I’m on antidepressants now, because, why not. I feel like I’m tucked in between some fuzzy cotton, all up in my ears, clogging up my brain. It’s like I’ve been neutered and now I’m taking the drugs to make me care about it less, to make me think about killing myself less, to make me jerk off less, to make me fuck my ex boyfriend less. But I don’t know if that’s what I really want. I don’t know if I want to get better in the same way I did before; something is different, changed. I saw the other side in a brief moment of clarity and now I hide away in the shadows, away from it all, from that blinding light of reality that I hate so much, but influences every step I take through life.
I left the city early. Once again, my friend was being difficult and I grew tired of her bullshit. I left in the middle of the night, got home in the early morning. I slept for a few hours, then drove to meet my ex. We put the seats back in his car and talked for awhile. I forgot how much I missed having a real conversation with someone, not one where I have to censor what I say, or constantly assume that whatever is said is yet another extravagant lie. It was overcast and smokey from the fires. Even the silence was companionable. It’s easy to forget how much you hate someone when they become more or less a staple in your life. You don’t have other options that are even close to as palatable, so it always feels refreshing, different.
We fucked in the woods. There was a lot of pain to it, but it was good and grounding. Easy to get lost in. When we drove away, we went by a field where the sprinklers cast their beams of water onto the road. The windows were down and my arm got wet. But just as we passed by, the drops got heavier and numerous. Instead, the sky was raining down. It smelled like dirt and wet grass, and despite everything, and the fact that it will never work again, it was a good moment to share with him.
There’s so little that feels good anymore. I want to drown in goodness, breathe it all in until I pass out and slip away.
There’s a hunger that can’t be sated. I find myself climbing raggedly, obsessively, toward a peak of satisfaction only to be denied upon reaching it, cast back down the mountain, like an inconsequential stone.
I can’t seem to stop. I’ve been having sex compulsively, eating like I will never do it again, and sleeping until the pain of laying down is too much to bear. The enjoyment is either substantial or nothing, like a coin is tossed and fate is decided upon it. And the last few times I’ve touched myself, I can’t finish. I lay frustrated, covered in sweat and breathing heavy, unable to be angry and too demolished in every manner to discern the reason why. Everything is broken, and I feel like the jagged shards are pricking at my insides, trying to find their way out through my skin.
I don’t know what I want or where I’m going. But I want to sleep and fuck until I can’t physically manage it anymore.
I dream in red.
So, guess who lost a condom?
It’s that moment when you realize that if it’s not on the bed and not on him, then that only leaves one option.
What’s worse is when you’re sore from two hours of fucking and it takes ten minutes to dig the fucker out, and you have to lay there, spread eagle and prone, waiting for your partner to figure out where the hell it went. And you also realize in your lazy stupor, that it wasn’t there for a long, long…long, long, long time…
Now I have to go to planned parenthood and get a morning after pill. I just finished my period two days ago. Now it’s going to go on for another, very sore, painful month.
Now children, this is why we should practice abstinence. But since we’re all heathens with no self control, we probably should all just be gay…
Yes, I think we’ve found our solution.
I’m starting to think I look suspicious, or have some kind of aura that automatically makes me prone to meeting rude individuals. I seem to get treated like shit even when I make en effort to be kind and polite. I’m at the point where I want to snarl at the first person who looks in my direction.
I’ve been sick for over a good month now. I have this hacking cough that won’t go away and this stabbing pain in my side that makes sex and sleeping semi-unpleasant experiences. I’m hoping it’s not pneumonia, but who knows at this point. I could have caught the nasty whore disease from someone at work—it seems more than likely, really. Every time I leave a drink somewhere I come back to find someone else slurping it down. Even if I write my name in black sharpie it doesn’t seem to make a whole lot of difference. And they wonder why sickness spreads so quickly? I’ve taken to tossing out my cups after I down a good half of it; not much of a choice when it comes to that.
I’ve been eating nothing but shit too. For some reason my mood is much improved. I wouldn’t say I’m not depressed, m0re that I’m in a distant state of mind. I’m trying not to think about the fact that I’m getting a little rounder in the rear and my clothes are becoming snug. It’s a combination of seriously not giving a fuck, pure arrogance (something I never thought I’d have), and knowing that no matter how disgusting I get—-
I’m still fucking getting laid! Therefore, what the fuck does it matter?
It’s the Audis and the Versace sunglasses and the New Rocks. I’m becoming one of those label consumers that used to make me disgusted. Somehow, I don’t care. It’s like a veil has fallen over my sensibilities. I want to eat rich food—anything cute and cuddly swaddled in baby fat—fuck as much as humanly possible, watch as many bad horror movies as Hollywood can possibly produce, read and watch as much porn as I can fit into the ten hour period I’m allotted, and mostly I want to sleep like a king in my cave-like loft with a sheepskin under my naked body. Somehow, this is the only way I have staved off that beast that has been haunting me since I was ten. LaVey would be proud.
