The Juiciest Contradiction.

I will apologize. I should. Because all these implied nudes must have somehow implied that I am easy like sunday morning.


In fact, I am as hard as a wednesday afternoon. Harder. Even harder. You'll probably be fucking a wednesday before you'll be fucking me. I might as well be a demi-vierge by now.


Look, I'll explain it like this, horndogs: the real nasty freaks are the girls who don't show any skin. The prudes. The closeted whorebags. The girls you least expect it from are the ones who actually will go and suck your dick if you ask them on facebook.
The church mice. You want the church mice.

You do not want the makeshift pin-up. No. I show too much skin to be that much of a whore. You might try to argue the porn-star argument with me, but here's a crucial difference between me and the porn stars: I was never molested as a child. Ergo, I do not feel the need to fill a void and my vagine with every kind of filthy dick imaginable.


Think of Betty Paige, for example. She was a total sweetheart. But she was getting tied up. God fearing woman, man, and there's nothing wrong with a little tease.

This is my outlet for sex. The pictures take care of a certain dimension of my erotic needs. You have to realize that you, random creeper, are not part of this dimension. Jerk off to me, by all means, but don't think that the reality matches the images... what I mean is, just because you want to fuck me, does not mean that I will ever have sex with you. If wishes were currency... you'd be a mega billionaire by now. And I'd be sleeping with you.


I mean jesus... just jerk it quietly. I don't even give a good old fashioned! Why are you bothering me for em?!


I mean.... unless it's You, my You, then... yeah, yeah the reality pretty much does match the images.


But it's not You. It's never You. It's usually Some Guy.


So Some Guys, to sum it up: do not try to make your fantasies a reality, at least with regards to the persona on this blog. You'd be sorely disappointed.


But keep stroking it. Please, I do somewhat depend on your self inflicted vinegar strokes.

Dirty Laundry

This is my favorite place and those are my two favorite appliances.

You're all that's missing!

The Feather

A whispering feather

dancing on the soles of feet.

Suffering smiles and tickled pink,

Torture is our ultimate delight,

for love is an indifferent enemy.

Pendejo... You're killing me.

Pendejo.


I put these pictures up for YOU (mostly)

and I kept myself biblically clean from any other pendejo, and trust me Pendejo, there were many who wanted to offer me more than just a churro.

But I said NO! I didn't even flinch. It didn't matter how long I would have to wait, I waited Pendejo.


Well I'm flinching; I'm fucking TWITCHING!


I can't deal with you sex-starving me. I think I'm going to start looking for someone who would actually take the time out their day to fuck me all the time.


Call me needy, but at least CALL me.


I wanted to keep it TIGHT! for YOU!

But you're just never going to come around, even though you say you will.


No pendejo, no. I can't go for nearly three months without any tenderness. You keep fucking your putas, pendejo, so you don't know what that feels like at all.


But I'll give you one more chance. Secretly, of course. One more chance.

Nautical Stripes: Fin

So the narrative... well I came up with that when I was loopy.

You're fucking me. That's the narrative. Because I want you to remember what that was like.

Nautical Stripes Part 2 of 3

Nautical Stripes Part 1 of 3

This is a photo narrative. I am telling a story and you are to interpret it through the images that are present and those that are to come very soon.

Au Natural.

You couldn't find a friendlier hat on a friendlier girl.











Ladies, you don't need make-up; just a smile.

Prodigal Father

Prodigal father,

we wait for you

to free yourself

from madness.


Watching you

slip on eggshells,

drinking the drool

dripping off the

smile of your protege.


Upon your return,

we will be silent,

for shame will have

burned every insult

upon your conscience.

Boys Will Be Boys.

No. I am sick of excusing the behavior of men on the basis of their contrived "nature".

I am sick of trying to reconcile wandering lust as an acceptable and irrevocable phenomenon of the male sex.

It is weakness, not strength, that beckons your frivolous bedside manners, hardly allowing your eyes to adjust to the light before you slip inside another drunken beauty queen. You have visions of a king reflected in the cracked mirror. You have mistaken the silver paint on your cardboard sword for blithe metal.

Wasted on the idiotic faith inspired by literary delusions, now let us welcome disappointment as a habit rather than an unexpected guest.


Some boys will always be boys. They are no more than a gang of violent children who refuse to question themselves as men.

Despite millions of sticky little boys shoving each other to the ground, hurling their mediocre successes at one another like mud, attacking more mediocre foes, they never reason past the blood that rushes to their second mind.


Do not go deaf listening to the cries of boys; you will never be able to understand the words of men.

