medea_whispers

medea_whispers @ 2004-06-08T11:53:00

2004-06-08T19:24:38Z

I have been neglecting this aspect and posting the pinnacle of shameful triteness in my other. Life is gnawing at my insides. What I need, what I need is more control. I swallowed my anger and it's burning a hole in my stomach. Vitriol and rage do a number on the guts. If I close my eyes I can feel your eyes bursting under my thumbs, your windpipe collapsing 'neath the heel of my big black boot. Where is my grand and bloody Shakespearian revenge? Where are my personal pack of furies come to hound you from your smug illusions and into unspeakable torments and than black death? Nowhere to be found I'm afraid. I've heard tell that the best revenge is living well, so I've had that on you before we even met, but knowing that you'll never rise beyond your white trash roots due to your own pathetic behaviour and self sabotage is nowhere near as satisfying as would be watching necrotic tissue slowly blacken your skin, eat through your pocked cheeks, crumble your grasping fingers with some delightfully third world disease. I think that would abate my anger nicely. I would be overcome by a spiritual orgasm so grand that it would heal my ulcer and possibly enable me to make the blind see and turn water into espresso or gin and redbull with a wave of my fingers.

I find it funny that you hate me because you overheard a conversation that revealed that I hated you, something you never figured out for yourself, and I hate you because you're the worst human being I've ever known personally.

There. I feel mildly better. Not really. It takes a lot of energy. I'm angry at myself for not being able to control my feelings in this matter. I'm startled by how badly I want to rip her lying tongue from her head, and various other acts of aesthetic violence. It's all a waste, an energy sap, sucking me into things I loathe most, someone I'm not comfortable being.

medea_whispers @ 2004-05-23T16:16:00

2004-05-23T23:30:43Z

I think I scared him the other night because death made me cry out of no where. It always gets me like that. I found out that I get free counseling through work. Great. I still have my reservations about it because the problem isn't one to be solved by any earthly factor. I've got this perpetual existential crisis going on that I put on hold to pretend to be a normal human being, but it always gets me back for that time in spades. I crumple like wet paper, soaked by the awareness of my reality, an awareness of awareness, I'm thinking that I'm thinking, and this will mean nothing ever because it will end. When your story is over, all stories are over, for you. I said I want to live forever, Troll said "You do live forever. Your life is your eternity because it's all you get. That makes it forever for you." You fuck, that doesn't help. "I know." I used to make myself sick and dizzy as a child trying with all of my childish might to comprehend eternity in terms of stars. I would try to picture stars going on forever, an unlimited number of them, and I would get this feeling that I wouldn't understand until 10 years later. A feeling that says "I understand that I will never understand, the nature of everything is too big, beyond my comprehension. I can't feel 'forever'." It goes hand in hand with understanding inevitability, the total lack of control you actually have over the world, your world. 4 years old, climbing the outside of the outside stairs that went to our second floor apartment above a small deli in upstate new york. I get to the top, but the railing is too high for me to climb over back to safety. I chose the outside of the railing, the precarious route with no way back but down again. My hands slipped, or maybe I just let go, maybe I let go just to see what would happen, because I did things like that, I still do things like that, I can't remember that. I can remember the moment, frozen in my mind forever, the instant right after my hands no longer grasped wrought iron and I knew I was going to fall. I understood the feeling of inevitability, I knew that I had no control, and I would know that forever, my forever. I knew I was going to fall and I couldn't stop myself, so I fell. I dreamed that I was flying.

