While I haven't exactly been getting propositioned daily, I have determined that it is indeed time to take a vow of celibacy. Ok. Maybe not a vow. Now a vow at all. Just a quiet agreement with myself. Just a silent acknowledgement. I am not ready. I am most certainly not ready.

I had a panic attack on my first date back in the field. I had a fucking panic attack! What kind of pathetic shit is that? Clearly, I am not ready. And as pathetic as I might find this, I have no other option than to accept it. What am I to do? Force the issue? Yes, perhaps I can arrange it so that I do actually end up needing those irresponsibly prescribed anti-anxiety meds. How sad is that?

I will no longer endure the embarrassment. I must focus on me. I must not toss strange men from my apartment. (Of course, that's a whole other story altogether.) I must not have strange men anywhere near my bed — not even in the vicinity. I must... to bed... alone.

True. Like I said, I haven't exactly been drowning in propositions, but... alas... a girl can always get laid. Really. It's true. A girl can always get laid.

I'm locking up the merchandise and throwing away the key, people. Maria, I know you'll be disappointed, but what am I to do? Your little quest for suitors simply didn't bear results.

So.. I guess I'll join Amber for a while.. on her little man ban (and big men, too). Hell, maybe there is indeed strength in numbers. And if not, maybe we can at least satisfy ourselves with a bit of cock-teasing for a while. I have to say, I've never been much of a cock tease. I've always been much to directed for that. I like to stay on message, get to the point, see things through, so to speak. Free delivery, baby. But our delivery service has been called to a halt. Hell, we don't even have take out now. Restaurant closed for restoration. Closed until further notice.

[[Ok. I have to be honest. I'm not throwing away the key. I'm just hiding it for a while. If you're really interested, it'll be in my left shoe. I'm not encouraging anything here.. just wanted you to know.]]

What the hell is up with people, man?

Halloween? Hallow-fuckin-ween? Really? You want to do that shit? Fine. Let's have it. Show me what you've got. Let's go out for the full-on battle of creavity — only to be defeated by ourselves before we even get a chance to flaunt our complete and utter assishness in front of the world. Yes! Sounds fuckin' great to me. Let's go.

I haven't done the whole halloween thing in at least.. let's see.. I can't even fucking remember. The last time I remember I dressed up as a bat in high school when I was a punk-ass mother fucker (with straight A's) trying to take flight against the world. No, if I recall correctly, I fell prey again once after. It must have been my first year of college... no.. perhaps last year of high school (I thought I was pretty fucking old. It's hard to tell the difference.) when, in a last-moment bout of desperation, I ever-so-ironically went as my boyfriend's shadow. [Am I still playing that part today? Perhaps I found it comforting. Oh, wait. I no longer have a boyfriend. Whose shadow am I now?]

Anyhow.. it's been a long time. (Longer than I care to admit even.)

So.. I took it on. How long can you sit around being bitter and cynical about everything, mocking it from afar? In the end, you begin to feel that maybe people are right when they assume you're too pathetic to partake, so you just sit around and bitch about it. Ok. So, I partook.

And you know what? I hated it!

Sorry, man. I know it sucks. I suck. I'm an asshole. A bitch. A cunt. A whore.

...whatever...

It's how I feel. [So, if you've ever dated me, shut off right now... just shut off. Don't listen. No matter what you do, don't listen. I'm telling you how I feel, damn it!]

What the fuck is wrong with the world? That's all I can say. That's all I can ask. What the fuck is wrong with the world?

I wonder — sometimes — what the fuck is wrong with ME. I wonder. I wonder about that. What the fuck is wrong with ME? But.. not tonight. Not tonight.

Tonight I am secure.. secure in my beliefs... secure in my sense of self... secure in my sense of the world.. secure that I am right to question — all the time — what the fuck is wrong with the world. Secure that it is not me.

I love my friends. They are beautiful. They are lovely. They are sweet. They are many wonderful things. I do not care to bash them. I do not. Really!

But I do not understand. I do not understand the whores, the hookers, the french maids, the school girls, the cheerleaders, the sluts, the sexy devils, the scantily-clad, blood-sucking (and so much more) vampires, the dominatrices, the harem girls, the belly dancers, the harlots. I do not understand.

One girl dressed as a baby. I thought she should win the prize (if there really were a prize to be won). Not because she managed to squeeze about a third of her ass into a real pair of diapers and actually make them look like a thong. Not because she managed to squeeze the top third of her torso into a real baby's undie, with her tits popping out from beneath. Not even because she sucked so well on a bottle full of vodka all night long. No. None of those things. It was because she managed to drink herself into such a stupor that she certainly could not walk. Yes, people had to carry her. The jibberish spewing out of her mouth was much like that of a two year old. And by the end of the night, I'm pretty sure she was spitting up on everyone. Hell, I'm pretty sure the guy whom I saw carrying her off was about to change her diapers.

I went as mercury. I covered myself in tinfoil and went as mercury. I lay down in a pool on the ground and caused brain damage. At least I had that excuse. At least. [Come to think of it... my powers were strong. They were certainly acting like they were incurring some serious brain damage. Hmmm...]

People think I'm weird. They snicker when I walk by, like they're stuck in high school. I do not understand.

At least I did it, right? Fuck! At least I did it. What did you do? Oh, yeah... you got laid, right. You got laid.

I'm home alone now... blogging. You got laid.

Good night, little world. Good night. I love you. Now go get laid.

Ok, Jen, you win. (I bet you think this song is about you.)
Isn't she fabulous?
Zoom on on the eyebrows if you can; they are indeed perfectly glamourous.

And for gods' sake say yes, people. Don't earn me a retaliation.
I have a feeling this woman bites in times of danger.

Date time. Yes. It's time to give the world a go. Time to jump back into life and try to suck of its marrow. Or at least its armpit. Or even a cock. What's a girl to do. Crazy or not, here I come.

Actually, I dig the guy. Don't know what it is... perhaps his simple wackiness, his off-kilter appeal, his lack of tact. I need some tactless tactile function, baby. I need a hole in the head.

I think his madness reminds me of another.