A Love Song ( For - - - - )

I think of you

often to listen

to the symphony

of memories,

the poetry of

verses never

heard before

your name

had graced

my heart's lips.


my hands,

forever aching to

play the notes

of this song

along your skin.


This melody

I sing softly,

silencing the

distance.

For Stacy

My love for you;

unbearably defiant

of any possible description.


To constrict it

with linguistics

would only desecrate

the precious delicacy

of our friendship.



Were I a witch,

I'd manifest a malediction

to curse the distance that

keeps us from endless hours

of coffee cups and conversation


One spirit split

between us;

Separate vessels

navigating tempests

in our passionate sea.


Decades cannot

fray the lace

of our embrace;

you are my soul's

companion.

The Dog, but mostly Beth's Magnificent Tatas.

In order to capture the exact sentiment of a Gary Busey centaur, for the most spectacular illustration since forever, I've turned to The Dog for inspiration..

I mean, where else am I supposed to turn?

I haven't made much progress, most likely because of Beth's hypnotic breasts and the peroxide fumes that perforate the glass on the TV screen, but come morning, I'm sure the Busey centaur will be all smiles... or just one giant mouth with a mane and a tail.

I may go out of my way to get a warrant for my arrest, so that I may introduce myself to this rag tag team of bounty hunters... so that I might join them in their quest for Hawaiian justice. So that I can have a legitimate reason to call everybody Brother... Brother.

But really, I just want to bully the fuck out of toothless meth heads and then moralize them very sweetly while they squirm in PINK handcuffs.

Really Beth? Was your cleavage not ridiculous enough to stupefy your bad guys? You had to add insult to injury with PINK handcuffs?

But it's fine, Beth, you house Dog peen every night, so I'll give you a break. I'll bet you make sex swings out of his mullet extensions.... you lucky bitch.

I'm so happy to have you back, insomnia. I have a whole new television world to motivate me to write half-assed cultural criticisms when I don't have pot to smoke.

Sleep to Dream

You come visit my dreams

whenever they are on

the brink of lucidity.

I dreamt of you last night,

even though I couldn't sleep;

This morning you were clean-shaven,

indulging in conversation between embraces;

Afternoon came to wake me.

You were gone; you hadn't come after all.

PRAWBLEMS.

AAAAAAWWW MAAAN...

I GOT PRAWBLEMS.

Man, I can't quit this one dude but I WANT to.

And like... all these GUYS are always hollering but I'm like... WAIT noooo You're not THIS GUY who doesn't really GIVE a shit about me... but...as long as he wishes me a MERRY XMAS it's cool. But NOO it ISN'T cuz I WANT IT ALL THE TIME but I NEVER get it cuz like GUYS just don't GET IT.

Like... it's HARD being pretty cuz nobody wants to get to KNOOOWWW you.... they just want to GIVE you stuff for FREE cuz they like LOOKING at you.

UGHHH my parents are taking SUCH good care of me... and I have a DEGREE in ENGLISH and NO STUDENT LOANS TO PAY OFF -JEEEESUSSS CHRIST!!!

GODDDDDDD I have so many OPTIONS...like I can go ANYWHERE and do WHATEVER with WHOEVER and be like... AWESOME at it...

I just wish I could DIE.

A New "You"

I don't want a new You. I like the You I've got right now, I like him a lot.

But you know... I don't know if it's worth the effort with You; I mean... you obviously don't care what happens to my pussy, and as for me...well I do care about where you put your dick. But I don't see it often enough to honestly believe it isn't getting handled every other hour by every other girl around.

So I don't know... should I start taking applications for whoever wants to be the new "You"?

Or should I keep writing to You? Because if you don't read it, then that is the ultimate sign of your indifference. But I don't know if you do or if you don't....and I'm trying to avoid crediting my assumptions as a substitute for truth.

Anyway... I don't want a new you.... I just want you to want me.

Dream #367: The Ralph Lauren Commercial Life.

My sincerest desire is to live my life like a Ralph Lauren commercial.

Really though, it's more of a starburst commercial gone sexy and attempting to invade a snuggy infomercial, ending in an Eastern Motors montage.

But I listened to George Michael's advice, jerked off a policeman in a public restroom, and I still have faith that one day I will wake up dressed in madras on top of some blonde-haired blue eyed rastafarian in a three piece suit, on a yacht in Crete. We will then proceed to have a sea picnic with seamen who condition their seabeards and mermaids who look like Lauren Bush.

Santa-Vishnu, my lord and creator, make this happen before the end of Kwanza and I will sacrifice my loins to whatever human reincarnate I decide you momentarily embody.

What do (straight) men want?