medea_whispers @ 2004-05-17T01:57:00

2004-05-17T09:20:58Z

I am sitting here in nothing but my gorgeously pimpin' red bathrobe, eating cherries, covered in sex sweat and thinking about comic books. Sometimes life is just perfect. I reread his copy of the True Porn anthology last week, I think it was. I thought about it tonight as I nuzzled my face beneath his chin and he sighed contentedly and told me that I smelled like sex. Actually, I've been thinking about it a lot recently. In my boxes and boxes (11 years worth now?) of sketch books I have myriad short comics that I drew mostly for myself, mostly illustrating weird bits of my life. Subway rides, illicit drug induced lesbian sex with a satanist, sitting in cafes, conversations with homeless people, the boy I knew who died stupidly in front of a train, illicit sex with a boy named Troll, stoned art school sex on the couch with Mark, things like that. I like comics about sex. Some of my earliest comic book memories were getting strangely hot and bothered to Crumb's comics before I could properly physiologically get hot and bothered by his images of big assed, buck toothed amazons and the scrawny geeks fiercely wanking to them or on them. I fear to admit that the old pervert helped shape my current sexuality, but I'm sure it's true. Anyway. Sex. Comics. Yes. I was thinking that it would be nice to try to team up with an alternaporn site(not Suicide Girls, they let the girls be total psychotic thought gestapo, it's creepy) and maybe do a bi-monthly, or dare I even try weekly, true porn comic. I have a lot of my own tales to tell, but I'd really love to try to illustrate other people's naughtiness as well, I'd want to do at least one comic a month from someone else's stories. Maybe see if the site members and models would want to submit tales for my scrutinizing pen, or if I could con my friends into it. That would, erm, tickle me pink. While still in bed, as the boy dozed off, I started thumbnailing the hair-raising tale of my first time. It's really quite funny, but I can't figure out if that's just because I was there. I will put it up here if I follow through and finish it. Mmm. Cherries all gone.

medea_whispers @ 2004-05-10T12:25:00

2004-05-10T19:38:01Z

So I dreamed that we were still moving to Portland, only Portland was somewhere like Sweden or Norway (right, my completely impossible dream of moving to anywhereover there), only we were still kind've living in the southeast, I don't know. We were apartment hunting with the eccentric billionare who owned the empire state building copy that apparently stands in the middle of dreamportland. We were trying to get him to hook us up with an apartment in his building, he said he'd try, there were only three available, and bitchy me wanted hardwood floors. Going outside and looking around, every block had a skyscraper on it, but they were all apartment buildings and every apartment had a little balcony overflowing with plants and flowers of all kinds. It was terribly beautiful. I think I ended up wandering the streets, sometimes alone, sometimes with the boy. We ended up in someone's living room witha bunch of people watching tv. On the tv was clips from a porn that one of the girls in the room did, she was all excited and proud of it, apparently this was her chance to show it off ot her industry friends, but these two cute, bitchy gay guys were tearing it apart. It was pretty bad. Then I was looking at this dossier on her male co-star, there were video clips on pages that I could activate, and information that I could read about him. I can't quite remember what happened next, but somehow it was leading to the boy and I having sex, and then... bah. I woke up. There was so much more to all of it, more like three different dreams all taking place in dreamportland, but I lost it.

My analysis: I want some lovin, which I will go wake the boy up and obtain. I want to move to Sweden, or Norway, which will never happen. I want to make porn? Maybe, of some sort, someday, when I'm comfortable with my body, yes. I want to do an R. Crumb shoot with me in mary janes, thick framed glasses, white panties, white knee socks and such, with some skinny boy in glasses clinging to my legs and spanking me. I think I've wanted to do that since I was 17 and my best friend and I wanted to devote an entire website to "Crumb Girls". I go wake to wake the boy now. Rowr.