I was going to write a silly post to tease and taunt my esthetician, but something happened. Now it will be a double-whammy.

But first things first.
My esthetician, Jen, left a comment on my blog saying how much she likes compliments... and the word fablous. So.. JEN.. YOU ARE FABLOUS. Isn't she fabulous, people? And you look so sexy when you get all sadist with my brows.

Jen has a pretty interesting profession. I mean... waxing can make for some interesting stories when it's more than just brows. Think about folks. Don't you want to hear her stories? Don't you want a nice Brazilian cooch job? How about waxing those balls?

Ok. I'm digressing here.

The thing is... THIS...
When I went into photoshop to try to enhance what was a very dark photo of Jen, I found someone else in the photo. Or so I thought. Look to to right. That's right, folk I actually freaked out because I thought there was someone else there. See, I just took this photo the other night (when I ran into Jen at a mutual friend's gathering), and I remember distinctly taking the photo. There was nobody else out there.

Of course... there WAS nobody else out there, and I seem to be losing my mind. Urgh!

How do people touch one another? What are the acceptable levels of intimacy, and the path to each. We get used to certain paths and resort to them, but they are ultimately a farce, a vehicle, one that we often have a difficult time accepting as thus.

Hold me. So many people have this desperate need to be loved. It is not passion. It is the very essence of passion. Desperation. Need. Love. A subject for an outpouring. You have to outpour. You have to unload. Or you boil over. You boil over. That’s the goal, the lack of control. The desperation.

This is beyond me. It moves me. It is bigger than I. Maybe we simply need to feel the presence of something bigger than us. It can’t be so clean, so practical, tidy, predictable, and control-able. No, it cannot. It cannot. It cannot. So… we need something bigger, whatever that is. Call it faith… in whatever. In God, in love, in significance, in toenail polish and Velcro, or in thought. Something, bigger, passion. It moves us.

So. I preach about “the zone.” I’m not big on Zen or karma, or anything as hip as that. Yes, I can slip into my ultimate energy theory, but that’s not even relevant. It’s about doing things whole-heartedly, committing to them in order to do them right, stepping into the zone with them, and then deciding whether or not you want that to be your life, or sustaining it for as long as you can or for as long as you desire.

Once you have given it the real effort, lived the true experience, committed to it, and taken it into the zone, you can reject or accept it. The best is to just live it until it just doesn’t suit you – fast or slow. That’s ultimately the way it goes.

Except, no, because we do things half-heartedly, don’t really give them a chance, refuse to commit or step into the zone, hence not getting fed from it and so rejecting it. Of course you reject it, you never let yourself go. How can that be good? How can you really milk it or get anything from it. It’s a fucking farce, a fraud, an absurd theater.

So you relate to people on all kinds of levels. Some are honest, and some are not. I try to remain honest now, but that’s all in the years. I still slip into immaturity from time to time. It’s cheap.

Where do you have to go to talk to people at their level? What are the tokens, and other acceptable terms, through which we establish trust? Does there have to be a betrayal of sorts, a reaction to some other wrong? Do the possibilities need to be addressed, discussed? Otherwise, how do you establish intention? What is intention? Intent? Everything ? What does intent matter if consequences prevail?

Love, love, maternal love, physical love, what love? Physical? What does that mean? Is that a “type” of love, or a consequence. If it’s a consequence, then it’s a general consequence of love, passion, desperation – clawing, grasping, breathing, imbuing, devouring. You can only monitor, censor, and mold through conditioning, on a purely emotional level. Your emotional response, combined with your self-defined moral codes, dictates your physical response. Desperation always entails a physical response of sorts, so you curtail desperation, redirect it, often absurdly.

Sex. An obvious outcome? Or a learned response, the projected outlet? There are more significant ways of establishing intimacy. More complicated, perhaps, but better. Yes, better somehow. Yet we stray from these. We try to bring it down to the most base level. We seek to express it physically and automatically fall into the most basic physical expression. Is there something fundamentally wrong or lacking in this. It seems we should seek something beyond this, better, more sophisticated, perhaps practical, realistic. No. Horrid words. Maybe though, but only despite the fact, only is so far as they aim for something better, more intense, more real somehow, maybe less tainted, more sincere. More pure, or perhaps less vulnerable. But is this ever real? Perhaps it can be, once forced; but initially you can only pretend the vulnerability is not there. It’s a farce nonetheless.

So, sex. If you simply claw and grasp, if you want to claw and grasp, if you allow yourself to go there and suddenly find yourself there, what can be less of a farce? What can be more real? That’s the reason, the rationalization, the motivation, the end.

It’s the moment. Live in the moment. In the end, that’s all we have, moments. Morsels.

So, if that’s what we have, do we just focus on their accumulation? If this were so, I think we would live our lives quite differently.

We feel compelled toward something else, toward permanence – which ultimately means fewer moments. Less variety leaves less room for moments, that’s just a given. Ok, if you find a moment, why not simply keep it, repeat it? Because it ceases to be a moment. Because in the end, the moment is a moment by its very definition, because it is only a moment. If it were “longer” the moment would cease to exist.

A woman relates to her friends, different friends in different scenarios – acquaintances, strangers, lovers, men, women, her friends’ lovers husbands and wives, her colleagues, her coworkers, her staff, her students. Her lover’s exes, threats, unknowns, assumed safeties. Would my lover really have an affair with a slightly overweight, unattractive woman? Oh, with a great personality. You choose to believe not. Perhaps that’s even why he conveys it, why he does so without fear, most of the time. Most of the time. This is important. It’s not all of the time. Too much of anything can seem suspicious; and why expose more than you have to, more than you have to and still feel “real,” more than you have to and still understand that , after all, you are doing nothing wrong. Is the fear, the concern, the safeguard, the omission, a betrayal? What are you protecting?

In the end, what are you protecting? Here we go back to intent, perhaps. It’s always intent. Is it? I intend. I stop. I don’t intend. I don’t stop. That’s not about intent. Actions? Actions or intent? Perhaps they are one in the same. Misrepresentation is the worst betrayal. Oh so. It is, and is what I fear most and for which I flagellate most when necessary, though I tend to avoid the need for long spurts at a time.

