Kate says the year has been like eating a raw egg everyday;
Peter says it's been like wearing a bag of rocks on your head;
Heather-Maria says it's been like a pack of wild dogs who have stumbled across an abandoned meat hangar;
and smiles because she clearly... is the winner.

HEAR ME.

In my pursuit of meaningful writing, one thing remains clear. I need to choose my words as others would choose how they solve algebra. With precision, with caution, and with the hands of an artisan. I need to melt words into one another. I need to stop, tilt my head, and listen to the echo of each sentence. I need to notice the paragraphs of emotional resonance or even, the perfectly tuned reverberations that come from freedom and pain and love and fear. Sound waves written down and answered by the influence of those who listen. Words are not just seen, they are not just letters sitting vacant, they are products of the individuals inner magic, buried until we create them with the intent to be heard.

callous disregard for youtube admirers

Today I finally checked my youtube mail, something I have come to believe is a very subtle type of torture. Not knowing what words I’m about to see, or if I have the willpower to disregard the negative ones. I hope that you, dear reader, are smart enough to gather that… today, I failed in the attempt. Hence the title of this post, which comes from yet another David. What is it with that name and the useless desire to try and tell me all about myself? No offense Dear David W, but I don’t owe you anything. Never have and never will. So call me evil, or disgusting, or exclusive… call me whatever the fuck you want actually, just don’t waste my time by writing it all out and pressing send. I am not one of those youtube super egos that replies to every comment or message left by a fan, no matter how admiring you might be. Ask some long time followers, even the ones in my “privileged little circle of beautiful people”. I fall off the radar easily, and don’t enjoy typing out the same answers to the same damn questions I’m asked over and over again. You are free to interpret that lack of action in whichever way your judgment-clouded mind sees fit… but you won’t be right. In thanks to your recent bout of assumption driven bullshit… you won’t ever get the chance to stumble across any sincere realization of the girl typing behind this screen, and by now, wouldn’t want to anyways. So either we’ve both just won, or we’ve both just lost. I’m not sure… but I am sure I don’t give enough of a fuck to wonder about it even one more second.

All my love,
Heartless bitch Heather-Maria.

TRUE love.

(A paragraph from my current novel)

For a minute it’s quiet, and his eyes are already half-closed. I’m so close that I can feel his breath quicken as the air slowly heats up around us. He reaches out and pushes a stray hair out of my face. His hands are soft. So soft I can barely feel his fingertips as our eyes meet. One hand wanders for a moment, briefly twining with his own before settling gently on his chest. I feel his heart beating faster as the line of no return continues to blur. I can almost smell his overwhelming desire taking hold of all rationality. The sweat from his arms meeting my skin. The nervous twitch of a foot. He's holding back, he’s trying not to give in, trying to hide how much he wants… but it's too late. Whatever reservations we had before have slipped quietly into the fiery power of this moment. The whole room seems fainter, and I’m reminded of that deceptive stillness before the hurricane I know is coming. And cum he does. Releasing himself completely with a guttural moan, his warm and salty juices tickling the roof of my mouth. I lick it all off like a good little girl, pushing the limits of his pleasure... and then lean back to watch his whole body shiver and sink deep into the sofa.

seriously WTF?

I made the mistake of meandering on over to some blogs in the self-proclaimed “philosophy” category… and suddenly feel a whole lot like a retard at an advanced physics lecture. What the fuck are these people really talking about?… and more importantly… why does philosophy seek to exclude anyone who hasn't memorized the entire dictionary? Below I’ve compiled a list of all the sentences I could find that are either (a) kind-of confusing or (b) completely fucked. Leaning heavily towards (c) incomprehensible, and in turn, transformed them into either (a) not-so confusing or (b) so fucking simple.

“Rational entitlement to comprehension is not generated solely by present experience, but by experience in conjunction with the prior metaphysical and experiential standing of the subject.”
a.k.a. Knowledge comes not only from what is happening now, but also from previous thoughts, experience and opinion.

“Experience is seen as analogous to a function or ‘argument schema’, such as modus ponens, which maps subjective views onto judgments.”
a.k.a. Experience is similar to the design of a simple if-then argument, when judgment is combined with only one side of the story. 

“The resulting theory aims to remain entirely neutral on ontological issues whilst enabling experience to make a rational contribution to knowledge despite its non-propositional structure.”
a.k.a. The result remains neutral on the existence of God, and at the same time relates experience to knowledge, despite the theories lack of proven truth.

Maybe it's a natural arrogance that comes with the subject, or maybe it's a way to try and avoid misinterpretation by creating new, impossibly complicated ways to twist simple ideas into a mess of the least used words in the average vocabulary, but whatever the reason... it's completely unnecessary. Makes a little more sense that the idiots of the world seem to stay idiots. No one smart enough to change their minds can speak the same language."Yes Billy Bob" says Mr. Philosopher "the adherence to questionable methodological principles seems to be motivated more by a desire for logical tidiness and consistency than phenomenological accuracy." I'm sure he knows exactly what you mean.

wonderland.

