It’s Not so Bad, It Just Clashes with My Complexion

Tonight was the first night in a long time where I was regular.

My own personal status quo had been fully restored.

I was not agitated, depressed, heartbroken, financially broken, hungover, drunk, paranoid, high on drugs, or low on life.  Slightly bored, but willing to engage in some productive activities.  That’s my regular state of being when there’s no handsome man nearby to keep me preoccupied.

I silk screened and I sewed and I accidentally dyed my hands a difficult shade of indigo that refused to wash off.

And that was when my friends called to invite me out.

And now I’m annoyed that my hands are dyed indigo and my money is all tied up, spread out and unable to be used for a few hours of light entertainment in a room full of friendly faces and scantily clad bodies.

Status quo was nice while it lasted.

Accidental Sabotage

For the most part, I was a well behaved child.

I was quiet, taught myself how to read at a young age, and was more than willing to take responsibility for my own entertainment.  Usually, taking responsibility for my own entertainment did not result in catastrophe, but seeing as how I was only a child, sometimes my choices in life took a turn to the dark side.

I used to stay with a babysitter before and after school.  This was a full time babysitter, who looked after a small number of children on a daily basis.  We all got along fairly well, and were treated quite nicely by the babysitter and her husband.  We got Christmas parties, trips to their camping trailer in the summertime, and various other goodies throughout the year.  One of those goodies involved digging surreptitiously through the toy box for stale sparkly marshmallows, but I don’t think the babysitter knew about that, so we’ll just keep that information on the down low, if you don’t mind.

When I was seven, the babysitter had just installed some wooden trim along her front walkway.  For some reason, I decided that this trim needed a bit of decorating, so I took a stone and carved a big “fuck you” into it.  Not very nice, but I was probably going through one of those childhood angst periods, which involved a lot of misused swear words and other poorly executed acts of self expression.

At any rate, I had no sooner finished my act of vandalism, when I was overcome with guilt, and tried to mend my ways by scratching out the big “fuck you”.

For some reason, that scratched out “fuck you” looked a lot like the initials of the two other children who spent their days with that babysitter.  Two other children who, it should be known, had much worse reputations for misbehaving than I ever did.  Apparently they just weren’t as good at not getting caught.  Either way, they took the wrap for the graffiti, and I never uttered a word to anyone.

My guilt faded with time, but those two kids will spend the rest of their lives wondering who the hell carved their names into the wood trim.  Answer: no one, it was just a wonderful coincidence.

Of Twits and Gorges

Last night, I dreamed of my romantic life.

I was dating two men.  One was really old, about seventy, and tall, with dark eyebrows, white hair, and a kind demeanor.  He sent me a love note telling me he wanted me to bear his children so he could feel young again.

And I thought, “Shit, I gotta get out of this.”

The other man was my age, but he looked young, and attended high school so that he could be around all the young girls.  He had a face tattoo and an awful blond pageboy, and he told me that he was going to fill his condom with three quarts of semen because of me.  Charming little thing.

He went off to the washroom to tidy up before this ambitious round of sex, and I thought, “Shit, I gotta get out of this.”

Between these two glorious dates, I found myself trying to cross a small gorge.  I had seen someone else do it successfully, so I gave it a go.  And missed.  But the small gorge was full of trees and dark leaves, so I didn’t fall far, I just got stuck in a tree.

And, of course, I thought, “Shit, I gotta get out of this.”

Chicken vs. Egg vs. Cock

Everyone already knows about the links between creativity and mental illness: there is one.

And I’m sure that as far as the creative types go, we don’t need to discuss Chicken vs. Egg on this subject, because we already know from our own experiences that creativity and mental illness are just parts of the same package. I was trying to figure out which one came first for myself; drawing and writing, or feeling like a weirdo.  I’ve been drawing/creating and writing since childhood, and experiencing a roller coaster of too much emotion since adolescence, but even before puberty, I felt like a fish out of water.

A person who creates can do so because their mind works differently.  The creator sees more broadly, feels more deeply and acts more recklessly than the average person.

The creator will have certain mental qualities that are similar to that of a schizophrenic, in that their latent inhibition is lower than that of a normal person, making them less capable of filtering incoming information.  This works against the schizophrenic, for they are unable to use the bombardment of excess information in any useful manner.  It just fucks them up.

The creator, however, will be able to funnel this excessive sensory input into something functional, such as art.  I should probably use quotation marks when referring to art as “functional”, but you get the drift.

