” House?”, confused, burrowed frown, creases around the eyes, the woman stands, suffering the barrage of questioning spewing out of the man in front of her.
“…..house…car…”, two words she most certainly knew. House, she knew from years before, her mother speaking to two strange men dressed in clothing of a type she had never seen. One had used the word frequently, pointing at the structure that had seen her born, and grow, peeking up through the afternoon sun, a baseball cap resting on her head. She had been near inseparable from that hat for quite some time, to her mother’s mild enjoyment. Mildly only because she had to wash the hat so frequently, but enjoyed because it fit so well on the little girl’s head, and she obviously love to wear it.
But she was not paying attention to the man in front of her. Rude, she thought, and arrogant. The man, visibly upset about, well; such a small amount of damage to the plaster of his front wall; or perhaps it was because her car, which had caused the damage, was still technically partially inside his house.
Not very much later, flashing lights festooned the careful plaster in front of her, a car approaching from the rear, the police, most likely. Must have been the lights, tipped me off, she thought, realizing she was still slightly shocked from the crash, still a bit light-headed. She turned to face the police, two men stepping out from the least likely police car she had ever seen. Fiberglass body, color closely resembling baby blue, polyester seats, with a corner chewed out of the drivers’ right shoulder. The rear two seats had recently been enclosed by a two inch thick, clear cube, accessible through the right rear door, with neither a door nor holes for air to be seen. The light was certainly attention-getting, actually a strip of LEDs, bunched tightly at the center of orb, hovering in a magnetic field above a raised dimple on the car’s roof.
Two policemen emerged. On the left, the taller of the two and current driver, ambles out of the vehicle, arching his back as if it were stiff, then straightening his jacket, eyeing them as they both stand calmly by the scene of the accident. Stepping over pieces of the simple wooden fence, strewn across the front yard by the impact, and over the remains of what appeared to have been this yard’s solitary bush, he approached.
The shorter and somewhat more round policeman, having found his way around to the driver’s side, waits by the open door, right arm at his hip, left arm resting on the top of the door.
All this she takes in, while looking at the house again, to verify that the damage is not all that great. Not that great, but certainly a good bit more in the eyes of her counterpart, standing in his bathrobe, barefoot, on the stoop of his opened front door. It seemed he had retreated there, while she had been focused on the police. He appeared to be smoking, although she could not tell what.
“… …, … papiersk … … ….,” the policeman said to her. She could barely make out anything, no sense to the words he spoke. Maybe that meant papers? She did not know. Identification she had, on her person, and knew that when she showed them to him, he could react in a few different ways.
Happy, if he knew how her country had helped this small nation return to communism after the rigors and inequities of the former system, indeed she had seen firsthand the return of her country (dangerously large, for a confederated city-state, at close to twenty-five thousand), through the final, unbearable stages of capitalism, to the rebirth of the socialist ideal in their current model. It was a new model, but with so many countries turning their backs on the ravenous and unsustainable forms of capitalism that festered at the end of this twenty-second century, the new, pod-society method seemed to work, for some reason, but only to a certain size. As long as systems of accountability stay in place, the public and the private good seemed to be able to coexist, both of varying importance to the individual. Some people just did not fit it, but were prone to find their way out, to a different system, perhaps back to the capitalists, or the lugs.
Should the policeman be one who resented her country, growing up during the wars, during the rebellion, forced to witness the slaughter and cruelty through young eyes, with a constant flood of images and information broadcast on the clothes, walls and birds around him. (Birds, pigeons preferably due to the nature of pigment in their feathers, sprayed with a light coat of photo-pigmentation and injected with certain nano-transmitters, can broadcast loving images, short-film ads, right on their bodies. When large groups of them start, and fly up as one, the nano-transmitters all got together and created some almost disturbing images).
He was not. This man was seemingly indifferent to her inability to communicate, to her cries of alarm as he grabbed her arm and began moving her back toward the Plexiglas compartment that took up the rear of the vehicle.
At the door, he pauses, and turns back to the house, where the barefooted man stands, smoking from a small cylinder, blue-tinged smoke drifting up into the morning sunlight, smoke lingering in a solitary puff against an otherwise clear sky. Turning back, he says a few words to the cube, shoving her toward the hole forming in the clear wall, resolving itself into a square. As he shoves her head down to clear the roof of the car, she notices that the clear material is thicker around the defined edges of the square doorway, and smells of warm plastic. Once inside, the square loses its shape like a cube of bubblegum microwaved, strands forming rapidly together to form a solid mass once more.
Having ridden in taxis before, she is unfazed. The guard however, hovers a moment, looking harder at the surface, just to see if it is really all the way closed. He must be new, or they must not have had this level of detainment systems for the majority of his young life.

