I DON’T WANT TO DO IT

September 27, 2014 § Leave a comment

I don’t know. I don’t want to write. I just don’t want to! And yet I do. What is it that makes this wish only exist in the future? “I want to write.” That means, for me, that in some distant, possible future, I might actually sit down and start writing. It’s a possibility. I mean, it’s totally definitive.

There. I’m finished. I forced myself to write three lines! Look up there! I wrote words! When will they be worth consideration and appreciation? Hurry up and notice my talent!!!

Still…I guess a body of text has to be a bit bigger for people to appreciate it fully. So I’ll write some more. And because I have this undeniable innate talent, it will totally be noticed somehow or other. Look, I have no issue putting words nicely one after the other, and I’m really quick at typing, too. Not that anyone on their side of the screen will notice that particular detail, but I swear, it’s true. To be honest I think you can tell by the way I write. I’m obviously writing as fast as I can think, without one spelling mistake in the process, may I point out. This is a feat that a majority of people, I’ve noticed, can’t accomplish. That’s something, isn’t it? Unfortunately there are lots of other writers in the world, I can’t be bothered competing with them. I wouldn’t have to compete with them if I knew what I was doing. Maybe if I started plagiarizing some ideas, making them better, and getting famous from that? I’ll never get famous anyway.

What if this is some kind of self-aware stream of consciousness BS part of a niche writing style? What if I’ve make a personal breakthrough in fully accepting my style of writing and ideas and just going for whatever? Although, I don’t think that using minimal to no effort can get me, personally, very far, and I honest to goodness can not be fucking bothered, to the point of moaning psychological pain and self-hatred, to point where I would actually swear in my own body of text, to sit down, plan, and write something good. Because what? Is? The? Point? IT WON’T COME TO ME! IT FUCKING WON’T! Nothing worthwhile comes to my mind and this is the only egocentric drivel I can come up with!

This is not a cry for help. This is a writing style. This is my thing and it will work! If I believe, it will, it will! It’s gotta… it’s my only writing hope…

I don’t know. I don’t want to write. I just don’t want to! And yet I do. What is it that makes this wish only exist in the future? “I want to write.” That means, for me, that in some distant, possible future, I might actually sit down and start writing. It’s a possibility. I mean, it’s totally definitive.

There. I’m finished. I forced myself to write three lines! Look up there! I wrote words! When will they be worth consideration and appreciation? Hurry up and notice my talent!!!

Still…I guess a body of text has to be a bit bigger for people to appreciate it fully. So I’ll write some more. And because I have this undeniable innate talent, it will totally be noticed somehow or other. Look, I have no issue putting words one after the other, and I’m really quick at typing, too. Not that anyone on their side of the screen will notice that particular detail, but I swear, it’s true. To be honest I think you can tell by the way I write. I’m obviously writing as fast as I can think, without one spelling mistake in the process, may I point out. This is a feat that a majority of people, I’ve noticed, can’t accomplish. That’s something, isn’t it? Unfortunately there are lots of other writers in the world, I can’t be bothered competing with them. I wouldn’t have to compete with them if I knew what I was doing. Maybe if I started plagiarizing some ideas, making them better, and getting famous from that? I’ll never get famous anyway.

What if this is some kind of self-aware stream of consciousness BS part of a niche writing style? What if I’ve make a personal breakthrough in fully accepting my style of writing and ideas and just going for whatever? Although, I don’t think that using minimal to no effort can get me, personally, very far, and I honest to goodness can not be fucking bothered, to the point of moaning psychological pain and self-hatred, to point where I would actually swear in my own body of text, to sit down, plan, and write something good. Because what? Is? The? Point? IT WON’T COME TO ME! IT FUCKING WON’T! Nothing worthwhile comes to my mind and this is the only egocentric drivel I can come up with!

This is not a cry for help. This is a writing style. This is my thing and it will work! If I believe, it will, it will! It’s gotta… it’s my only writing hope…

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My favorite photos I took of NYC.