medea_whispers @ 2004-05-08T10:43:00

2004-05-08T17:59:26Z

I am angry at the people prostituting themselves and smoking crack in the place I work at. I'm angry that the fucking woman wouldn't take any antiseptic salve for her crack pipe inflicted burns and just stuck bandaids all over the filthy, blistered flesh so she could get back to fucking guys for 5 bucks a pop. I'm angry at all the fucking people who have no desire to make things better for themselves. A lot of the people who live there don't have the ability to, their mental problems will thwart them at every turn and they're clinging tenuously to functioning just enough to get by, to stay in this building. There are others who are higher functioning though, who could potentially go live "normal" lives, but they're so wrapped up in their own dramas and bullshit that they're going to keep fucking up on purpose and stay in the system for the attention. They know that the people who work with them find some relief in the fact that they're higher functioning and a conversation can be carried on, that they're not going to shit in the elevator, or cut anyone, or rape anyone. They like the attention they get from us, they like the attention from the case workers, the counselors, the thousands of people running around trying to make this big stupid mess work and they don't want to give any of it up. Then their are those on the next higher level that really actively delight in their misfortunes, or in behaving badly, once again, all for the attention. Sometimes I'm just so exhausted from people acting out their bullshit. Is everyone really just that fucking lonely? That seems to be at the root of everything sometimes. Most of them are desperate for attention of any sort, they want people to talk to, people to coddle them, people to punish them. Would they be here if, even after diagnosed with their mental illness, there had been more people to support them in their life?

Maybe I'm reading myself into all of this. I don't know. I'm god damn tired and frustrated.

smug and satisfied

2004-05-06T19:26:29Z

He has, it seems, discovered my breasts.

I had to spend about two weeks off the pill this month, and in those two weeks my already fairly unimpressive breasts diminished further. He said he didn't mind, he liked them anyway, which is all fine and good. During our furious bouts of sweaty groping, my breasts receive perfunctory attention, while my legs, feet, butt, back, and tummy are marked with handprints and appreciatively groaned over.

The pill that planned parenthood gave me when I could finally get an appointment was a lot closer to Ortho Cyclene than the last thing I was on. My breasts have quietly ached for the last 3 weeks since I started this new pill because they've suffered a sudden explosion in size and volume. Not immense, but surely a very full C.

We're sitting on the loveseat with the computer room, watching bootlegged episodes of Mr. Show on the computer. He's wearing a tight black shirt that loks so ridiculously good on him I can't help but reach over and sneak my hands under it, tracing ley lines into his stomach and chest. His little shudders of pleasure just goad me on, there is nothing sexier in the world then responsive, groaning, writhing. By the end of the first episode his pants are no longer a barrier to my questing hands and I'm just thoroughly enjoying playing with him and watching him lose control. Then he reaches out, seeking my flesh to visit similar pleasant tortures upon, and encounters my breast. The moment of realization. I pull up my shirt, revealing the new sight of flesh nearly bursting from bra, something he has somehow not noticed in the last month. He gasps with delight and pounces me, grabbing, caressing and nuzzling the tender flesh like a cat with a catnip dusted toy. These are amazing, he tells me. He's never been a "breast man", but these are amazing. I've known this all along of course, I love breasts. We retire to the bedroom trailing clothes and the scent of rampant lust, he treats my whole body with red hand prints on pale skin and groans of appreciation. We end upon the squeaky part of the bed, ensuring that the roommates got as little sleep as we did, and for a far less satisfying reason.

I like breasts.

A Rogue's Gallery of Supernumerary Naughtiness

2004-04-22T10:18:40Z

I've been going through old folders and random disks and finding that I have pictures of many people that I've engaged in relationships of questionable and sweaty natures. I think I should do something with these pictures (there are no pictures of the questionable and sweaty natures themselves, except for that one set, hopefully now destroyed, that prompted Troll's babymomma number 1 to run up to me at a club and pronounce that she had seen me naked. I do not approve of people seeing me naked with out paying the customary tribute of questionable and sweaty bit manipulation immediately before and/or afterword.)like a montage, a rogues gallery of sorts. Why? I don't know why. For my own perverse satisfaction, which is the only kind I seem to have these days. Maybe I'll just do it, burn it and pee on the ashes. I can write it off as a closure ceremony.