Love feels good. Someone excited about your love feels great. Someone satisfied with your love feels good. Someone excited about the satisfaction feels great. But none of these are terribly sustainable. They are moments. Only more moments. But they are it. So what do you do? You have someone accepting of your love, perhaps even satisfied in some way, but how satisfied can that person be without the excitement? Is that even satisfaction? Perhaps it’s a mere semblance of it, almost a reflection, based on the expectation of the moments, of the moments of excitement over it, somehow assuming that they will be greater than without – no, just assuming that the time between the moments will pass more interestingly. Yes.

What do you sacrifice to secure the time between the moments? Do you sacrifice moments? Should you? Do you want someone you love to sacrifice moments? Why do we consider lack of sacrifice a personal expense?

I know there must be some way to truly love and require no sacrifice nor take on an expense. I know there must be a way to simply place ourselves above it all. The problem is, why would we want to? Wouldn’t that impede full enjoyment? Wouldn’t that impede “the zone”? We have to commit. And we cannot commit indefinitely. One commitment impedes another. Nay? Stupid shit.

What do you do? Relate to everyone superficially or risk confusing people with open doors, windows, arms, and minds?

I want to embrace everyone I love; I don’t want to fuck them.
However, I do feel a need to be fucked, to fuck, to desire, need, hunger.
I do feel a need to feed.
I could feed on your blood, and somehow that would make more sense, be more meaningful somehow. I could let you feed on mine. But blood is dangerous these days, and there’s no latex for the like. A latex funnel, I believe. A filter, yellow, leaning toward orange, no fancy little patterns, just standard filth.

In my mind I have lost all sex. My body feels alive from time to time. My body moans and aches, seeks contact with matter, preferably in motion, but not much. Once the motion is obvious it points to something else, no longer content in its fulfillment.

My body cries out from time to time. I wonder if it’s heard, smelled, sensed, somehow. It must be. I notice more noticing. I sense brief glances reacting to the scent. A breeze, a whiff, a hint.

But I no longer fantasize. I create no scenarios to carry to promising fruition. I no longer imagine and wish and desire. I no longer consider possibilities or recreate moments. My mind exists so far from my body. The two simply do not come together now. For now. Hopefully, just for now. It’s unsatisfying. I no longer masturbate. That can’t be good. I don’t really concern myself with coming. I want to. I do, but… the concern over it is worth the sacrifice. I just as soon not try, I guess. Is that fucked up! Is it ever!

I want to fuck. I want to make love. I want to feel my mind and body come together, yes, literally even, literally especially.

I feel disappointed. Even when it’s good. Not always. But I feel general disappointment. That sounds terrible. I want more. I want to give more, take more, feel more. There commands a certain level of intensity, intensity that is now usually only simulated by the mere oddity of it, by its lack. In reality, the fear. It’s like getting off on overcoming the obstacle, rather than on honestly engaging in the act. It’s a farce, in the end. It’s another farce. There’s the problem in it.

Do I ask for something unusual? I don’t even know anymore. I don’t know if it’s obvious or totally obscured. Do I love with particular intensity? Perhaps I no longer do. Perhaps I have destroyed illusion with realism. Perhaps I have trampled it and continue to do so. Perhaps I only laud illusion in theory, but can no longer carry it out in practice. Fuck. I don’t even know. It scares the fuck out of me, really. The horror. The horror.

Can you teach someone to look at you again? Can you inspire it? Can you stop and take a real look and see illusion through the years of negligence? Is it possible to see again? To see through the flatulence, through acidity, acidatay? Is it possible to forget a misplaced hair, a wad of toilet paper left dangling from an ass? Where does memory end and illusion begin?

I don’t know. I love, though. I love, and somehow that should be enough. Somehow it has to be, and is. I just need to find the zone. The Zone.

I cancelled my date. I know it's stupid, but... What are you going to do? I left it open anyhow.. with much reassurance of a later date. I just can't go there yet. Not yet. Anyhow, I've been busy. I've been reading a lot lately — for those who care.

I just read Rushdie's Fury — great read indeed. A bit dark perhaps, but a great read — and somehow very appropriate right now. What shall I read next? I picked up Böll's The Clown, but I haven't quite allowed myself to delve into it yet. I don't think it's time. Any recommendations? I'm very picky about my books. Maybe I need a library date? Anybody up for it? I think I might be able to handle THAT.

Shit! I miss talking. Bullshit. And important things. I miss conversation. Not about men. Not about drinks. Not even about life, per se. Just talking. Where are all the good conversationalists? Where!?

My "waxing-woman" — whatever you call the woman who does your brows (who, by the way is one hot chick) — actually suggested I should start a book club. A bit odd, perhaps, but it might be time for something odd.

I have to say, though, I'm not big on clubs and shit — just never been a joiner by nature. And somehow, I can't imagine finding the right group of people out there to do this with, but.. again.. if anybody is up for it.. well.. let me know.. if it sounds interesting enough maybe it'll actually get off the ground.

Madness... just me putting myself out there in some crazy bloggish way. (Urgh.. next thing you know I'll be cyber-dating. Shoot me, please!)

I have a date this week. Not quite sure what to do with it. Not quite sure how I feel. Good, perhaps. Scared. Incompetent even. Definitely incompetent.

In relationships, smalls things take on a whole new meaning...

Laundry — or welcome to the danger zone

How fucked up do you actually feel getting worked up over some stupid receipt — to even notice it? Cause you should feel fucked up. It IS fucked up. It’s a fucking loss of dignity.

You’re just doing the laundry, you know. You don’t care. You never really minded doing the laundry. Maybe you even half like it sometimes. But it’s pretty domestic; you can’t argue with that.

Anyhow, You’re not really thinking about it. You’re just doing the laundry, after all. But then, well... the pockets have to be emptied. That’s just part of it; no big deal.

The problem comes once you stick your hand in a pocket and hit something... something… it doesn’t matter what. Suddenly, you’ve hit gold, fool’s gold, a hidden treasure, a secret... but not your secret. And no matter what your hand pulls out, you weren’t meant to see it.

