IAMA human being. AMA

Sometimes I forget that I am a human being and I don't care that you're hungry or that a hurricane blew the roof off of your house or that you've lost your way and are lost and tired and scared. Sometimes when I read about the horrible things that have happened to you and yours I just shrug and carry on with whatever it was I was doing at the time, like clipping my toe nails or tweezing the hairs in my armpits. 

Sometimes I wish you'd fall on your face and skin your knees through your pants and even if you're wearing some made out of a really sturdy fabric like thick denim you'll be picking at itching scabs and strands of loose skin for weeks. Sometimes I wish you'd bite the inside of your cheek so bad it swells up into a tender little knob that you just keep accidentally biting on every time you eat something and even when you're not chewing your tongue will seek out the bitten spot and prod it relentlessly. Sometimes I wish you'd miss your last bus and drop your winter mittens in a puddle of polluted city water. Sometimes when I hear on the news that your country has been subject to another school shooting or another terrorist attack all I can think about is how much I don't care and how little the lives of those lost mean to me. 

Sometimes I'll stub my toe and I'll wish that concentration camps were still up and running, that slavery was still legal and that no amount of charity fundings will ever ease or end your hunger or your suffering. Sometimes I have to bite my tongue to keep from smacking you right across your stupid fucking face. 

And, you know, I saw on the news about your missing baby girl and sometimes I wish she turns up dead.



But then I remember that I am a human being.

Work through the layers

Imagine waking up one morning and not recognizing your own reflection.Oh, it's still you, only you're almost 100 lbs heavier and those prescribed medications that were supposed to cure you... not quite working, are they? This transformation did take place not over night but over a course of three months which means fast enough weight gain to cause severe skin breakage over the entire body. I don't ever want to bear children. Now I look like I've had ten of them.

 Ah, yes, vanity, I hear you mumble. Don't be afraid to say it out loud. Do you think it's something I've not heard before? If vanity is wanting to feel like you are yourself and not a complete stranger wearing a ridiculous fat suit, then yes, I am vain. If it's wanting to feel like you're something better than a garbage disposal doctors can try out new medications on, accidentally prescribing you something that will add almost an entire human being's worth of bodily mass to your physique and then doing absolute fuck all to help you lose it again, then yes, I am vain.

The time and money alone I spend on finding bras to fit these overgrown monstrosities would be enough to fund a small malpractice lawsuit. Oh no, I am not pregnant but something is definitely eating me up inside.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with being curvy or with being a 'real woman' as they've patronizingly started to justify looking like exactly what you do which is eat too much and exercise too little. I don't want to be super skinny, I just want to be myself again. And if being held prisoner inside your own body against your will is vanity, then yes, I am vain as all fucking hell.

A daily night-terror?

Waking up to these guys hovering around me like starving flies, rubbing their spindly little hands together and wordlessly begging me for scraps. Early mornings and midnights have never felt as charged, as loaded, as strained as they do these days. In the beginning of June I felt something loosen inside of me and since then I've been playing this waiting game with myself, waiting for things to fall into place, waiting for further instructions. Everyone is bargaining but no one has yet the upper hand so the price for my affection is at an all-time low.

How is it that I started to change at this specific time? Was every beer and every kiss aligning to point me in this direction? For once I'm not seeking the easy way out and, consequently, I have never been more scared in my life.







Image art courtesy of: Anton Semenov

Episode

The bench I sat on while waiting for my train was drilled to the floor, which was a good thing for me since the only thing that stopped me from running across the turnstile and flinging myself in front of one of the moving trains was clutching hard with both hands to the armrest of said bench and squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as I could. No, I don't want to die and I didn't five minutes from that precise moment either, but for a precious few minutes, or it might only have been seconds, I was loose and all my instincts were telling me to jump. Except the meek survival instinct that from the very back of my brain did the chemical equivalence of going "ahem, excuse me? excuse me, hello?" and as I have trained myself to listen for it I heard it and let it reason with me. Still, the sweat was literally dripping off my face and for a moment there I was already dead, or perhaps only grievously mauled against the rail road tracks, I saw my life snuffed out and everyone I've ever met was bawling their eyes out at my funeral. Then suddenly I was alive again, realizing the whole scenario was ridiculous and the passing train was picking up speed again. No blood on the tracks, no blood spattered against the white tunnel walls, no train driver traumatized for life by the sight of a human body having the ick and goo spluttered out of it against his windshield.