If only you could see me now. I wonder what you’d say, I wonder how you’d look at me… and I wonder if your mind would change. If you could see the tear stained sheets, and brimming balcony ashtray. Proof that I tried to smoke away the feeling that no one really cares. Pretended it didn’t matter. Convinced myself into apathetic delusions… because, of course, it does matter. It matters tonight, that I’m here... sitting at home. My good clothes tossed on the floor and replaced with boxers and a t-shirt. Here I am… writing to strangers who couldn’t make this go away even if they tried. Strangers that somehow feel closer then anyone I see everyday. I’d love to blame the not-friends that circle in and around my life, but it’s not the first time I’ve been left behind… it’s just the first time I let it matter so much. I wonder what’s changed. I wonder what I can do to make it easier. I wonder why I’m suddenly so afraid of the solitary confinement I once cherished. I wonder if it will all seem better tomorrow.

...she wrote with the slightest hint of pessimism.

Oh sure. It's exactly like true love.... if scaled by the hourly rate of some filthy back door motel room where paper-bagged harlots trade orgasms for cash and cash for candy that comes individually packaged in it's very own AIDS stained needle.

I'm dying to live in a world where everything doesn't feel the same as nothing.

Humanities ravenous appetite for indifference consumes most of us... with it's tendency to rape the truth and sincerity out of anyone who's not drowning in their own fear of reality. But not me. Oh no. I have the pathetic desire to see what's really in front of me... and the ignorant audacity to call it beautiful.

It's always been, and always will be about avoiding the curse of a monotonous excuse for existence.

the WRONG way

I've been watching way too much Californication. WAY too much. It has me wanting to write something worthy of Palahniuk, or Vonnegut or Selby. Of course, that's asking for the impossible...but I spent the better part of today coming up with something... anything that might shock or disturb humanity out of the straight-edged addiction to the same old story. Here's a little taste.

"I can’t help myself. The man’s got a target in his pants and I never miss a shot. Unaware of my intention to fuck his world inside out, he pretends to listen intently to Gucci Barbie’s champagne soaked tirade as she bounces her fake tits all over his wallet. He’s been watching the door all night, silently aching for someone better to come along. I wish I could say I fancied it a challenge but the black coffee truth is, no one surprises me. They all start by admitting they want a little bit more of that sweet cream in their cup, and finish with it dripping from the mouth of their next empty conquest. A circle of steaming shit stains, polished and scrubbed clean only to get pumped full of garbage again... and smile while simultaneously hating every second of it."

dominos.

So it starts. The unfolding of a story I've been dying to tell. A story about me that isn't about me at all. I have over 30 pages now, but I'll just share the beginning with you. Avid followers, please forgive the first little bit, for it is a repeat post.

Chapter One
“The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” The flick of my adolescent life’s very first domino happened in ninth grade when my historically crumbling high school decided locker partners would be the simplest way to deal with the sudden surge in student enrollment. Assigned locker partners. “Shoji…you’re with Lindsey,” my teacher called out, and I summoned a rare moment of bravery, allowing myself one fleeting glance. The gorgeous creature that was Lindsey Swan swirled out of her chair and, although I had every intention of playing it cool, this particular girl had perfected the art of inherent seduction. I stared helplessly as she swung her perfect legs to one side of the desk, threw me a polite smile and in one majestic movement, swept up and plucked a lock from the cardboard box near the door. I was busy thanking God for both springtime and miniskirts when I realized she was looking at me. Oh ya… Shoji Katō. That was me. I paused for another moment to curse my overly proud Japanese father for not giving me a normal name, stumbled awkwardly out of my chair and then out the door. In the thirteen steps it took me to reach the locker, I coordinated the perfect thing to say, but it seems Lindsey beat me to it.

“I’ll go on top,” she proclaimed, completely oblivious to the statements affect on my hormone-plagued mind. She then turned around and promptly started filing her thick, shabby textbooks onto the upper shelf.

“Yeah… okay,” I replied, immediately struck with the overwhelming desire to bury my head in the floor. Two monosyllabic grunts had now begun the only real conversation I’d ever had, with the hottest, most sought after girl in school. So I filed my books below hers in silence, uncomfortably aware of our shoulders as they softly collided every so often. She smiled and made the tiniest of giggles every time it happened, seemingly just fine with having me that close to her. I couldn’t help the foolish grin that slid up my face as my ego inflated... and she caught me.

“What are you smiling so big about?”

I denied any such action, buying time to think up something clever and provoking more hand to arm contact when she nudged me playfully, purring her best persuasion techniques.

“I was just thinking… I always imagined you as the girl who would like it better on top.”

Her eyes widened as the joke set in and I swear I could feel the perception shift as she let out a musical laugh and nudged me a little more, this time with her hip pressed into mine.

“Oh you know what I meant.”

And I’m sure I must have, although at that moment, I hadn’t the slightest clue what was happening. Lindsey Swann had just talked to me, laughed at something I said, and invoked physical contact undeniably categorized as flirting. This was already the best year ever.

"I find it strange that in a city of 30 million people, I'm still reaching out for someone who isn't there."