My demons are always with me, but through lawless decadence and leather furniture they are sated.
It’s strange that you can work all week anticipating your day (‘days’, for the lucky people; meaning not singular) off, only to realize when it comes that you have absolutely no idea what to do with it. It’s not that I’m ungrateful, more that I’m not in the mood to do much with myself. Yet, laying around being useless sounds rather dull. What a dilemma.
Lately I’ve been driving around aimlessly, wasting precious premium fuel for no reason. I don’t even have the money to be wasting the fuel, yet I can’t come up with anything solid enough to keep me from meandering about. I catch myself driving 90 on the backroads, usually up to the lake.
They say people are drawn to bodies of water, and that a huge percentage of the population dreams about something related to it. Lakes are often deep. They go black in the middle, and ripple around the edges. I like watching water because it sways like it’s alive. It’s this strange, massive blob of untapped potential that can be a relief in the heat or can drown you on a whim. The best things are always polar like that. Maybe that’s what makes them so terribly attractive.
I like things that make me feel like I’m going to die. Fear is a beautiful thing; it can take something mediocre and make it extraordinary. Living things are on this endless mission to avoid death, to avoid pain, when really it is the key to everything. It is what makes us tick.
That’s why it feels good to get fucked up the ass or good to get choked by a dick. Our very nature dictates that we flee from it, yet when we turn to it for comfort it becomes something else entirely. What if pain and pleasure are the same thing, but we are just too stupid to know it?
The minute pain is desired, is the moment it no longer hurts. Or, to revise that statement: the moment it no longer hurts one way, it hurts in another. Isn’t it pain when something so good feels unbearable? You don’t wish it away . . . you desire to keep it, yet you unconsciously flinch away, force yourself stiffen and take it. Your brain tells you it feels bad, but your heart… Well, let’s just say sometimes it says otherwise.
I feel like I’m in grey. I’m so confused about everything. It blends together then melts away. I feel more and more like myself every day, yet different. I feel more like the person I’ve always wanted to be, but somehow it seems twisted, just off. This isn’t quite what I imagined. It’s darker than I thought. I figured this would be a place of light; the lack of shadows and confusion, but there are even more now. Every corner I turn is another shade of grey, with black blurring out the edges. I seek it out. I wanted darkness, somehow. But I still never thought it would be this way. It’s certainly not what everyone else has, but maybe it works for me. Maybe it really is what I’ve been wanting.
My own inner arrogance is stifling. I feel murdered by internal thoughts. I feel so beyond everyone and their way of being because to me it’s just a game and I don’t care about winning or losing, just sheer, unadulterated enjoyment. Fuck, be fucked, eat, be eaten. Having a job is just a test of endurance at this point. I can quit any time, but I haven’t. I’m making more money than all the snobbish assholes who went off to college with their noses upturned at me when I dropped out. Somehow, that makes me smile. I’ve never been above revenge, even the more petty kind.
The real irony is that I work at a fucking fast food chain. I feel like that teenager that all the adults are secretly laughing at, murmuring about how I’ll change my tune in a couple of years, grow out of it, settle down and have my 1.5 children or whatever the fuck the average is now. I’m still too immature, I still talk like an angsty 14 year old. But it doesn’t matter, because I see them now, I see them for what they all are: teenagers with kids and bank accounts. They never grow up, and they certainly never gain enough intelligence to recognize that fact. The world is stagnant, nothing but a putrid cesspool we continue to dirty.
I still have sex dreams about Marilyn Manson.
There are some things you just never grow out of.
Sometimes I really shock myself with my bizarre reactions to things. I have some sort of expectation (I always do), generally the worst one possible, so that when I get to the situation I already have a good idea of exactly what doesn’t need to happen.
I’m went boot shopping, since I need to replace an older pair. Oddly, even in this climate, I didn’t find anything even reminiscent of what I was looking for. I just want plain black knee high lace ups, simple, durable. But none of the stores carry anything like that around, just weird furry boots and high heeled leather boots that would be ruined by me in a matter of hours, and all look almost exactly the same running from $50 to $300. All the while I have in the back of my mind “what about that weird purple building . . . don’t they sell costumes?”.
I drag my mother there. It looks tiny, rinky-dink. I’m not sure if it’s a sex shop as well, but when I see the blacked out windows that gives me a bit of a hint. I’ve always wondered what was in there, and given its name, I have a couple of ideas . . . .
My mother is loosing her nerve. “We can’t go in there . . . what if someone follows us home?” Right when she says this, a man with about five facial piercings literally stumbles out of the building, wearing ragged clothes and a vacant expression. My mother is clearly nervous, but the sighting only piques my interest—I HAVE to see what’s in there.