I was just going home, but I can be anywhere at anytime and I always have to be ready to fight these urges. These episodes become less and less frequent but as they decrease in occurrence my defenses get more and more lax and I fall increasingly easier prey to them and the lowly voice of reason, the one that exists to ensure my future survival has been drowned out more than once already.

I know that I am weak but in itself that knowledge is the strength that keeps me alive.

Mouth-to-mouth

I'm resuscitating this blog for one reason and one reason only; I desperately need an outlet. I need to vent before I explode and since no one actually reads this blog I feel comfortable using it as my diary. Also, since no one reads it I can say whatever the hell I want. So fuck you. And you. And the guy standing behind you a bit to your left. Fuck you too. And fuck YOU in particular.

You're kind of cute though, what are you doing later?

Kiss me

One of the rudest things you can do is kiss me passionately. I don’t do passion. And don’t even think about pressing me against a wall, making demands with your lips. This is not sexy nor is it pleasing in any way. Who the hell are you to come nibbling and nudging?

And why is it that you must entangle your fingers in my hair and pull it? Seriously, pulling my hair? Do you want to kiss me or fight me?

And stop pushing your knee against my crotch! I’m not an assailant, nor a dog, and I do not nourish secret wishes to be rocked on your lap. Just stop it.

And will you stop staring at me?! Close your goddamn eyes, this isn’t a moment you want to remember seeing nothing but the indistinct bridge of my nose. By rule of kissing, you don’t look at each other. I already know what you look like, hence me agreeing to kiss you, and even though dilated pupils was a big hit during the late 1700th century, I don’t need to look into your eyes to know you want me.

Because your palms are sweating. Don’t try and wipe them off on my shirt, that’s fucking gross! Are you trying to feel me up or use me as a napkin? Because honestly, I can’t tell the difference!

And will you stop breathing so damn hard through your nose? See, this is why we need to kiss slowly, because believe it or not, there is nothing arousing about your harsh ”passionate” buffalo snorting.

You can let go of my head now, I’m not a puppet you need to steer. Just relax, there we go. See, isn’t this a lot nicer? Our bodies melting against each other, our tongues barely gently touching. Just hold me and let my hands do the wandering. You know, when I’m at ease like this, I almost forget what a vile and bacteria riddled cesspool your mouth is. It’s so sweet. Now I can feel my knees go weak. Your hair is so soft.

Don’t stop..

Are you licking my tonsils?!

Spider life and me

There’s something foul living in this body. The smell is that of something rotting. It’s the dead spider inside. She crawled in, and then she died. She laid a bunch of eggs somewhere in the uterus and they have started to hatch.

That tingling feeling when I think of you is actually thousands of tiny spider legs drumming their way through my body. The local pharmacy has no cure. Various creams that take away fungus, itch and unpleasant odours. Unpleasant odour? It is unpleasant.

My uterus is scratched where her rough body has layed pressed against the tissue walls and it’s full of swollen infected boils where she’s bitten me. They say I’m lucky.

Her children are curious little beings. When I look into a mirror I can sometimes see their sharp hairy fangs poking out through the skin, followed closely by black shiny eye beads. When they catch me looking they quickly withdraw into my head, snickering. I chase them with razors.

When I cut I see blood, my own mixed with her filthy. As her children grow bigger, they stop fitting in the smaller veins. If I’m to get them I must aim for the thicker veins deeper inside. Maybe I can kill them all before I lose too much blood. Wouldn’t that be lucky.

The water here knows all my secrets. It gets mixed up with me when I bathe or wash down pills. Through the pipes of the entire building the tell-tale water runs, whispering and laughing. When I go down to the basement the washing machines glance at each other and roll their eyes. She tried to drown herself again. Can you believe that?

