more I think, the more scared I become. The more scared I become, the more I want to regress. Become animal. Run away with Buddha and Limbo into nothing.

I sometimes want to shake myself and scream, "What the hell is wrong with you?!" The greatest burden of my intelligence is that it allows me the ability to recognize how crazy I am without allowing me to do anything about it.

FROLICON KICKS SO MUCH FREAKIN ASS!!!

Subtext- (Never fear, there will be more depression. It's always just around the corner. I only ever think to look and be cautious when the on-coming traffic of my life doesn't distract me. My anxiety is getting so bad now, that I was getting worried about how I was going to hold up in Atlanta. This is all preview for the next post, of course. At the moment, like I said, I have to keep distracting myself just to make it through the next two hours of work without breaking down. On to cheezburger.)

I suppose the reason I use LJ at times like these is that I think it's more intimate. Hence the name "live journal". There isn't the interaction that Myspace provides and therefore the only reason that someone will go to lengths to read a substantial blog is out of genuine interest in a person's well-being. What an interesting phrase; well-being--not exactly what I would call appropriate.

I just stepped back in to my desk after smoking a cigarette. I went outside for five minutes of peace and quiet, yet while frat boys abound I still get stared at. I thank god that I didn't get hollered at. For the first time in my life, I find my sarcasm and rage missing and to have someone be so accidentally disrespectful to me I'm sure would make me cry right now. Perhaps I could just need to cry. My skirt is falling off.

I got rather excited this evening before work. I dug out a skirt I've loved for a long time but haven't had the chance to wear recently for whatever reason, and found that it still fit me. Not in the hold your breath, suck it in, lay down on the bed and pray kind of way, it genuinely still fit me. I thanked god that I bought it a little big at the time. A couple of hours into my shift, I noticed a spot on it. As any woman does, I licked my finger and moved to rub it off. I picked at it absently while doing my paperwork for a minute or so and realized that rather a lot of crap was working itself out of this spot on my skirt. Until I looked down and realized that it was actually the skirt itself. I rubbed a hole in my skirt because I've owned it so long that it has apparently started to disintigrate. After the "ok, don't do that again" chat with myself and vows to retire the skirt as soon as I got home, I returned to my paperwork. An hour later, while on the phone, I sat down and ripped the length of the back of my skirt. Every inch but the waistband. I had to wrap my suit jacket around my waist before stepping outside to smoke because my skirt is falling off.

I find myself questioning the same cliche over and over again: "Why am I here?" I think back to why I originally moved to this city as I look up at the moon. I wanted something--anything--that would make my value of/in life greater than anybody else's. I wanted a life changing experience. I new I would find it in New Orleans. I guess I was right.

I recieved a phone call I was looking forward to earlier this evening. I took the initiative after current events to approach the topic of self betterment. There was a discussion. Then it was over, just like that. I was so scared to have this conversation because I thought back to my girlfriend and her soon to be ex-husband. I was scared that, being a man, there would be no reception to my points. I was scared he would become irrational or immature. I was scared he would behave poorly. I tried to explain that none of the things I was saying were inherently bad, they were my perspective. That's when I was told we needed to "take a step back". A step back. A fucking step back. A step back is what happened when I ripped my skirt. A step back is what I do when the drunks and stoners repeatedly ask where they can find food at one and two and three and four and five in the morning and offend every olfactory gland for two city blocks.(There have been seven inquiries in the last hour, ten if you include the ones who accidentally asked twice. I've taken to flat out lying to them at this point.) A step back is what you do when you're talking to a friend right before you tell them why a movie was cool. You don't take a fucking step back from someone who has mapped your body with their face. You just don't. I guess I was right.

Really I'm just glorifying this whole situation. I'm bitching because I had a bad day, not least of which including a break up via telephone. I should have stopped when the blueberries went bad. While I stood outside and fumed with pain, I remembered the other reason I moved here. I wanted to go to school here. I have a goal. I have a plan. At the most it's three years and nothing will stop me from countless new adventures and new skirts. Why AM I here? Fuck this infested, deluded, minimum wage, alcoholic cesspool. Fuck this noise. And fuck you too, Michael. *vulgar hand jesture* Thrown Away my ass. Cry over this mother fucker.

So the roomie and I had our doctor's escapade yesterday. She has given a more detailed account of her ordeal there, meanwhile they didn't even see me. I just sat in the waiting room for over an hour. Come to find out, some clinics see patients in the order of their appointment without caring about those that actually made it to their appointment on time. I even asked them if in fact my appointment time had been for eight in the morning, would I have been seen? The answer was yes. Fuck that noise! However, this is not the rant for today. Today--today was much more eventful.

Having been awake for over three days on four hours of sleep broken between them and working a grand total of 32 hours over said three days, I was thankfully allowed to sleep through the appointment with a different doctor. The roomie went and just asked for an extra prescription for "herself". This doctor was female, very accomidating, and didn't not charge her the appointment fee to tell her she was tight. (For real real, check her blog.) Fully equipped with two sets of birth control and only a little goop, she returned home triumphant.

Once my brain figured itself out and I accomplished a few things around the house that needed to be done, we sat down and started looking up more information on said birth control. It is Nuvaring. Neither of us have ever used it before, but she came home with glowing reviews. My concern was in a certain up-coming, MUCH NEEDED vacation and how this would... uh... affect. Come to find out, Nuvaring does prevent one's cycle from happening just like the pill. Neato! We watch several little advertisements and instructional clips online and feel confident that well... we'll figure it out. It's rather like a tampon without the annoying string to pee on. Let the pussy party commence!

We strip from the waist down in the Audry Hepburn Suite (the huge ass bedroom we share). Not the least disappointed in the lack of paper dresses and cold tables, we jump in our respective beds and prop up. No wait, my story gets better. Laughing hysterically at each other's twisted faces while we fiddle with our rings and try to imitate the instruction video online, sure enough it isn't that difficult for me. Meanwhile, the roomie is convinced hers is not in right and I'm concerned because this seems an obstructive thing that would cause difficulty in certain activities. We make exaggerated walks around the bedroom to feel out the placement of our new accessory, much like new shoes. The idea hits. We look at each other. Dildo! I go scrambling through the big black box that lives under my bed, while she looks through the gift bag that the doctor gave her (Yes, I said gift bag. How cool is that?) for condoms. She slips one on the dildo for me and I test it out. I apparently am making one of my typical hideous faces, because she bursts out laughing again. "Well, this really works better when you're... ya know... ready for it." I wiggle some more. Remove. Toss condom. I make another silly sort of kissy face at her while place a condom on it for her. She makes an equally horrible face as she tests hers and wiggles. I laugh. Remove. Toss condom. We both check our placements again. Nope, they don't move. We dance and wiggle around the room again laughing at each other the whole time. She says, "But damn, that's going to be a funny surprise for someone who goes to finger you." I am crying at this point, I'm laughing so hard. Then we both think some more and decide to check again. Yeah, no, I can still get to everything. She can too. It's just a little weird.

We continue to giggle and wiggle and leave the cats to serenade us because the dogs came in the room. What a fantastic way to start my day! It is times like these when I am so grateful my roommate and I are not lesbians, and only the best of girlfriends.