September 24, 2014 § Leave a comment

Iconic

NYC: tourism, and coke.

pirate

NYC: piracy in modern times.

bebsi

NYC: faded and backwards?

buddies

NYC: adorkable truck buddies.

stump dude

NYC: amusingly disproportionate.

I did love the city, I just love being snarky more.

An Open Letter from a UK Spider

September 21, 2014 § Leave a comment

Hello, I’m an arachnid that goes most commonly by the name of the Spider. I, personally, am quite average-sized for the general northern-hemisphere population, but my northern fellows can range from teeny tiny little crawlers to large, sprawled-out, furry- and long-legged companions. We’re a pretty sedentary lot, we like nice, cozy, warm places to rest our exoskeleton and preferably minimal movement to catch our food.

Hey, this summer was really great for me and my brothers! Thought you all might like to know, seeing as you have your toasty clothes and civilisation and shit to keep you warm and fed, we tend to die a lot braving the challenges of nature. Well, these past few months, I have hardly had to mourn one third as many of my friends as usual, ’cause fruits were a-rotting, flies were a-multiplyin’ and the sun was a-revivin’. And so me and my mates were thriving. And I’ve been proud to see some of my measliest buddies grow up to be formidable adults, myself included (although I’m still far from the best-looking!), and we’re sure to get all the ladies hot for us this autumn.

Our lady-friends tend to hide indoors while we’re fending for our lonely selves in the summer, so now we’re out (or in) to get at that sweet spider meat. Don’t worry, we’re not sexist, or rather we can’t be: we’ll court the hell out of them bitches, all vulnerable in them bitches’ territory, and if they don’t want us and we still insist? Well, they are fully capable of killing us on the spot. You human women could learn from them. Or rather, don’t. Please.

So anyway, I hope you will help us out this fall by making your house nice and available. Don’t bother cleaning too much; I mean, you’ll be out a lot, university, work, it’s a tiring task. We love moisture, so any leaky taps you may have, don’t bother the landlord about them, OK? He’ll just get pissed off, and he’s a fat bastard in his pristine penthouse flat anyway, he won’t care. That little space between the wall and your bed is wonderful, your bodies emit some delicious warmth. Don’t go poking round there with your sucking machines. The weather will be getting colder, so hot showers will be in order: keep the bathroom nice and hot ‘n humid for us and our mates to cuddle in. We’ll try to stay out of your way, but it’s hard when you’re so big and desirable to hide yourself. Above all, keep windows nice and open, cause it’s no joy to try and squeeze in through tiny holes while rockin’ this body.

Enjoy your beautiful autumn as much as we will, human friends!

Spider saying hi

Sexy sexy sex.

September 20, 2014 § 1 Comment

If I may take a moment to observe some raunchy articles (like this one) written by women about sex that exist in the recesses of the Internet, and ask the population: is this really what goes on in women’s minds when they are confronted with a situation of extreme, guilt-free, drug-free, healthy pleasure? When they are obviously being lusted upon, for their body if nothing else, by a desired member of the desired sex?

Are we really a gender composed majoritarily of self-consciousness to the point of letting it interfere with happy sex???

I’ll have to admit. I’m a judgemental piece of work. Friends call me Judge Jenny. But reading these articles, often in list form about all the things women find gross, or wrong, or unpleasant about sex (generally with men), I cannot deny or help feeling a little burst of…bewilderment? Because this means that if guys are used to lots of women getting annoyed by a bit of pornographic fun, or recoiling from cunnilingus or morning sex (because they might smell bad, god forbid!), or not telling them up front what it is they like and then being annoyed some more, well, there’s gonna be issues between the sexes, no shocker there.

The thing these article-writers and their readers and agreers don’t seem to understand about our friends of the masculine order is that these guys just don’t really give a fuck. Except for the actual fuck. If it involves feelings, god, it’s so much better for everyone, of course! But in physical terms, an average woman will not, in any way be disgusting to a man once he has decided to sleep with her. Apologizing for a stray hair in the pubic area, or for not having showered immediately prior to contact, or for a little bit of cellulite, is bringing his attention to something he would never even have noticed.