Sometimes, your hand automatically recognizes and interprets what it meets… and the fear of the unknown diminishes. Sometimes… not, and then you have to address a whole new slew of dilemmas.

What gets left behind? What kind of treasure is it that I am finding? What secret am I exposing? Do I want to? Was this left behind for me? Am I supposed to find it? Or is it a slip, something that was supposed to remain a secret? Or is it a Freudian slip? What does it mean, this collection of receipts and business cards, stray dollar bills, coins, matches? Everything takes on significance, significance it wasn’t meant to have. Or was it?

Where are the matches from? Do you look? Do you care? You try not to. But it’s only natural to “see.” Of course, you’re looking… Of course you are. And no matter how much you manage to fool yourself… you still know. You’re not stupid. You looked, man. And you’re suddenly so completely aware of your own weakness, your fucking patheticness… or so it feels. But justified, nonetheless. Justified to question — which is why you ask — which is the most fucked up part of all.

You have no idea.

If someone else were writing this monologue they might stop me now and have me say that last night I dreamt my love was fucking Nancy Drew. That’s how they would expose my insecurities. I never dream about him fucking Nancy Drew… only some cheap fucking redhead whore. Yeah, she’s always a damned redhead… which only adds to my overwhelming feeling of living a cliché.

In order to love, to fully experience love, you must experience desperation, humiliation, powerlessness. This is what it truly entails. This is the experience, the clawing, the learning, the passion. What is rational, what is controlled, what is restricted is not passion. Passion cannot be contained. Oh… yes it can.

I contained mine for you, my love. I censored mine, restricted mine, held it back. What’s the good of it if in the end I cannot yet experience it fully. It would not have been difficult, my love. It would not have been difficult to convince me, to entice me, to seduce me, to fool me. You could have had me, dear. I would not have been difficult. If you had simply reached out. If you had had half a cojon, if you had naively demanded atonement, acceptance, you could have shown a glimmer of a struggle, you might have exposed an ounce of need, of want, desire, desperation, you might have shown some desperation; and I might have succumbed. Surely, I would have succumbed. I am a sucker, you see, a sucker for passion, a sucker love, a sucker for life, for adventure, for strife. I am.

A relationship is not a noun; it’s a verb. It has momentum. From the moment you meet someone you start getting closer to that person. With every conversation, every date, every kiss, you are both moving toward each other. That movement creates a momentum. You have sex. Eventually, you have a toothbrush in each other’s homes. Maybe you share a toothbrush. You get closer. You move in together. You see all the things you don’t usually show, because you cannot keep pretenses forever. You reveal yourselves. And you each accept this, or at least bare it. You get closer. And it goes on and on. It’s evolution… in motion. It’s always changing.

Desencarnación

Me gusta tu ausencia
porque en ella más presente estás
desbordando trás mis parpados,
Evocando un paroxismo indefinido.

Me gusta no tocarte
porque guardo el secreto de esos besos
que nunca me has dado,
Y el deseo empeña y no destiñe.

Me gusta que no me hables
porque no me canso de oirte,
Y no caigo en la tentación de repetirte
esas dulces palabras desgastadas.

Me gusta que no seas mío
porque jamás podría tenerte como ahora, corazón,
jamás en vida como en sueños,
. . . Y los sueños no despoetizan.

Me gusta soñarte
porque no sufro el desencanto,
la desilusión, y otros deses
Y no logro a recobrar los mil resuellos.

Me gusta esperarte
porque siento el corazón que se destroza,
Y la mera ridiculéz me expone
a la belleza eterna de esta grande ilusión.

Because there just aren't enough good KFC stories in the world — thank the gods!

A night out with the girls can usually be great fun, but sitting on the sidelines is seldom so.

Me. I'm a sidelines girl. I guess I'm more comfortable there.. in my discomfort. No. I've just gotten used to it, I suppose. You sit on the sidelines so long, you just don't remember how to get in the center.. where the game is.

Amber says that now that she's on a man ban she has more time to focus on her friends. Instead of peering over her shoulder while they're talking, looking for the next handsome man to walk through the door, she actually listens. WoW! What a thought. Maybe I need to spend more time with Amber. I don't know.

On one hand, I need to get out there. I need to play! I need to to get off the sidelines and engage. But... I suck at it now... and it's not a whole lot of fun to sit around and watch your friends hook up, while you sit around listening to their inane banter. And believe you me, it IS inane.

It's hard to believe — the crapass lines we feed each other on a pick up. Does this shit really work? I mean, yes, but only because nobody is listening. The pact has been sealed long before the mouths begin their vomitous feat. Don't say anything intelligent, my friend. Just don't say anything wrong. All is well with the world.

Is She? Or Isn’t She?

I’m a farce, a fraud, a sham. My life has been built on lies and deception. I am nothing. Nothing that I appear to be. Nothing.

I am a farce, a fraud, a sham. People believe that I’m intelligent. I speak and they believe that I’m intelligent. I want them to think that I’m intelligent. I want them to think that I’m not trying to be intelligent. I’m not trying to be intelligent. I am not intelligent. I don’t know things. I don’t even remember things that I once knew. I just don’t know things. I am not intelligent. I am just someone who does not know.

I am a fraud, a farce, a sham. I pretend not to care about things. I pretend to be strong. I will not let things touch me. I will not let things matter. Little things. Little things that should not matter. But they matter. They matter. And it tears me up. I am a fraud.

I am a fraud, a sham. I say that things matter to me. I say they matter. I say they matter because they should matter. They should matter. They are important things. Important things. They should matter. But they don’t matter. Not really. They are not important. Not really.

I am a fraud. I claim to be a good person. I say that I’m a good person. I believe that I’m a good person. But I am not. I hurt people. I hurt people. I betray people. I am not good.

I am a fraud, a farce. I say that I am bad. I say that I am bad because I do bad things. But how can they be bad? How can they be bad when my intent is good? How can they be bad when I am good? I am a good person. I am a good person because I have a good heart. And I must be a good person. I must be.