She’s walking extra slow, as though this will somehow prevent her from the shame of entering a place that seems far too risque for her. She’s a bit of a prude, or rather, she pretends to be. When it comes to being public about anything sexual, she’s embarrassed. I think it’s funny, and I’m rather shocked by the fact that all I am feeling is excitement at doing something that is “shocking” to her. The woman needs a little adventure, and so do I for that matter. I’m thinking that I’m going to blush and get embarrassed too, but I end up pleasantly surprised. We’re sheltered and from the country, so to speak. It seems strange to other people, but just think repressed.
We get in through the tiny little door. Lingerie EVERYWHERE. I’m assaulted by the obnoxious leopard print carpet, but I’m also instantly a little giddy. Not just bras and thongs . . . nope, these people seem to have made the store just for me. Corsets, everywhere. More than I’ve ever seen in one place. The whole bottom floor is chock full of ’em, and I’m going through the racks, grinning. Yes, I know, I am a walking contradiction. I despise femininity, I shoot guns and ride ATVs, but for some reason I have a bizarre obsession with something binding and high maintenance by my own standards. I could get into some fucked up Freudian psychoanalyzing mode, but I’m not going to . . . because I hate Freud.
My mom is getting interested. “They have a lot of stuff here,” she says, starting to look, loosing that nervousness in a matter of seconds. Suddenly, it’s not a whore store to her and she wants to see what they’ve got. I’m laughing to myself, thinking “wonder what’s over in that corner in the back . . .”. I go through everything, finding that, hey, I could buy a corset there cheaper than what I’ve gotten my other ones for, and I get my pick of which one I want.
There’s a man and a woman, arguing over which outfit to buy her for their sexual escapade. She’s holding out something red, and I’m not really paying attention, though I’m listening, as he says which one he likes and she debates him. Then the store clerk is laughing and helping them decide. When they leave the section, I wander over.
I find a leather corset, something that I’ve always wanted, but never found. I have the urge to chuck all my birthday money for some instant gratification—but I don’t, thankfully. I find boots too, though my mom is having that ‘eww’ reaction because they’re patent and to her, something a . . . uh . . . streetwalker would wear. If I was alone I probably would have tried some of it on and even bought something, but as it was, they all had heels and looked too feminine for my taste, though they were much closer to what I was searching for than anything I saw everywhere else. I wonder if that says something about me as a person . . . . But anyway.
I have to go to the back, I can’t resist. My mother isn’t brave enough to go with me, but I don’t much care—gives me a better opportunity to look at things. This is the part where I think I’m going to get embarrassed, but surprisingly, I’m not even feeling a hint of shyness, even as I look at dildos the size of my arm, and some weird porn DVDs stashed off to the side. I don’t know why I assumed that I would have my mother’s reaction. I guess since I have a tendency to get shy about strange things, I naturally assumed that anything sex related would cause a similar reaction. I’ve never been in a porn shop, but I’ve seen my share of weird contraptions online, and none of the things in that store held a torch to any of it, therefore I looked over things with a bit of boredom, surprisingly.
I find boots in the minuscule BDSM section, but unfortunately they have some sort of harness attached to them so that the wearer can be suspended upside down. Damn. Of course the ones I like, I can’t buy . . . . I’m not even going to get into that. I stare at a few of the movies, all of which have covers you can see (every place I’ve been in that sells porn has them covered over, which makes it no fun). I get bored fairly quickly though, and go back into the other part of the store, where I stare longingly at the leather corset I can’t afford. I pet it a few times, like a little kid, running things over in my head, weighing my options. Sure, I have $175 dollars, I just don’t want to give it up in one fell swoop . . . . My mom’s looking through all the lingerie, muttering something about coming back later.
I decide it’s time to go upstairs since there’s some masks that look to be calling me that I can see from the bottom of the staircase. I didn’t know they made masks for The Devil’s Rejects. There’s a bunch of men milling around upstairs, which makes me wonder if I’ve entered the section I’m really searching for (though I’m not quite sure what that is . . . something obscene, maybe? I’ve realized that my idea of obscene isn’t as prudish as I originally suspected, in fact, I might actually be normal. Who would have thought.).
Nope. Just a bunch of pot paraphernalia, nothing I’m interested in. I’ve never seen so many bongs in one place before, or actually seen them out in the open or not made of cast off plastic soda bottles. There’s some weird glass stuff in a case, that I don’t feel like checking out. They’re not glass sex toys, so I’m not interested (I like to ogle the weird ones). There’s costumes in a dark corner, but just the typical boring stuff. Think: purple ape. Sexy French Maid. How quaint. I frown, go back downstairs, stopping halfway to admire the picture that seems to look at you as you walk by.
I want to try on some of the corsets, but I refrain, trying to remind myself how lazy I am. I’m already wearing a corset, and I’d have to take it off and change in a environment I don’t trust . . . . That’s how I talk myself out of owning a fourth corset, and eventually, after another five minutes, finally leave the store. Ah, self control, sometimes it really does come in handy. I never did find my boots. I guess I have to order online again. Damn.