She had arrived by vacuum-train, shooting through its tunnel at mach 5, and had spent two days in quarantine. On the evening of the second day, after the random tissue sampling and final chemical bath, she had become grumpy, but cheered up when she remembered why she had come.

Doubts persist, lingering in the corners of the mind, still waiting in ambush in the pre-dawn REM activity, mixed in with the other dreams, of which i now speak.
The courtyard is accessible through a single gate, which is closed. He and the small band, maybe five strong, have set up one of the old walk in refrigerators as an arms cache, with others scattered throughout the neighborhood that surrounds this tightly guarded complex.
A flash of summer sun, as the six of them gather in the close, frigid space, explaining to the young black boy how important it is that, should the temperature reach triple digits, he run as fast as can, carrying the large block of ice, to the most elderly and frail in the community, that it's coolness will give them some sort of relief, stay off the closely approaching reconing.
Back at the complex, he sees a dozen men, climbing the walls that ring the courtyard, standing out plainly against the light stucco, then lining up on the roofs, spreading out as only figures in RockStar games do, encircling them with guns and the promise of lost lives. He turns to the others, the six, and finds one left, the Rumanian, who seemingly already knows that they are there, coming for us, already on his way into the store room, now on ground level, just ten minutes ago a basement room, and vaporizes.
I am alone. Alone in this cold room, frantically searching for guns in the box in front of me, the box that countless times before contained 9-mm glocks, maybe an Uzi.
I find pipe-cleaners, the cartridge of a ballpoint, what looks like a gun, but is only a broken stapler, and see him to my left, with a cowboy hat, aiming a large weapon at me with his tan shirt unruffled by the battle. I realize that the gunshots had stopped the moment I entered the 'fridge.
Vaulting backward, I slam the door to, only to realize that it is the door of my room, here, that i could easily smash down with my bare hands.
I huddle in the corner for a brief moment, in the knowledge that i am out of options, without guns, sitting in a small room waiting for a cowboy to gun me down ...
Doubt racks my mind, thinking of her, thinking of how I should reconcile, call her back, meet and lay things down on the line, clarify my pain, end this torture of the soul, this fear and loathing seeping out of my eyes.
I will run it by my advisors, those whom i trust most, to see if they agree with a premature meeting. we'll see.
X

X
standing at the focal point of decision, at the very point where reality separates itself from dream, from passion, he stands. he finds the words to speak to himself, to whisper sweet desires and the very least of doubt to himself, to defy the foundation of himself, to explain why his life heretofore is far too complex to understand. so where could all this lead? to what point could he take his reasoning, all the things that he has learned so far, to hate and love, to scream in purest silence, understanding not the padlock that strains at his soul, holding back what he can only assume to be insanity. To what level could he elevate his happiness, his vision of self, could he become the pinnacle of light he so often searches for in the readings of old, in the books that consume his mind, would he let them, far more deeply than some reactionary game? Could it be attained, could the words flow from his mind through to his fingers, as if they were not restricted by doubt, a doubt which is defineable only by the fact that it is so huge that it contains all of the self, that it restrains the very firing of the synapses, that it lies as a bed of needles, as in a pine forest, cushioning the soul at the same time that they poke it, not hard enough to hurt but forcefully enough that they annoy? so many questions.
let us then begin, to thwart the demons, to send them back to the dark they call home, to the fringes of consciousness, to finally find themselves at the very end of their existence, allowing clarity of vision, understanding of self, resolution of conflicts past and present, even future. Let us embark on a journey of self, on a passage of rite, or rite of passage, on the way.