I am a fraud. I say things about freedom. About freedom. What is freedom? How do we achieve it? I say that freedom is something internal. I say that people are confused about freedom. I say so. I am confused about freedom. I say that to be free you must bare yourself naked to the world. I say that two people loving each other in raw nakedness is the most liberating way to be. I say so. And then I’m scared of losing my freedom.

I am a fraud, a farce. I say I want to share my culture. My culture. I say that it is said that people cannot understand. I complain about intolerance and indifference. But I do not want to share my culture. MY culture, It is mine.

Strength is not an easy trait. It’s difficult to maintain the cold hard stare, the impenetrability. It was quite a stretch to let all the defenses down, to step out of the armor, lay down the masks. And with it came a sigh of relief and the highest fear. I exposed myself before the world. Lay myself out bare.

When you stand naked before the world, you have nothing left to fear.

Depression and alcohol problems often go together, but the evidence suggests that in men alcohol use preceded the depression, whereas in women the depression precedes the alcohol use.
{American Journal of Epidemiology, "Study Links Depression and Alcohol Problems," Washington Post Health, Dec. 16, 1997}

I shouldn't even post today. I should just remain quiet to spite myself. But that would only serve the purpose of easing my headache, and I definitely don't deserve THAT. I know. I know. I deserve every ounce of pain that I have called upon myself. And I will certainly add to that pain with some serious self-flagellation. But.. in the meantime.. what can I say?

I fucked up. I ran my mouth. I offended people. I offend myself!

Sorry.

I no longer have a space with cards on tables. I no longer have a space where anything goes. So. I lost my shit. I lost my shit. I offer no excuses. Forgive my addled mind.

Lahmejun. Lahmejun. Lahmejun.

Thanks to Hugh McLeod, at gapingvoid.com

He always says it so well.

In the end, all we have are the details.

Nit-picking aside, relationships are one hell of a struggle. Never have I had one so difficult — or so rewarding. For a while I was even convinced that I was confusing chaos for passion, as so many of us do from time to time. I even wondered whether we were just getting off on the drama. I mean, we both claimed we didn't want drama, but we also bore so easily. So... were we creating drama out of mere boredom? Or were we using the drama to counteract the boredom? Or was the drama now even getting boring? Perhaps that's what did us in, in the end. Perhaps we got bored of the drama. Even chaos can strangle.

Passion. Drama. If I let go a bit, I don't care as much. That's what I said. That's what I know to be true. Do you want my passion, or my cool? I got both for you baby. I can be as laid back as you need me to. I always have been. But even that gets boring.

Do you want my passion? Ok. All yours. But then take it ALL, baby. Take it all. If you want me to unleash the beast, you must let it bite. You must feed it.

That's the trouble with people out there. Do they, or don't they? Do you? What's up with this half-assed bullshit? I dare you. Fuck, isn't that the point? I fucking dare you! Plunge in, mother fucker. Plunge in and fuck the hell out of me. But be prepared. I bite.

I don't want your half-assed bullshit, world. I want it ALL. Get it? I fucking want it all. And believe me, I don't ask for much.

There's the irony. I really don't ask for much. I just want it ALL. That's all, folks. This is no joke. I'm totally serious. I just want a full investment. If you're going to do it, mother fucker, then DO IT! Commit. Drive it home. Suck it!

Get it?

Suck the very marrow out of life, or don't bother living it. Get out from behind that fucking television set! Stop stopping. DO! You're not too old, or too young, or too tall, or too small, or too dark, or too white, or too queer, or too weird, or too fucking stupid. Ok, maybe you are too stupid. But only if you let that stop you. Live your fucking life. Invest yourself.

IN EVERYTHING. You do.

Why do anything half-hearted? That's what I don't understand?

You awoke the beast and you left it starving. This beast is dying... a sad and angry death.

Selective memory? You wanna hear something about selective memory?

My lovely ex responded to my previous posts in his own blog, hence I will now do the same. But first, let me commend him for actually writing this time, rather than posting more cutesy little videos. Secrets and Lies, he called his post. Yes, my secrets, his lies.

He's right, too, about my taking cheap shots. I was upset by his blog and by his determination to air our drity laundry — as I have already stated. But let's not forget who started this.

Anyhow... too late... so let's continue.

Birthdays. Yes. Think hard, my friend. The camera was in fact a Christmas present. Yes, a Christmas present, because Christmas happens to occur in front of other people, and you don't want them all to know what a heartless ass you can be. Oh, look, everybody got each other presents (Yes, I agree it's commercial crap.), but not Q, nope. Not Q. Oh, look, D got him a fucking mega-computer. What did he get her? Nothing? Oh, no, look; he got her a camera. How nice!

And how badly did I want that camera? Think about it a little more, my friend. YOU wanted that camera. I would go along with you while you were working and take photos for you. Great. Now you can exploit me for free labor, too. Nice present! And you wonder why I don't use it?!

YOU DUMPED ME THREE TIMES! It's not about victimization. I'm not looking for pity here. But if you think for a minute that this doesn't affect someone's comfort level within a relationship, you are very confused, my little friend. Yes, little! You could never commit. This was clear. You could never commit.

And yet, somehow, I am to blame.

Fine. I accept once more. Blame me if you like. I DO take responsibility. I ALWAYS take responsibility. For years I have shouldered the responsibility for this relationship. I'm just tired of shouldering ALL of it. That's all. For once, I'd like you to share some of the burden... accept your part in this whole fiasco... even if you can't accept me!

Fuck!

Birthdays? Forget birthdays. Who cares? Birthdays are for pussies. Yup. I'm ok with that really. I really am, despite the fact that most people don't believe it. But, come on, not a single birthday present or dinner or at least unusual niceties in the past five years, Yup.. and into the 30s. Fuck! Is that what it was going to be like?

He dumped me three times.

I guess that's important.


added: 10/16/06

Three times.
It kind of makes a girl act funny.
Three times.
Do you feel me know?

Ok. I've calmed down a bit now and can respond more honestly.

Forget an all-out war. But let's lay the cards out on the table.
Let's begin easily and move on...