What do straight men want?

Because women want to know. And more than a few gay guys...

I want to know what women want too, so I know what to do.

But I think women want to know what men want, so we'll start from right here.

We women, we make the mistake of assuming a lot of stuff that isn't necessarily true... but what you have to remember is that once a woman thinks it, no matter how absurd or far from the the possibility of truth that thought may be, it takes on its own reality and there is very little anybody can say to discourage us from believing our paranoid version of the truth. So maybe, if we understand the inner workings of the male mind, our version of the truth might be more accurate.

Tell me, straight men, tell all of us, what do you want?

Aside from a fresh batch of pussy, a sandwich, and a gatorade.

But maybe you don't even want that?

Maybe you just want to spoon and talk about your feelings?

Like how you do after football/hockey/baseball/croquet games?

Family.

I love my family.

But I wish I had another one,

so I could bitch about this one to them.

I wish I had a traditional American family, like the ones on TV. Not Teen Mom families; 7th heaven type families. They could moralize me for my brunette-ness, and my pot-smoking pagan ways ( solstice FTW!) and hug me till I christen myself a protestant-mormon.

I'd drink my warm milk, then politely excuse myself, steal their silverware, and run back to my house to set the table.

I'm sorry Duggars, but at the end of the day, my genes belong to Jean... and no, they might not have been the pair I thought I wanted, but they're better than than any pair I could have ever gotten.

Come Fly With Me or Don't Pendejo, see what I care.

Pendejo... I don't want nothing from you but dick-love. Dick, I can get everywhere and Love isn't that hard to conquer, considering my legions of psychologically skewed super-fans. But Dick-love, that's making your dick fall in love with me. Dicks don't have a heart, so I mean, it's hard, even when it's soft, but I taint a quitter.

I want to take you to Europe with me.

That's what I want from you.

Your company in an airplane bathroom, primarily. I could tell you myths about the Parisian cobblestones, and how they were brought, one by one, from Rome.

But I can't afford it. I can't buy anybody anything. So maybe, I can just get you really drunk, blindfold you and hold a picture of the Eiffel tower right up to your face for a couple hours. Don't...you know, don't throw up... but use your imagination. I'll speak to you only in French, in different voices, so that way you get the full city experience. And gently, I will GENTLY, nudge you with a baguette, till your whiskey dick is ready to serve in Napoleon's war ( Sheila goes by a different name overseas).

Look, pendejo, I only call you this because it's all I know, but you have to let me be romantic with you. And all that means is that I give you a one way trip to Xanadu, and you will wake up with ALL your organs present.

Maybe I can't be a sugar momma, like other girls could be, and maybe I'm not blue-blood enough for you, or hip like a prosthetic, but goddamnit, I have a hell of a lot of heart, a little soul, and an overactive imagination...so put on that cowboy hat and let me blow you back to the old west; we can play Oregon Trail on my computer afterwards.

For you. I would do it for you, except for the bad things. I would do those for me, but all the best I would do for you. So everyday can be a birthday, except for somedays, where I will be too tired to get out of bed. I will draw you a picture of a cake regardless of my headaches.

Celebrate Baby, but I hope whatever pussy you get for the night is rotten. (I can't help being a woman.)

Dear Anonymous Critic.

I know EXACTLY who you are,

and it's a pity that you are so handsome

because you are so fucking terrible.

I mean inside you there is something

vile and disgusting. Something

needy and corrupted, yet you've

decided you're fit for worship

because you are so... typically unconventional.

You're a narcissist to compensate

for the years when you were hideous.

You are convinced that your socially awkward

childhood and adolescence has served you for better rather than for worse;

You can only go so far before people start to notice that you're spiritually deranged, despite your vast knowledge of unknown artists.

Collecting the scraps of other people's work in order to legitimize your alienation does not make you creative.

Pearls

You don't offer me pearls.

You string me along as if

I were made of them,

waiting to be broken.

I'm just a girl,

you know.

Don't be cruel;

I won't be beautiful forever.

Paradoxical Bitch.

You know it's funny to me, especially after I plaster pictures of myself frolicking in my underwear, that I should be so illogically chaste.

I won't tell you how long it's been. (But it's been months.) I just can't seem to slut around, so I guess that's why I have to manifest sexy without sex. But man when it comes around.... psh... that's going to be some sexy sex.

You all don't believe me, I wouldn't either, but the truth is stranger than fiction. On the inside, I'm sweet and fat and old and matronly, but I can't help that my outside brings out the devil in men.

More or less the same thing as the real thing.