He stands alone, completely alone, on the edge of vast chasm. it just so happens to be the greatest hole in the West, the pit that draws thousands, via helicopter, to it's brink, to the edge of this greatest work of erosion, that is the most visually pleasing, especially to aerial photographers.

could it come to this? could this be the very verge of understanding, of discovery of place? Could he be where he needs to be at this point in time? is his life to this point purely reactionary? his memory of the early years surely seems to point at it. driven not to exceed, but punished for his failure, punished most cruely not by the laying on of hands, but with words. words spoken by the man who could most easily cut through the layers of defense he had built up, through the fledgling desire to reach greatness. words of harsh degradation, especially uttered after the revelation of dissatisfactory test scores in school, the ultimate soundingboard. that man was his father.

why so long to face this oldest and least noble of dragons? why so long to address the brutish realities of his truest feelings?

FEAR. his dragon. his quest that would have to be completed in order to continue forward ... But was it? how could he be sure that this was in fact the key to further development? how could he know that defining and confronting this dragon would yeild the results he desired?

to try. TRY. do it? FUCKING DO IT. confront the dragon, but confront him on his turf, on his own ground. tell him all the terrible things you feel he's done to you. on his own turf, as that will make you stronger, as that will prove to him that you are not afraid of his reach, of his power.

Fear this bitch. No one, but those who love you will drive you to do this, no one but yourself will actually take the step over the edge. You do, gliding through the air, feeling the tears torn from your eyes, from the ball of tension in your stomach, gradually easing as the rocks rush toward you, as gravity forces your weak and limp body into them at one over eight and a half meters per second squared. blood and bone slide down their rough hide, pooling in the gravel that ring their base.

Does he die, does his unenduring suffering come to a swift and unparalleled ending?

I wear a green shirt, a reject from the batch of shirts made by my new coworker, now in Las Vegas, where I will shortly join him.
I fear for my head, as I must cut the hair upon it shortly, and do not want to mess it up, what with my recently recovered ego.
The thing that bugged me the most this past weekend, the cancer eating at my soul, is the discussion with the good friend of hers, at work, regarding her feelings as to my action or lack of action in the face of the driving urge to call her, to take her back, to hope that everything will be ok, that we will be able to work things out, that this is just another break, another chance for her to have some time off, to find herself, to get her shit straight.
I want to believe that that we can function as a couple, that we can act as if the breakup never occurred, that she did not tell me she can’t be in a relationship right now.
It all started with a simple miscalculation of dosage, with too much red wine and a little too much smoke, with the resulting inability to stand, the desire to vomit, the fear of vomiting. She was so grossed out by the concept and act of vomiting, by the fact that her hair and hands would smell of it the next day, that she refused to go through with it. This was the end of the free days, the end of the fuckit attitude, the beginning of self-examination, of self-realization, exactly what she didn't want. It's hard to face your past, easier to keep running.
Her weightless body lifts easily into my arms, her head lolling off to one side. My desire to remove her from the bathroom floor, to wrest her from the scent of piss and shit, to cut short her indefinitely long process of convincing her body to let loose, is simply that which I chose to do at the time. She refused to vomit, so I decided to remove her from the area where it would best be suited to happen, where her vomit would be best deposited. Instead it lands up on my floor.
She cries! She cries out in fear and confusion, the sound forcing itself out of her throat, as if past a great clenched fist. Completely limp, breath extremely fast, limp motion of the limbs, skin suddenly sweating, suddenly moist and slipping in my arms, hitting the bed, crying again. I recognize the symptoms, having personally experienced them during my travels. The mind spins, fears, inability to create a clear thought, complete loss of motor skills. Normally, the person would lose consciousness, building up false realities, the walls no longer tiled, but a forest of neon blue, the door opening to reveal your friend, concerned for your wellbeing, and for the uncharacteristically loud crash emanating from the bathroom. Suddenly it all sinks together and becomes clear.
But for her, but for her the first time must be hell. She later tells of the floating sensation, of the vision of her soul sitting outside of the body, of the whip-crack of it returning, and I believe her dying. I believe her soul losing it’s grip on the mortal flesh, because of the scream. Had I not heard that primordial, ur-yell, welling up past the voicebox like bubbles rising from champagne, beautiful and terrible at once, my fingers sweat just thinking about it. Or it’s the lack of alcohol-dehydrogenate. Either way, it was serious shit, serious enough for me to seriously juggle explaining things to the paramedics and her parents, how the THC had gotten into her system, how the redwine she had gulped found its way onto the beige carpet of my room. Fuck that.
Fuck that. Seriously. So she lay there, on the bed, weakly begging me to call the police, as her head swam, as her vision followed imaginary things, as the fear of soul-release reared its ugly head, she lay, and begged me to Do something. But that something was vomiting, and that she refused to do.
I tell her stories, grasping her attention and holding on to it for some time, managing to keep her focus on the images, and not the nausea, not the burning desire to vomit, to simply void the system, just to get it out. And void she does.
She barely makes it to the carpet, with part of the bed covering in her lap, when the first wave hits. Red wine, spilling out onto the floor, the smell of it sending me aback, the knowledge that she needs water bringing me forward again. She drinks, small gulps to test the waters, afraid that the heaving may reoccur.
Instantly better, I know that staying in the bathroom, with its cool, washable tiles, and the lack of soul-release, would have been far preferable. Damn that weed.