ONE:
Everytime I called Q at work, he would respond very rudely. Mind you, I am not one of those crazed women who call their partners 50 times a day. I am very respectful of people's work space. But... every now and then you have to call for information of sorts. His response was always abrupt and rude, as if I were committing some horrid crime. I wouldn't even question it if he simply responded that way to everyone. But why be more horrid to those you love?

TWO:
Whenever I am sick or laid out (I have a "issues" with my back.), Q bails. It's too much of an inconvenience for him. Go figure...

THREE:
Who the hell is Sandy?

No more mister-nice-guy...


Life has taught me many lessons. This is nothing new. But there is one that I have refused to learn — despite the numerous times it has been pounded into me. It doesn't pay to be nice. You see, I really don't believe this. And yet I continue to get my ass pounded to the ground, as I refuse to engage in petty evil wars.

My ex has a blog — perhaps a vlog. And he has somehow determined that this is a viable venue in which to air our dirty laundry. Not so cool. Insert (self) here. Yeah, I'll give you something to insert!

And so the war begins. I will not go down without a battle this time around. If I have no choice but to be exposed, then I shall respond.

More later.

Moving on is never easy.

Don't get me wrong; I'm all for change, most of the time, and I've never actually had any difficulty moving on in the past. But things have changed.

What happens when you're not sure there's anything better to move on to? What happens when moving on somehow means moving further away from perfection? What happens when you find your perfect mate, and he's not so perfect — just like you? What happens when you just can't seem to live together, love together? What have you got then?

Nothing. Nothing at all. I am drowning in nothingness.

I learned, a very long time ago, that love is never enough. (I know. I know. That must certainly be the title of a very bad song.)

If I could work myself up into a man-hating rage, I would blame it on men, say that the men in life have shown me so — and then I might feel better — but I feel only regret.

[[Please tell me, by the way, how people that loved can hate so strongly. I've never understood the hatred or disinterest that follows most relationships. How can you determine that someone is good enough to build a life with, but not good enough to hold in your life when that doesn't work out. I mean, yes, there must be a period of absence in order to make the transition, but... There was something there, right? Why lose everything? I miss... so much.]]

Onward...

Love is never enough.

Sometimes... always.. there is more to it. There is day-to-day existence. And that, we know, is difficult. There are details. Details. And details build. And in the end, it's all details. There is no wholistic picture to be had.

I have spent a good part of my adult life (Let's just keep my childhood out of this for now. I don't want to get all Freudian on you.) loving and learning — as sappy as that sounds. And I have loved well. And perhaps even, I have been loved well (though this is up for questioning). But I have always felt that there is some part of me — an important part of me — that was never understood. Perhaps it's been a cultural thing. I'm sure it has at times. Perhaps it's been a gender thing. I'm sure it has at times. Perhaps it's been a personal thing. It's always been so. But... for once.. for once.. I did not feel so.

What happens when you finally find someone too much like you, when you finally find someone with the same world view, when you finally find someone who thinks and feels like you, lives like you — and still you walk away? What's left?

Nothing.

I feel empty.

I have never been scared of being alone. Until now, that is... until now.

And what I just don't understand, what I cannot understand, is how he swiftly turned away.

I hate to resort to alcohol. It's so trite — not to mention slightly stupid. But... yes, the time had come to go out and slap down a few. Times are tough, my friends. But I shall prevail.

I am not the best of friends; it is true. And I often neglect and even complain about my dearest friends; it, too, it true. But in the end, (yes, the love you take is equal to the love you make, but also...) the friends I have are true; tis true. Yes, after all is said and done, they are always there for me — sometimes with a slap or two, but always there.

So... on that note (and it is indeed a sweeter note than I am prone to)... I have taken Maria up on her offer of a night of debauchery. Ok, so that wasn't really the offer — see for yourself — but everything is up to interpretation. And, baby, that's my interpretation. So... onward we go.

Thanks, Maria. Thanks for being there. And thanks for being a friend. :-)
(Now stop gloating!)

I have to give credit to anyone who actually reads my bullshit babble.

And on that note... one of my readers left a comment I liked the other day, so I clicked over to his blog — a vlog in fact — and found some very amusing clips. Check them out. Johnny Goldstein is definitely one amusing man — probably a nut, of course, as that seems to be my thang. But see for yourself.

And if you're up for some absolutely brilliant, more academic reading, check out Esoteric Rabbit by Matthew Clayfield. I'm telling you, this shit makes me want to pack my bags and move to Australia.

Is it a product of my masochism — this attraction I have for unstable individuals?

It seems sometimes that the only people I find interesting enough to want to get to know are totally wacked out. And while this does, indeed, make them quite interesting, it also makes them quite impossible.

Look, I'm not looking to spend time with suburban housewives here — not that there's anything wrong with it (Yes, I stole that one from Seinfeld.) — but it would be nice to engage someone "normal" for a change.

Don't feed the bears. That's my motto. Once you feed them, you open your door to all their shit. And believe you me, a bear does shit in the woods — even when there's no one there to hear it.

And yet... I love those damn bears. Love them.

What is up with this new prescription culture? It seems no one can fend off a diagnosis these days. As long as it has a name, we'll diagnosis it. And if it doesn't, we'll make one up. ADD, ADHD, OCBD, QQQQ. Fuck! Why can't we just feel the way we do... and deal the way we do? What ever happened to working through our problems. No. It's all meds now. Just pop a pill and heal. And then "they" wonder why we search for an escape, why we aim to numb ourselves. We've been taught so.

Aren't we even allowed to feel anything anymore? What's wrong with being touched by the world around you? If you're too high, you need a tranquilizer. If you're too low, you need something to get those endorphins up again. Whatever! We're ruining the rollercoaster ride, man. Isn't life all about feeling and dealing. I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all. Right now... well... I grow more numb every day.. except for a dull throbbing pain that reminds me I'm alive. I treasure that pain. Why would they want to take it away from me? I might then be dead.

Fuck psycho-babble-bullshit. Fuck the M.D.s and and all other initials and anagrams. I've had about enough of floating letters.