What he does notice is a woman getting genuine pleasure from his actions, a woman who really, really enjoys sex, a woman who doesn’t give a fuck, except about the actual fuck. Now, I have not slept with all the men in the world, but I will venture to say this is the case for a majority of male partners, and I’ll go even further in saying that the one who does mind that your belly flab wiggles a bit while you’re on top of him is an absolute whitestain of a human being. So, me, I’d simply be self-conscious for having got that far with such a waster.

I’m surprised at all the girls who hate things that men do to them and don’t speak out. Be gentle, but tell the guy what he’s doing wrong. It’s such an intense experience to guide him until he gets it just right; he will love it, and you, at that moment. He shouldn’t be expecting to hit all your spots right away anyway, and if he’s butthurt with a bit of gentle direction, what is he doing having sex with anyone anyway?

Also, women don’t like dick photos? It’s an iffy one, but once I’m truly hooked on a man, I will get wet remembrances from a surprise stiffy capture. Maybe some girls haven’t found that one (or he hasn’t read this article), or probably, in this case, I’m a bit weird. Anyway, tell him! Tactful mockery and honesty go a long way with the right person! And if it’s the wrong one, well, that’s a different story altogether (and it goes both ways!).

Roughness and pain play varies from person to person. This is not something I can fairly comment on or judge: some men don’t like it either. This is something men need to learn to GODDAMN TALK ABOUT as well.

And all these comments about how women have to force their way through a blowjob. Guys tend to love licking us out and enjoying our pleasure…it’s a bit unfair on them, isn’t it? I don’t know. You like what you like, but I don’t get it.

But I can’t just be attacking my fellow women-saurs. Man-tiles are slimy creatures too, hell, even more so sometimes, who need to learn to turn a woman on until she loses all these inhibitions, in spite of herself. That is a skill many men, apparently, have yet to master, and my biggest, most obvious piece of advice would be this: communication is GOD. Bow down to it and learn it. Not only verbal cues, but picking up bodily ones as well. If you see her attention straying, go to a safer, surer method, surprise her with your lust for every bit of her being. Of course, if she complains about her cellulite a lot, she might be a tough cookie to consume…but don’t forget, everyone, every bit of the body is as desirable and beautiful as the other when full-blown sexual lust is switched on; no matter how hairy or flabby or human it is.

(And if it really is a no, then it means no. Because like all good things, there’s always a risk of it going bad. It’s up to all parties involved to deal with it as maturely as possible.)

A LAMENT

September 18, 2014 § Leave a comment

WORRY

Why do I worry? That can only be answered with mockery. If you only knew what it is I worry about.

I’m a young woman, in my early twenties. I’m beautiful, intelligent, from a well-off family, have always been loved and showered in adoration from men, family, even strangers. Let the mockery begin.

I’m so worried about my future. Normal enough? I’m so worried that I let go of incredible opportunities to study in incredible places to become someone incredibly rich and successful. For I could have done it; but if I had, I would have worried that I could not sit down and study for boredom, for fear of wasting my youth. I worried that my father would spend too much money on me; and so I settled for something cheaper, yet still expensive, and which would not get me anywhere without passion, or so I worry: a degree in pop music. And so I worry.

I have my youth, I have my free time, my beloved part-time job, I have my loves. And so I worry that I spend too much time on them and not enough on my degree, however worrisome it may be. And so I worry that I do not fully appreciate these blessings I have, because they are interfering with my degree, which worries me anyway!

I’m worried that I’m smart, and I’m right, but it all stays in my brain because I can’t be bothered to formulate anything transmissible. And what if I’m not right, and I will never know, and live a lie, a stupid, one-sided, simple-minded lie?

I worry that I will be poor! That I will regret this frivolousness of youth, when I am older and wiser and poorer. I’m disgusted that my father still supports me as I only have ten hours of classes a week. I wonder how I would survive without it; and I worry at how I treat him in spite of that. I’m worried about my mother; I’m worried about my mother’s dog, whom I love excruciatingly. I worry about that love, because how will I ever love another dog like that?