Also, in respect to the virus outbreak horror that I've been following solely via DPH, if some Official Department Of Health and Hygiene type people manage to outlaw all semen contact in porn, I'd like to see medical science develop implants that nestle in a man's abdomen that can be filled weekly with different substances and fitted with a full range of volume and velocity controls to supplant the expulsion of the deadly, unlawful manbatter. Then I'd like to see some goddamn bukakke. And the rise of a new artistic movement that perhaps involves the woman on the receiving end rolled across some fresh canvas which will then be auctioned off for ungodly amounts of monies. In addition to that, I want to hear more about this stem cells being used for breast augmentation business, and whether or not I will be able to start my illustrious porn career by having these augmentations applied to the flesh beneath my two supernumerary nipples. I think a combination of the two, supernumerary breasts and inventive cum, will make for some otherworldly sex videos. See our Valiant Heroine, Bovinia the Quadruply Blessed, battle the Mischievous Martian Man Hordes and their Deadly Green Gallons of Intoxicating Space Spooge.

Failing that scenario entirely, maybe just a horde of people encased entirely in latex, they could wear snorkels or something, with an outie part for dangly bits (maybe wearable dangly bits for the ladies) and an innie part for all other bits, lubed up, in fact, knee deep in kiddy pools of astroglide, going at it pell mell.

Yes. Yes, that would be what I want for Christmas.

Mania

2004-04-13T20:34:22Z

I can't rest.

I feel like a crumbly rubber band, stretched taught, I can feel my integrity disintegrating at the points of highest stress.

I can't rest.

I lay in bed and pass into dreams and wake from dreams and there is no sleep in between. Just me and my dreams.

I've been going for days. Weeks. I just keep going. When the dreams release I get out of bed. I'm always still tired but I must be awake, must be doing something, anything. At work I beg for tasks to accomplish. I clean the disgusting messes left behind by residents if there is nothing else for me to do. I throw myself into it, elbows deep in rubber gloves and the stench of human sin, because only driving myself onward affords me any semblance of peace. My body aches all over from movement, running up stairs all work days, a single night of dancing, and when not working, walking this city for miles at a punishing stride because I can't stop moving. My body aches and the only thing that will satisfy me is to hurt it more. Keep going. I'm going running in a few minutes, the unbearable sloth of sitting in front of the computer is something I just can't allow. Keep going. Keep going.

A single cup of coffee renders me unbearable. I shake and stutter, feeling the effects of the caffeine like it was a handful of ephedra, a bump of meth, and then it's over.

I can't relax. I grind my teeth in my sleep. I gnaw at myself. I wake with sore muscles, sore jaw, bruised limbs, from sleeping hard and tense, heavy. My gravity increases when I close my eyes. I'll sleep right through the floor one of these nights. I want badly to be able to relax. Not feel taut, wound, stretched across time and pain. I'm afraid though. Maybe. Maybe if I relax that will be it. Maybe the tension is all that's holding me together and a moment of true peace will send me scattering into the air like dancing dandelion seeds. Puff and I'm out like a candle.

I sometimes think that I will die very young. I sometimes feel that my mind and body do the strange things they do because some unconscious part of me can feel the end of my passage through timespace and it is very near. Somehow the idea of being able to feel things like that, echoes of future, past, etc., makes sense to me. I picture reality an infinite ocean, and infinitely compact, all happening right NOW. Everything is happening now, if only you knew how to feel it. If I could close my eyes and reach out my fingers and feel the very air around me, then I would learn how to feel (time). Not the right words. Never enough levels to one word. I need to speak in emotional aggregates. Words like bubbles, not circles, you know. There are so many things I feel that my culture has not given me words for. You utter bastards. I can't communicate myself, and I'm so lonely.

If I relax, I will fly apart.

I should be on drugs.

Telling Secrets: "Shhh... Wait.... Shhh."

2004-03-29T22:23:27Z

I knew I was going to have to teach you to drink when you, full of rum and lust, told the DJ that I "Suck dick like a sailor!"

Justify my lonliness

2003-12-31T12:58:34Z

I want to tell my stories to the dead digital air in lines and wires, because I can not tell them to the flesh.