Did you know that George W signed a new Federal Regulation — called the Child Nutrition and WIC Reauthorization Act — that stipulates that no goods baked at home will be allowed for any school events? All foods must be prepackaged or cooked in a "licensed kitchen," meaning a restaurant, grocery store, or bakery.

So, basically, it's ok to buy some crap-ass Ho-Hos, Twinkies, and Ding-Dongs, or some nasty stale pastries from the SuperAmerica bakery (which, by the way, everyone has already sweetly carressed), or even Dunkin Donuts. But God forbid you bake your own cupcakes for the school bake sale, or Janey's birthday treat.

Makes sense to me. I mean, pre-packaged foods are so healthy! And I'm sure the obesity problem in this country is the direct result of home cooking. And what better way to teach our children the value of purchasing things we can make for ourselves? And we can spare our little tikes from the kitchen, and from those god-awful fractions used in baking. Yeah, nice going, USA.

I am a criminal.. or at least well on my way. (Should I not be writing this? Maybe I'll skip the details. Sorry.)

I have been asked — or rather, guilted — into... well... insurance fraud of sorts, I suppose. What's a girl to do? What IS a girl to do? What won't we do for our friends? Where do we draw the line?

And can someone please tell me why I have so many "shady" friends. Damn! I must be drawn to it somehow. Again... my masochistic tendencies grab hold.

And again... I pay for feeding bears. (No, my darling M, you are not a bear. I just couldn't resist.)

addendum: Talk about coincidences. This in today's local news. Urgh!

Man is the only being this being knows of in which the whole cannot contain its pieces. It is illogical.

Genuine coexistence lives only as a whole. It’s not utilitarian. It does not weigh parts against parts; it weighs parts against the whole, which can only ever be interpreted one way, only have one outcome.

Space is something we cannot share.

The very notion of life is a destructive farce that keeps us from it. It is a separation from life, hence the end of it, which has nothing to do with death because that is just another farce based on the false premise of life.

Ultimately, when you choose to take it, is it because it does not exist in the first place? Or further still, to defraud it, to confront it head on in order to challenge it, to eliminate it, to renounce the illusion, and perhaps even denounce it? Is there pride in this space? Even when you dismantle it, or when everything falls apart, a few random stone are always left standing.

Is it a passive or active task? Is the dismantling inevitable? Do we reach out for the stones and pull them out one by one? – With or without a purpose? – With how much awareness? – Or does it simply fall apart? If the foundation is unsound, it must inevitably crumble. That is logic, but must it be so? Must it be logical? And is the foundation only unsound if you dismantle it? A first stone must be removed.

I don’t know, man. If it’s unsound, it’s unsound. But who the fuck cares? If it holds up your illusion, then it stands. What’s the difference? That’s what keeps us from real consciousness.

Accepting instinct works only if we fail to consider that all animals use their set of particular characteristics to ensure their survival. They do not use tools, but exploit every advantage they own. If our consciousness does not work to this end, to ensure our survival – coexistence – then it is not consciousness at all. It is absent, nonexistent, yet another false illusion.

You cannot eschew the standing stones, the ruins, which being what’s left of your ethos, you quickly swallow so that when they take you for a witch and put you to the test of drowning, you sink swiftly to the bottom, proving your innocence, and your wisdom because there is no death to fear.

Or perhaps pride is the key. Perhaps our fragmentedness threatens our wholeness too much for us to bear. Why should we care?

The point is that we NEED to be a part of something anyway, so here it is. Here it has always been.

Ye of little faith, who have been confused by false idols! It’s not that we’ve become a part of a machine; it’s that we’re a part of the wrong machine. Why did we build it? Because we could? Yes, and one can also choose to end it. Why? Because she could.

In all the uncertainty, we gravitate toward certainty, but that certainty is a noun, not a verb. There is always a verb. There can be no sentence without a verb. It’s our very foundation – life. It IS the glue, nothing else. And we do not have it; it has us.

In Search of the Rib

Man is on a constant mission to recover his rib. And since the rib was originally his, she who dons it belongs to him. Nevertheless, if he feels he has finally recovered it, or she who dons it no longer possesses it, then he must seek it elsewhere. He suffers from a sense of ownership without possession, a type of impotence, because he cannot control that which is his. It is also essential that she who dons it, merit it somehow. But this only augments the difficulty, since the more she merits it the less he can control it. This, of course, is in keeping with the existentialist notion of master/slave relationships and the Hegelian Master-Slave dialectic.

Woman is also on a quest to find the original donor of her rib, but only he who will not rob her of it, gutting her and yanking it out in his final possession. Perhaps what she truly seeks is to recompense him for his donation, without giving it up completely. This is a type of exchange. But one in which men seek to take, while women seek to give, both guarding from each and resenting each step along the way, rather than ceding to its sheer inevitability. This, of course, while truly noble, would preclude respect.

MADAM, I AM ADAM

I am a walking contradiction. I am an Idiot. I am a nut.

I have just been called on my bullshit.

How can I ask people not to talk about Q, when my fucking blog is called Q-less?!

True. True. But...

Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.0.1) - Cite This Source -less 
an adjective suffix meaning “without” (childless; peerless), and in adjectives derived from verbs, indicating failure or inability to perform or be performed (resistless; tireless).

So.. let's just go with that, eh? ... just for mental health reasons.

Why is it that everyone assumes that I WANT information about my ex?

I'm trying to move on with my life, people! And while I do think about him far too often and wonder how he is, I am all too aware of the pain it causes me. I live with this daily. I live trying to fill empty spaces without slipping into the void myself. I don't need reminders — reminders of his absence.

Why is this so hard to understand?

Is it odd? Perhaps. I know there are women out there — and men as well (some of which I've even experienced first-hand) — who obsess over their exes with random stalking rituals and friend-probing. But I am not one of these. I do not understand these types. This surpasses even my own masochistic tendencies.

So... I am sorry, folks, if what you want is to feed me information. I will happily hear your stories about yourselves and others I don't know. But please don't hurt me so.

I once heard someone say that what defines blogging is its many layers of linkage, its ability for direct references which can subsequently be explored by the reader (assuming one has readers). As such, I have yet failed to blog and will now make my first attempt.