Attempt at Reconciliation and Reunity

The vodka and diet coke slides down my throat, linking up with its' friends in my stomach. A little sick from dehydration and the lack of wearing throat protection on the commute to work in the mist, on the motorcyele, faithful Bucephalus, i am otherwise OK.

She called this even just as she had promised to, after an exchange of emails today about a concert the next, one she had booked while we were still together. Tearfully she makes it clear how hard saying what she needs to say is for her, whence she begins.

It boils down to the fact that she can't seem to forget me, can't seem to forget our times together. My heart aches for her daily, dreams of her scent and touch fill my morning REM, the desire to call guides my fingers to the now-fritzing cellphone, strange that it decided to completely crash and partially regain function so close to the emotional turmoil of the past few weeks.

She would like to get back together, to resume our relationship where we left off, for me to take her back. She, who dumped me, who let me know she can't be in a relationship right now, is asking me to take her back, nay is acting as if this has been but a brief repose, an interlude in an otherwise flawless and otherwise near-perfect relationship.

Oh, how your heart screams to say yes, to rush over on the black bike, into her waiting arms, and reconsummate your tryst, to lie in her scent, staring at the ceiling, cursing the day you gave in and your good fortune at once.

But not this motherfucker. Not me. You drink the big gulp, you face the consequences. You split up with me, send me packing, even invite me over to your place to pick up my shit, I'm sure as hell not going to take you back.

I must. I wish to god she hadn't called it off, hadn't told me over the phone at work that it was over, that that fateful day could be erased. I wish i could do it all over again, just to relive the hurt.

I tell her no, my heart rending, my future shaking with high magnitude, the chances of meeting someone so perfect and so perfectly matched flashing through my mind, the decimal spaces growing, and yet i say no, tell her that her decision, and her current emotional instability, coupled with the fact that she is still not divorced, legally, and that she stated just ten days ago that she can't give me 100%, can't give me her all, is still plagued, haunted by her inept and uncaring former mate, weigh in on my decision, tiling the needle to NO.

God how it hurts. The fear and insecurity flooding in with the dreaded realization that this kind of opportunity comes along once in a lifetime, that we fit so well, that we can make it through this.

Rational thought now, look through the fog of love and heartbreak, look through her tears, hope beyond hope, then BURY that hope, deep down where only chaos and fate can find it, bury it in the very fabric of spacetime, believe it to be, know it will be but let it go, to their tangeld web.

She takes it like a champ. She almost hangs up, but gives you the courtesy of staying on the line to wrap things up. In your heart you know it's best for both of you, you hope your call is right, and if not, at least you stuck to your guns. If in a year she doesn't take you back, stay positive. maybe it's still not the time. stay in the present

Ah, i digress. I yet cling to hope, yet feel the phantom hum of the phone on my left thigh, imagine it ringing, starting up with the urgency of answering the call. Perhaps, should chaos and fate see it fit, you will find each other again, perhaps, if she finds herself, is capable of giving you her all, and you her yours, perhaps then it can work.

But, for now, think no longer of it, let the strands of time strip it from your mind, leaving you once again alone, content, happily connected to your siblings, the air, your gods, but utterly alone, in a good way, your own master, the exchequeor of your account, the comptroller of expendable accounts, of dept, he who strays from the path, only to be welcomed back onto it.