So I finally have a camera! for a little while anyway... have fun with these... they're pretty much the same as all the other ones, but I just wanted to let you guys know I didn't get fat yet.

And as for you... well, maybe these will convince you to come over more often.

Or well... actually they do the opposite...

Longing.

Your touch

is the only one that

lets my spirit undress.


Longing in absence

Only reminds me

of your embrace.

Richard Cross... Have you been reading this blog the whole time?

Professor.


I didn't even look at the final assignment till several moments ago. And it seems that one of the options is about love. Any kind of love I want, about a book that has a nun who cums when she plays Chopin. I never said a word in class, yet it seems that you are telepathic and have been watching,while talking, my erotic fantasies and memories unfold to pass time during lecture.

For two years, I've been preparing for your final. I'm sure you know now, you blue-eyed white haired and melancholic man, that you've given me some sense of purpose.

As for writing it...

Well, if I didn't have to pass your class, I would just print out some photographs and leave you with an exaggerated wink and a swing of my hips.

The contradiction of Lingerie

I know it's silly,

because you usually throw away the bon-bon wrapper,

but would it taste as sweet if it didn't look so lovely before your mouth?


Perhaps, but I wouldn't think of myself as delicious.

Though I know it only serves to whip a fleeting frenzy,

I like to think there are some men who would admire

the lace and the color before unwrapping their gifts.

Get your own soapbox.

Hey guy.

This is my soapbox. If you want your own, you go and set yourself up an account and rant.

I don't know why you keep reading, considering you have so many issues with my opinions.

Look, while you're at the library, it won't take longer than 5 minutes. Then maybe I can take turns harassing you.

I mean I honestly have nothing better to do but write nonsense, but the thing is that all this nonsense is practice for sensible writing, which is getting me to the finish line.

But you, you have nothing better than to do than contradict a nobody?

My coattails are far too short for you to be trying to ride them.

Wikileaks will lead to zombies.

let me lighten the mood, that last piece was a bit serious.


Wikileaks has pissed off a lot of Heads of Things.


You know one rumor's going to get one head to push the button.


The button, on December 12 2012, will get pushed and so will all the other buttons.


The ones who survive have to eat contaminated flesh.


Zombies are born.


Yeah, you better start stocking up on sawed off shot guns. If not for the zombies, for your dangerous pimp walk.

Because even if there is no zombie end of days, you're still going to want to get your dick wet.

No better way to do that than with a Cholo roll.

Religious Reflections

Every year, I've noticed that my academic studies tend to color my intellectual development, despite my best intentions to avoid any more new epiphanies. It can take months for the scars to heal where they have dug their progressive claws.


For example, last year, I was knee-deep in aesthetic philosophy and Walt Whitman. But I was also seized by depression, so existentialism gave my mind grounds to save itself when the winter began to thaw. Dickinson, I could never relate to, but I've always been fond of a rough rider.


And this year, this blessed year, has been noticeably charged religious inquiry. I never considered myself religious, because of my bohemian upbringing, but both my parents were enthusiastically active in the Catholic church in their youth.

My early interactions with The Church stem from the exquisite beauty of art inspired by piety. It always seemed to me a selfish thing for artists to scoff at the existence of God; even if it turns out he's just a man, inspiration will never cease to be divine. Even the most stubborn atheist must begrudgingly admit to the sublime delicacy of cathedrals, and perhaps even shed a secret tear as the sun sets to illuminate the glass stained with brilliant colors.


The reverends and pastors described to me in present literature are artists commissioned to inspire a notion of spirituality, rather than impose the doctrines of a foreign church in a language strange and unknown.


I am sick of all this nonsense that vilifies any individual associated with The Church simply based on the unfortunate actions of corrupted priests and bishops. For shame, they seem to have thought that the holy ghost would not be able to tell the father what they had done to the sons.


Despite all these miserable men, I am wholly and quietly devoted to my beliefs. Simply put, my God's existence is echoed in the beauty of things. That is not to say the beautiful; there is a sweet and delicate nonsense embodied by existence, and this is what I call beauty. There is a motion in things, even perfectly still, a buzzing, a humming of a strange hymn heard by the mind. I fear I will never find the words to explain this song beyond the confines of my spiritual understanding of it, but words do not define it; it will not be lost so long as I seek to find it.

If one can find the right angle to tilt their perceptual prism, you would see what I see and you will understand why I choose to believe in God.

Fashion Talk: Harem Pants.

Uh...

Really?


Girl, I'ma be totally frank with you:

I don't care if Kim Kardashian has a pair,

you straight up look like you messed yourself.