Another correlation, which I found interesting, was that between creativity and promiscuity.  Unlike schizophrenics, we artist types get laid all the motherfucking time.  Even compared to the general population, artists have twice as many sexual partners in their lifetimes.  It’s nice to know that I don’t fuck everyone simply because I’m an insecure slut.  I do it for the sensory pleasure.  Take that, Freud.

I was slightly alarmed to discover that the average woman between 30-44 has had only 4 sexual partners. Shit, I’d had 4 sexual partners by the age of 19, and I didn’t even lose my virginity until I was 18.  And no, I was not a victim of sexual molestation, which is a common factor in excessive sexual promiscuity.  I just really like men.

The Severity of Clarity

Tonight is the night, my body has decided, that I no longer need to sleep.

Ever, apparently.

Which is something of a relief, considering that I spent the bulk of the weekend wanting nothing more than to sleep forever.  Night after night, I was out cold, dead to this cruel and ridiculous world, safe in my unconscious haven.

I don’t normally sleep like that; it was so strange to wake up to an alarm twice in a row.  I prefer my body to be trained in its habits of avoiding loud jarring noises early in the morning.

Tomorrow morning will not pose such a problem.  Even if I stay up most of the night, tossing, turning, fretting, sweating, coughing and cursing my wretched and uncontrolled heart, I will not have to wake up tomorrow for anything at all.

Providing that I’m capable of falling asleep in the first place.

This is one of those rare times that I’d rather have a frontal lobotomy than a bottle in front of me.

Brick by Ever-Loving, Tedious Brick

I wrote my midterm for school last night.

I think I did alright.  I think I passed, anyway.  A passing grade is a B or higher, just so you know where my standards are; I’m not a fifty one percenter, and never have been, I’m sure that’s not a surprise.

What this means, is that I am now halfway through my first course.  Only seven and a half more to go before I get some kind of official recognition for my efforts.

That will take more than two years to accomplish.  So in the greater scheme of things, I’ve barely begun and I have no reason to deserve a pat on the back or a heartfelt hug.

But I want some.

Life has been difficult lately.

Falling

I’ve been reading the stupidest book, lately.  Stupid books are my favourite; I’ve been known to rave about queer detective novels and mysteries that include medieval baking recipes.  Yet I won’t touch classic literature with a ten foot pole.  I’m useless, go figure.

This current stupid novel was bought for only two reasons.  No wait, three:

1) I had a gift card.

2) The book is an adult novel written by Christopher Pike.

3) There is a character named Amy, who’s about to have her world torn apart by a psychotic ex-lover.  Amy also has long dark hair and dark eyes, so I like that, too.

Christopher Pike’s writing style is shit.  It’s good for the teen horror that he normally writes, but as far as novels meant for adult readers go, total garbage.  Nothing insightful, nothing to be learned about basic human emotion, just gore and juvenile scenarios.

So it’s taking me a long time to read.  Even though it includes a serial killer whose murder weapon of choice is acid applied directly to the chest, burning a hole through the hearts of the unfaithful wives of CEOs.

This is totally my kind of book.

Even Goddesses Get the Blues

I had a song written about me a long time ago.  It was called “I’m not your doormat(so stop walking all over me)”.  Or something to that effect.  I won’t go into detail about the meaning of the song, I’m sure the title gives you an idea.  Sometimes I hurt people, sometimes people fall in love with me when they shouldn’t, and sometimes that love makes art.  Blah blah blah, all in a day’s work.

Where was I going with this?  I can’t remember now.

You see, today very quickly went from a pleasant day observed, to the need to sew my eyes shut and puke out my heart.  I bought myself some dinner, and about a thousand ice cream treats, planning on spending the evening hungover and eating on the couch, while watching something ridiculously entertaining on television.  Nellie Fucking Oleson, man.  I was so there.

Now, my food sits in the fridge and freezer, respectively, and I’m at the computer, trying to stitch up another wound.  Self inflicted, and of little consequence, to be sure, but a wound nonetheless.

That damnable Tree of Knowledge.  It’s funny that what I ate in the figurative sense made me unable to eat in the literal sense.

A Gentlewoman’s Guide to Dirty and Unrealistic Sex Terms

With a hearty thanks to my old co-worker who took me out, got me really drunk at Sweaty Betty’s and taught me all I needed to know about sex.  Special props to her for embarrassing the men at another table with some of these terms.  This all happened ages ago, mind you.  Way back in 2007.  I don’t know why I’m writing about it now.  Oh, right, someone told me to.  Ever so obedient, I am.