To give life but to claim nothing,
To do your work but to set no store by it,
To be a leader, not a butcher,
This is called hidden Virtue.

Tao Teh Ching v.51

Olde Bouyah

9 days after

So here I sit, over a week after the termination of the allround, by-far best relationship I have ever had. We met last night, at her place, for me to pick up what few things i had left behind. It amounted to a book, one DVD, a toothbrush (used), and a t-shirt she had ordered me, as well as a Snoop Dogg CD, again something from her for me. I parked in a spot down the way, not where i had for months, under the awning, next to her white car. There was simply not enough room for a smooth insertion, and it seemed symbolic.
She opened the door in her work clothes, unusual for six pm on a Tuesday, her house smelling like a light dinner, the early evening sun making her soft, tan skin glow. The plastic shopping bag containing my things goes into the bag, with room to spare. We nervously glance off to the side, commenting aloud about the awkwardness of the situation, and she comments about how she wishes she had broken it off in person, instead of over the phone, still at work.
She asks me how I am, I reply honestly that I'm OK, if sad and confused can be seen as OK.
We hug.
I place one arm around her, not in any way expecting the embrace, but after the second try we hug full on, tears streaming down her face, tugging at the corners of my eyes.
"I can't get mad at you", I say, not letting myself fall for the urge to do so, or to read into the hug, or to ask her why.
"It would be easier for me if you did", she replies.
"I'm just trying to remember the happy times,” I say, whereon she responds, “I can’t stop thinking about the happy times.”

Our tryst had lasted five months, or thereabouts.

“I told myself I wasn’t going to cry,” she says through tears.

“Take care of yourself. I guess … I’ll see you later,” escape my mouth, as she reaches for the door, and I see myself out.

That was last night, and the sense of closure is extremely relieving. Not saying goodbye face-to-face is possibly the worst.

Ioanni Elymucampus fecit.

Short Story

The man awoke with a splitting headache. It hurt so badly that the feeble light seeping in through the smoke-yellowed blinds sent waves of pain all the way to his pinkie toes. He rolled to the side of the bed, left leg crushing what appeared to be a half-eaten bag of pork rinds, and placed his sock-clad feet on the floor.

Facing the wall in this way, he first noticed both the smell and sound of another person, and realized he was not alone in the room. Glancing back slowly, so as not to startle whichever black-guard or pimp might be lurking in the poorly vacuumed corners of the large, but sparsely furnished room, he instead was surprised by the slender form of a young woman, blond hair spilling out of the covers like seaweed pulled by current, pasted to her skull in spots by sweat, what looked like vomit.

Checking the insides of his mouth for film or indications of enamel depletion from stomach acids, he decided that the puke did not in fact belong to him, and that the young woman (he decided to call her Juicy, from the seat of her training pants, neatly folder over the room’s only chair) was lying in a puddle of her own vomit that had long since leaked into the blanket. But how did she go from neatly folding clothing to a near comatose state (she yet breathed), in the course of four hours?

For his last clear memory was of his watch reading two, and the grandfather clock clearly showed six. He guessed that the sunlight striking the stained blinds head on indicated morning, but at this latitude, who knew? He vaguely knew where he was, had been there a few weeks before, at some sort of party with girls he had met on the flight back from St. Petersburg.

Damn, he thought, it’s nearly impossible to … think. I’ve been standing here for a good fifteen minutes, stark naked, next to a vomit-spackled girl I named Juicy, and have not even begun to wonder where my clothes could be, where the new cellphone had gotten to (the one with the many numbers gathered from too many women for him to count sober).

His cellphone beeps just as he had programmed it, dissonant cords that grate his nerves and can be heard even when buried under the clothes of a surprisingly large and diverse number of other people, their whereabouts, for the time being, unknown.

Wading through the various suit jackets, screen-printed t-shirts, saris, wedding gowns and acid-washed blue jeans, the compact warmth fills his palm, the realities of Being Connected lessening the tightness at the base of his skull, easing the pressure from the backs of his eyes, soothing the urgency of bladder voidance. It was a full four days later than he assumed, four days lost to whichever void of drug-induced, vodka-hazed binge he had sunken into.

Mr. Quo picks up his phone, and dials his mother.