The world is far too small. Yes, trite, but indeed true.

While I do not care to reveal personal facts about myself, I find at present that making my point is more important.

I have recently come out of a difficult longterm relationship. And as those who have done so know, it can be quite unpleasant to cross paths with a recent ex too often. What is too often? That's a personal matter. For me, it means at all.

Yet I am finding the world a bit too wee and strange coincidences far too creepy. I am also finding that mnspeak can be a dangerous place to be.

On Tuesday, I was commenting on a Haunted House thread, when some guy named taulpaul asked me if I knew Q. (There, I said his name.) Clearly, I logged out immediately, without responding.

Then, today, some guy named Sam left an odd comment on my blog, something about calling his own blog "Q-full" — whatever that means. I believe this Sam to be the same Sam I talked to on mnspeak another day on an issue of public morality. It was quite curious, in fact. He claims to have a relationship with Baron Samdi, otherwise known as Papa Gede. Interesting. I have yet to meet anyone in Minnesota who knows anything to speak of about Iwa, or Lukumi, or Voudon. But let me not digress. The point is, after a bit of investigation, I have discovered that he is, in fact, Q's new roommate! Jesú!

Yes, the world is much to small. And while I regret that I will now never sit down with this interesting fellow and hear his thought on the mighty Baron, I fear far more the isolation which I must endure in order to avoid hearing of this ever-elusive, thoroughly-pervasive ex.

Oy!

Amber says...

I've never been a big supporter of the general act of blogging. Tis true. But... my friend — or rather, my aquaintance, but we'll get to that later — says it's great therapy (and a great way to meet people, though I find this highly suspect). So... blame it on Amber! (I have a strange feeling this may be a default statement in my life over the course of the next few months. After all, Amber — in my friend Maria's words — is my replacement, and one never cares to be replaced.)

Amber is my friend Maria's friend. How's that for stupid explanations? When — as Maria so sweetly puts it — I abandoned her for "insert nameless man," she turned to Amber for companionship. As if she ever lacked companionship! Maria is never one to be alone. I don't know what's worse, being accused of abandoning your friend, being forced to eat shit to compensate for it, being replaced, or being called a replacement. Funny thing is Amber didn't seem to mind. I think she's better than I at dismissing Maria's sharp tongue. After all, Maria's just a softy inside... and we ALL know that! Yes, Maria, your secret is out, posted to the world. Oooh. maybe I'm going to like this blogging thing after all — despite the fact that I suck at it.

Do not. Do. Not do.

Do not minimize it. Do not use it To support generalizations, Pains and scars That you only see Reflected In this mirror. Look only in this mirror When you look at it at all. Do not diminish it, reduce it To a shadow Of some larger truth. You abuse it, Use it For a faulty purpose. It has no purpose. It has no moral, no lesson, no explanation, no reason. It just is. That is the beauty. Hold it. No matter where or how it unfolds. Hold it. Don’t force meaning on beauty. Don’t rape beauty with significance. Ravage it. Hold it. Consume it. Be consumed by it. Hold it. Suck it. Avail yourself of it… For what it’s worth, For all it’s worth – Its beauty.

What are the fears, The real fears? What are the needs, Those that are real Rather than self-imposed or habituated? You have the love. You will not lose it. You have the affections And the intimacy. You have the desire And the reciprocity. You have all of me As an abstract notion and a promise in my eyes. You have as much hope as you feel comfortable with And as little obligations as you need.

What more could you want? What could be as honest and as noble in the end? What could better nurture faith?

Shit happens for a reason,
Perhaps.

Everything ends, but sometimes you end first.
It’s a fact.

In the end, the things that matter Are the ones that move you. In the end, the things that move you Cease to move.

But we must yet be moved. We are compelled to it. We need it. We demand it. We need our morsels, Our food, our fuel, Our purpose.

In the end, We just don’t know What petition moves us, Or if we simply move ourselves.

Faith is a difficult word. Have faith in someone. Have faith in something. But how do we pledge faith In ourselves?

This does not define us. In the end It can only add form To that which we already are. This does not define anything. Nothing but itself, If that. Do not abuse it. Do not use it To define anything. Do not cut away at it For scraps To feed anything But the hunger By which it’s yet provoked.

I do not exist in scraps. I am whole. I give you all Or nothing, Though it may feel like nothing In the end. I give you all, Though I may not complete the play. I give you all, Though I run scared away, Always looking over my shoulder. I give you all, Though you may lament my absence, Though you may resent my presence. I give you all To fill you so completely While your hands are yet so empty, Empty so that you may reach out And grab for what you want, Anything you want, Despite my hands, Which reach for you. I do not restrict. I do not define. And I decry your definitions. But I give you all, All that I can, All that I am, All that I can give. I give you all.

Take all of me. Do not reduce me. Do not restrict me. Do not condemn me to an unbefitting box. Do not categorize or define me by convention Or by perfidious postulations. Do not… Or do not take me.

Do not formulate. Do not extract. Do not expect. But do take this for granted: You have all of me, In whatever form that may be.

Do not concern yourself with form. Respect mere function. Respect form Only as it feeds you Function. And when it fails to feed you, Stroll away.

Do not taunt me with farewells, With reason, Or with cant. Do not define the dearth, And please do not recant That which has passed.

All is as much as you let it be. And in the end, That’s all we have.

I have spent far too much time -- over the past five years -- apologizing for myself, so I shall not do so now. But I must point out, before I begin, that I am quite aware of the inherent contradiction of my engaging in this blog endeavor. I have wasted many an hour complaining about the sheer vanity of blogging... as if every trite thought we all have is indeed worthy of publishing. Urgh! It pains to me to even say it. And yet, here I am. And it is ever so fitting that I begin with such a completely inane post. The most common post of all in the blog-o-sphere is, after all, the apology.

The worst thing about the miracle of modern communications is the Pavlovian pressure it places upon everyone to communicate whenever a bell rings.
-Russell Baker, No Cause for Pain, "Times (London)", November 28, 1991