Pets are pretty important to me.

I used to be worried that said dog, that I grew up with, didn’t like or respect me. I’ve grown out of that one since, thank god. She’s a dumb animal and I love her to death.

I’m worried that when she dies, in about ten years, how will my mom get along? She will be so lonely. That dog, I’m telling you, is a gift to the Earth. She is the funniest, most precious, most silly and most intelligent dog in the world. How will anyone get along, really, that event would probably displace the rotation of the stars (I’m worried about my knowledge of astronomy). I’m worried that I didn’t follow up with my childhood ambitions to become a veterinarian to create some sort of longevity drug for dogs. What is with that lifespan, anyway? We’ve domesticated them to the core; we couldn’t go one step further? Who am I to talk, anyway, when have I done accomplished anything close to selective breeding or biology?

I’m worried about all the clutter in my room, and all my roommates abusing it while I’m gone. I’m worried about my clean sheets having someone else in them. I’m worried that because I forbid it, I will make people want to spite me and do it even more, and I hate washing my sheets. I’m worried that I might smell and no one will tell me, and my boyfriend only likes my smell anyway so he won’t tell me, either. Also, I’m worried that I’m too sensitive and people might be worried to tell me anything worrying.

I’m worried about everything I should be doing that I’m not. I’m worried about the multitude of things yet to experience that I’m either too afraid to, too rational to, or too lazy to. I’m worried about my laziness. I want to experience youth, but I have the mind of a septuagenarian. I wanted to use that word; it’s a shit word. I could have said “old woman” and kept it simple, like my literary hero, George Orwell, would have said. I wish I could write like him.

I’m worried that I worry too much and that I will age. I’m worried about gaining weight, and I’m worried about losing my curves if I lose weight. I’m worried that if I worry, I will jinx everything. I don’t believe in jinx, but I do, because the mind affects the body and the mind, and that is worrisome in itself, because I’m worried I can’t trust my own mind. And yet I’m so stable and sane; I’m worried I’m kind of boring because of that. What’s up with that?
Speaking of boring, I’m worried that someone reading this might tell me: “Oh, you. This is all completely normal, what you’re feeling. Everyone has thoughts like this and most people get out of it. Don’t you worry about a thing, you’re a smart, pretty girl, I know you’ll do well.”

Now THAT is something that worries me. People’s belief in me (and also, being normal). And my father’s disbelief in me. Both sides equally repulse me. I wish people would just… you know, I don’t even know what I wish, because I don’t really like most people anyway, and instead of just disliking them, I’m afraid of them (why?). I want to make my mother proud, and my father eat his words, and to impress everyone else, and use all my money to make my mother happy. I’m worried I won’t get that money, because back when I was a kid and I played this online pet game, I was only moderately rich on it and never got to that serious luxury level of playing. Well, if at least I get moderately rich, you know. I’m worried that this is all talk, and I want to help her but I’ll end up not, because I’m so lazy and I hate myself for being so lazy, and I hate myself for hating myself for being so lazy because it’s just such a pointless thing to even write down in secret.

I’m worried about my musical tastes stagnating, I’m worried about my hard disk dying and losing my data, I’m worried about something spilling on my computer, I’m worried about my attachment to inanimate objects and clothing, I’m worried about my inanimate objects and my clothing. I’m worried about friends and also not caring about friends. Do I care or do I not? Doesn’t not caring attract people anyway? What if, with me, it doesn’t? What am I even talking about? I’m worried about my egotism and the amount of times I use the word “I” or “me” in conversations and just everything.

I gave an interview once, with this rapper guy, a semi-official one but it was a proper interview. And I had to hold myself back every time from replying with a comparison to my own self.
I am not empirical!

I’m worried that writing this might not be so therapeutic after all, and who even had this idea? My stupid brain? What if I make it all worse? What if this makes me age faster? What if

And I’m so worried about the baggage retrieval system they’ve got at Heathrow.

Where Am I?

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