She is dead. He had not forgotten, but had called her anyway. He had wanted to hear her voice on her mobile service’s messaging menu, but the phone company had deleted it on behest of his siblings.

His mother had died not long before, and he suspected that he had been trying to drown his sorrow in liquor and bodily fluids, like those of Juicy now stirring on the bed. He smelled her on his hands, and knew he would have to shower soon to rid himself of all immediate memories of that morning.

Clad in a motley selection from the pile of clothes that had hidden the phone, a rubber-wheeled vehicle passes by, distinguishable from the din of some great machine working away in the depths of the building only by its silence, but barely viewable through the crusted, muddy panes at the window. That would be the Count, on his way to market.

He realized that this room, this charnel of poor housekeeping, poorly piled clothing, stained windows, blinds, is somehow connected to the greater building complex that also contains the modest, clean rooms he calls his own. The walls slide past, some freshly painted, some peeling paint onto unsuspecting passers-by, were there any worth mentioning. The corridor goes on seemingly forever, the walls bending back on themselves, so that he believes he can see himself far off in the distance, if only his eyes worked well enough to make out something that far away.

Every once in a while, he knows that a strange, angry man roams the halls, wanting to yell at small children and piss off of balconies, threatening innocents on his way to the local drinkery, flinging rocks onto the freeway, causing mass carnage and the rending and twisting of metal. But for the most part, the strange and angry man walks alone though the halls, yelling loudly enough for the good people to go back inside their rooms before he passes, eyes straining at the peep-holes, children sent to their rooms to complete their school-work.

After a seeminly endless and painful walk (the spare shoes he found are a poor fit), he slumps against room 333, close enough to the exit to make for an easy escape, but far enough to discourage religion salespeople and beggars.

Ioanni Elymucampus fecit. 2005

Fodder

http://news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&u=/ap/20050412/
ap_on_re_mi_ea/iraq_us_go_home
Quotes: By TRACI CARL, Associated Press Writer

On Sunday, protesters shouted anti-American slogans in Duluiyah, 45 miles north of the capital. A day later, a similar demonstration was held in Baqouba, 35 miles northeast of Baghdad.

On Tuesday, in the troubled city of Samarra, tribal, city and religious leaders gathered along with students in the shadow of a spiral minaret, throwing rocks at U.S. tanks and shouting for the Americans to leave.

"The Iraqis will fight until they force (the Americans) to leave and let us live in peace and security," Hassan Neama, 33, said Tuesday in Baghdad. "They are the source of all of Iraq's problems. We consider the Americans our enemy, not our savior from the Saddam Hussein regime."

Some Iraqis argue the country is ready to take care of itself — after the Jan. 30 elections, the first free vote in 50 years, and last week's naming of an interim prime minister, Shiite Ibrahim al-Jaafari.

"The American troops should leave our country because there is an elected government in Iraq now. If they stay longer, things won't get any better," said Abdul Rahman Hatam, a 21-year-old cook in Baghdad. "We, as Arabs, don't accept any foreigner controlling our country."

Reflections on Post-breakup behavior

Running dual spy ware and malware scans right now, just in case the massive pr0n activity in the past few days has exposed my system to too many bad bugs. FireFox keeps most of them out, but one or two get through eventually.

Party last night in North County was one kickass house party event. Olde Bouyah. Couldn’t really tell if Negen, the pretty and extremely lithe Persian girl with an apple green top, tight as hell bluejeans and a fluffy white leather jacket with fur collar was interested or not.

Ok that’s a lie. Any girl that pops up in your peripheral vision four times running, and greets you as kitten! in reference to your explanation of using the term sweater kittens for erect nipples is probably not interested. Probably not. Right. But does that explain her aboutface, bordering on the urge to flee, when I would followup with something directed at her, letting my body language, tone of voice, eye intensity, convey my driving urge to fuck her? My urge to shed her young body of what few layers of clothes she wore, of coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of her taunt flesh, to breathe her womanly scent just after sex, holding her from behind as her world realigns.

I am inclined to think that she was ready and willing, mostly by her actions, but also because of her friend, who warned me that she would rip vital parts out of my body if I fucked her friend over, if I hurt her in any way. Does she mean Negen? I cannot say, but do not recall speaking with any other fiend in her presence, don’t remember actually speaking with her directly before that moment.