I think I’ll do this post in alphabetical order.  And I’ll be blatantly taking my definitions from the Urban Dictionary, because I’m hungover and tired and I think I have a bladder infection.  I usually get my inspiration from my bladder.  Don’t judge me.

Abe Lincoln: You take an unconscious person, jizz on their face, cut off their pubes, apply said pubes to jizzy chin, and adorn with a top hat.  What?  Is this the sort of term that gets invented in high school AV rooms?

Aftershock: Good heavens!  This is when a man pees right after he ejaculates.  Ew, in the condom/vagina, no less.

Alaskan Fireman: What the hell?  When a man is about to blow his load, he pulls out (presumably), sets his partner’s pubic hair on fire, makes a loud siren noise and jizzes on the crotchfire, putting it out.  Damn, that’d better be a big load.  Either that or I need to spend more time grooming my hedge.

Bone Smuggler: Someone who likes it in the can.  Incidentally, this is a phrase I like to use out of context as much as possible.  Like when a waitress tells me that they only have Guinness in the can, I always try to respond with a “That’s okay, I love it in the can”.  Which is totally not true, I couldn’t smuggle a bone even if I wanted to.  Which I don’t.  Unless it’s in the vagina.  I’m good at smuggling bones with my vagina.

Continental Breakfast: A very fancy blowjob, where you put the cock and both balls in your mouth all at once.

Dirty Rodeo: When a man is fucking a woman doggy style, he will proceed to tell her something awful, such as “I have AIDS”, or “This is how your sister likes it”, and will then try to not get bucked off.  Similarly, the Dirty Rodeo Clown is when a woman responds to the Dirty Rodeo comment with a “Me too” or “So does my brother”.  Zingaroo.

Eiffel Tower: A threesome that involves one woman being fucked by two men.  Doggy style, with one man doing the pussy/ass, and the other in the mouth.  The men high five each other over the woman’s back, creating the shape of a certain French landmark.  The Eiffel Tower.

Gash Guzzler: Someone who likes to eat pussy.  Usually referring to lesbians, but I guess a hetero man could be a gash guzzler, too, couldn’t he?

Houdini: A man fucks a woman doggy style, and pretends to ejaculate on her back, but secretly he’s only spitting, and when she turns around to look lovingly into his eyes, that’s when he gets her.  Right in the face.  “Take that, my little fuck monkey.”  You don’t actually have to use that phrase, but I’d highly recommend it.

Leather Cheerio: Awesome.  It’s another word for “anus”.  So awesome, and so totally getting used as soon as possible.

Rotisserie: Similar to the Eiffel Tower, minus the high five.  Boring!  Well, kind of.  I’ve never had a threesome with two men, but if I did, I think I’d prefer the Eiffel Tower to the run-of-the-mill Rotisserie.  It’s just more inclusive.

Rusty Trombone:  Give a guy a handjob whilst simultaneously rimming him.  This one is the only term I’d ever heard of before that fateful night at Sweaty Betty’s.

Spiderman: A man jizzes into his hand and flings it in his partner’s face while shouting “Go web, go!”

And there you have it.  A fantastic list of things that no one ever does, invented by virgins, and compiled by me.  Not a virgin.  Big surprise.

The List

Archduke Rudolf, the Crown Prince of Austria and other, lesser known places, had a list.

It was a list of the women he’d slept with over the years, and he would enter a woman’s name in either red pen, for the royal pussy, or black, for the commoners.

I have a list.

It’s all written in the same colour; I don’t believe I’ve ever had royal cock, unless foreskin counts.  It’s kind of like a little crown, isn’t it?

I keep this list inside an old sketchbook, tucked in between the tarot readings and recorded attempts to alter my gnostic state.  Ahem.  Hippie!

I also would have notes beside each of my conquests, describing their personalities/our encounter to some degree.  Phrases like “High School Reunion”, and “Angelic Stoner”, or something to that extent.  I can’t remember any of the actual phrases, and due to the sake of semi-privacy, I probably shouldn’t quote myself, anyway.

I stopped updating it years ago, when I got into an actual relationship, and then I lost the list until recently.  I read over the old names, laughed at my stupid notes, and recorded the new ones as best as my memory would permit.

All it really does is allow me to remember every person I’ve ever fucked, and what they meant to me at the time.  It’s little more than dinosaur bones from my youth, but I find it amusing, and am happy to have found it again.