I keep threatening the spiders. If I die, where will you live?! I scream at my reflection. They snicker among themselves and one or two of them whispers that dead is just as good. They say they feed off of the things I eat. Maybe they’re just trying to put thoughts in my head but I’ve stopped eating just to be on the safe side.

I threaten them with doctors. What if I should find someone who can actually help me, who can remove them? But they won’t let themselves be fooled. They know I don’t dare go outside. 

Because when I walk too fast, they start running, their little legs hammering through my veins and then I think of you.

Sex and the City

People ask me if I'll go and see the new Sex and the City movie. Since SatC has been annoying me for a good six years already I don't think that another hour and a half of it would be fatal but still that's not a risk I'm willing to take. It might somehow convert me from the perfectly normal woman I am today to some sex crazed liberty embracing whore who never works but still magically always has a new pair of awful shoes or an equally horrible belt or some other craptastic accessory. None of them have any videos or CD's in their homes, not one of them has a favorite band or a favorite book, they're all optionally starving themselves of any kind of popular cultur.
I'm nothing like Charlotte who seems to believe that women are born to be married and men are born to marry them and that pre marital reproduction goes hand in hand with selling your soul to the Devil, and I'm nothing like Carrie since I don't alter between being a needy lap dog and being a completely shut down sulky little ice bitch, nor do I have the worst sense of fashion in existence. I'm nothing like Miranda either, simply because I don't share her insanely bad taste in men. I mean Steve, Skipper and that anal-guy from the park? Yeah, I'd hit those guys too... with a shovel. And lastly I am nothing like Samantha because I'm not attracted to every single being that has a penis and I lack the vast array of buttons she sports for anyone to push, regardless of looks, life or preferences. I need a personality to go with my sexual attraction, not just a lump of flesh.

So no, I won't be going to see the new Sex and the City movie anytime soon.

Shadow of the Colossus

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Truthfully

Melinda calls up the love of her life. He loves her too
loves, loves, loves, damnit! 
so that’s not entirely a clumsy drunken thing to do. But Melinda makes it special, the way she makes every single bat of an eye a drug-liberal little miracle. She’s drunk but in a way she’s beautiful, even in the midst of making a spectacle of herself. When the last digit has been slowly and gently fingerfucked, like all the precious previous, she puts her feet up and leans
leans with her entire being, not just knees and boobs
 into the conversation. His voice is a cliché riddled clusterfuck of glowing hazel eyes, a dominant forehead and sweet sugary lips that’s only slightly chapped and even though she hates unconditioned lips she can’t prevent her mind from swooning and puckering up for that celestial, sligthly greywhite, wisp of his kiss.
He kisses her gently, cupping her chin and gently steadying her head and she would do nothing but relish it and maybe even melt a little if she could just
for one cocksucking minute 
disregard the fact that this is not how it’s supposed to be. There’s no such thing as being of the ‘wrong sex’ so why is she so persistent? Yes, he lives far away and the path that leads to him is littered with physical obstacles; seas, oceans, tears, ex-girlfriends, toilet seats left up for the last unforgiven time, but what do those things matter when he’s the third
meeeh, maybe fourth 
best thing that has ever happened to her? Then there are mental obstacles… Oh ho, the mental obstacles…
This is a request. 
She wishes to learn to relax. To chill and play it unsafe and let herself be swept away on this wave of undying, unconditional, unreal love that relentlessly carries her into his embrace. And she wishes that for one damn second of her life she wasn’t so fucking uncool.

Snow globe

Legal white powder dissolved in water, leaving close to transparent residue of bliss at the bottom of the bottle. I just gulp without thinking, refusing to deny myself the simple pleasure of intaking a drug I’ve become addicted to. Why bother about having to quit when there’s plenty at the moment? Tiny white crumbs twirling around in the water, inviting me to, if not dance, then at least take a little skip. Do a little jig. Rest my head. I’m not in too deep.
On another note, I never liked Vince Neil. He’s fat, whiny and untalented. Though God damnit how I cried when I read about his daughter in Mötley Crüe: The Dirt. My huge, swollen, gold sparkling heart aches and bleeds even for the people I can hardly stand.