It seems as if I am in the clear however, as she launches into a tirade about the damaging and strictly counter-evolutionary effects of drinking milk on the body. It turns out that she is a far greater fan of chocolate, and will stare fear and scientific discovery in the face for a tall glass of chocolate milk, and milk in cereal. Because I guess it really doesn’t count if it’s something you like, or if it serves as a platform for enjoying grain-based tasticakes. I glance at her very small breasts, covered by a thin band of elastic material, which is mirrored on each arm, and am not caught. I am struck by the urge to ravage her as well, but only because my sex drive never stopped kicking, or I never let it die, even after she took my heart away.

I am in no position to complain, as I willingly gave my heart to her, knowing that she might break it, and regretting having had it broken would mean that I in any way regret what we had, and I do not. Not for one second. Our last fuck concluded with her sucking me off, my cum spilling into her mouth as she crouched between my thighs, my arms flailing, back convulsing, pure satisfaction singing along the synapses to the tips of my toes.

I find myself sabotaging my chances with girls like Negen, or at the very least writing it off as not worth my time, even though she keeps bubbling up next to me, calling me Kitten and staring at me with her absolutely beautiful eyes, her simmering sensuality flashing in a glance. Perhaps she keeps coming back because I ignore her. Perhaps.

Aftermath

He finds himself, now one week after being dumped by the closest he's ever found to a perfect match, coming to terms with the whole rotten situation. he's been destructive since then, what with getting piss-drunk the night before and forgetting to brush his teeth. every thing else aside, this was by far the worst. go to the fucking dentist, he told himself. it's not hard, call the fuckers, set up an appointment, and go. you could die tomorrow, but at least have nice teeth. they could fuck you later on, disease and cancer raining down on the body. go fix them. now. or at least one Monday. Why did she do it? i think i know. i tell myself i understand the reason, but trying to explain it to people just makes me feel stupid, and I start questioning myself. I don't want to just be a friend, so i won't call or write as one. I want to be lover, fuckbuddy, partner, maybe husband. but not just friend. i won' fuck myself out of any of the other labels. i guess it's a pride thing.
SO why did she? she says that she never took the time to confront the post-marriage stress, never let herself grieve over the lost time, sacrificed feelings, the emotionless cunt of a man whom she married. Why can i not just bounce back? I know I love her, loved her, otherwise this hurt would not exist. It is good thatI am letting it hurt, not burying it under layers of rationale and denial, not boxing it up to fester in my subconscious.

It sucks that he got so wasted the night before, and coudn't work that young thing at the bar. nice hair, great ass, genuinly interested, even listened when he told her about getting dumped. But then, running scared for a split second focing him to the door, it all falls apart. but fuck it, thousands more out there, and she was from Phoenix. heard it's a nice town. maybe go get her number, slip her the sausage, fly out and visit her or something. but then again, maybe lay off the women for a little bit, just until the worst hurt is over. who knows. X

Time Off

THe valley unfolds before my mind, a valley of flesh and static, open to even more valleys of clear midnight, undulating into the darkess and beyond my vision. What to give? can I be sure that i give everything i can? if she asks you to give her space, do you give her just that, knowing that she needs time to go over her thoughts, to deal with the pain and stress of having divorced herself from her husband? If i do not give her the space she is asking for, she will surely crack at some point, the emotions spilling over like the waters of the Three Gorges, eveloping irreplacable treasures, killing off endangered species, slowing the flow of a might river, very slightly altering the earth's rotation. likewise is our love endangered, will her body and mind remember the sweet embrace and loving tenderness we have shared these past months? I can only imagine the sinus curve of emotion she is facing, similar to losing a mother to something you can hardly pronounce, much less understand.

IT COMES DOWN TO THE FUCKING DAY. every single day is your last, every single day is the most beautiful. the intricate workings of surf and wind, of sand driven over sand, making dunes and valleys, sinks and ripples, greeting the dawn with bland incompetence, moved by forces it cannot understand.

as am I, forced on by emotions and desires I cannot explain, much less control. but how do i remain calm? how do i let it wash over me, accepting the fact that this woman i love has told me she can't be in a relationship right now, asking me to keep my distance, give her time to heal?

the programs are hounding me to reboot, so reboot i must.