Not only do you look like you shat yourself,

it gives a generally unappealing illusion of

your pussy lookin' like it's 85 years old,

like low-rider roast beef girl, I'm just being real.


I'd rather have camel toe than give the impression that my pussy hangs like velvet curtains.

What's next? a pleather flare revival with matching pleather bandanna shirts?


Harem pants... terrorists have truly won this time.

Justifying academic failure.

well butter my tits and call me Nancy,

I just blitzkrieged the shit out of my exam.


But let's look at the positives.

British Art is absolutely useless, so at least I have space in my brain for useful information, like celebrity feuds and puns. endless puns.


So for everybody who bombed today, helpless against the rape committed upon your brain by one stupid piece of paper, let's take a moment to remember what really counts in life:

Sex, money, and superior bullshit abilities.

If you're sexy enough to bullshit your way into a fortune, or you have enough of a fortune to bullshit yourself sexy, then it doesn't really matter if the answer was C or not.


So suck it Hogarth. I might not know when you joined the Royal Academy but I'm a hot piece of ass for another decade ( hopefully ) and by that time I'll having all the damn paintings I didn't know for today hanging on my wall.


Except no, I'm won't, because British Art is a fucking joke.

The Secret of Life

You wanna know about it?


1. Distilled Water. Go collect some raindrops. Organic is always better.

2. Locally grown produce. Peel the skin off. It has all the chemicals. Don't eat the skin, unless you want to become immune to pesticides and avoid the inevitable consequences of chemical warfare. But you might also just get cancer. Walk the line bro.

3. Some weird tea called Senna or something, that works wonders for "plumbing". It'll clear you right out, if you want that. You'll have to plan your week around a restroom, but you'll be getting love letters from your colon for years to come.


4. Sea Salt. Mad minerals.


5. ACAI. You can absolve yourself of any murderous health sins with just one berry. Yes, science has proved the shit out of this fact.

Advice ( except for point 5) courtesy of a Haitain witch-doctor, who told Doug, a man who only talks to psychics and geniuses, who told me.


Well.. I sure fooled him.

Doug Inspired Thoughts.

Do you know why I choose to believe in the impossibility of things?

Because perception dictates a lack of awareness of a mind-independent reality. And so, we are manifested in a waking illusion, and though you have no control over the chemical building blocks of matter and society, you have control over what degree of meaning you can infuse into your observations. You can choose to delight over the unexplained, instead of furrowing your brows when an equation falls short of an adequate answer.

Some people go by the driest accounts of science, neglecting to indulge the fantastic with necessary attention. Some people are overly entangled in the wants of their delusions, forgetting their social definition. And others are afraid of their inability to think, and seek only company to make sense of their inconspicuous self.


But remember that the rigid structure of What Is must rely on the fluidity of What Is Not. And What Is Not exists as an entity of negation, so it still remains a possibility, despite the wails of monochromatic rationalists.

skills

Q: Why should we hire you to work for us at this Company, Ms. Frere?

A: Well, how many of your employees can write about blowjobs eloquently?

Q: We'll see you monday.

The Day Begins.

Eyelids yawning awake; close before the light can nag my pupils, so they stay dilated, balmy and sedated.

Hair spread on the cotton threads, like a million auburn strands of cobwebs, turning over to bury my face in the pillow.

Five more minutes. Then ten more minutes. An hour till the light has shifted, no compromise to be met, the day has begun and I am still in bed, the covers are wrapped too tightly to accept any requests of the cold linoleum to tease and tickle my flat feet.

Coffee cups. Which one? It doesn't seem to matter, but if I don't pick one, soon, I'll have to lap it off the dirty floor. The yellow one is dirty. The lamb is missing in pieces; its hospice is a landfill. Disco Disco, it's much too small to dance with. I Love you a Latte will have to do for today.

Hissing steam, then the siren in the teapot screeches, so I turn off the heat and she ceases to speak, retreating to her cast-iron cave in a blistering sea. I'll boil the grounds, watch them filter through the funnel, mahogany then ebony then caramel with cream.


The day has begun, oh the sun is on the very top of this world, but I will stay in bed today, and leave the sting of winter winds to steal unassuming hats off the heads of shivering strangers.

Re linking to a link that links you to pictures

http://owlc.blogspot.com/2010/10/links-to-pictures.html


There. Stop wasting your time with the beauty of words and destroy me with your eyes.


There's only one guy who I actually hope enjoys them... I take them for the possibility of his release.

Porno v OWLC

If you want to get off,

porno wins.


If you want to read a poem,

OWLC wins.


If you want to read a poem,

then use your imagination

to make a mind porno with

a couple of grainy photographs,


You can read "Leaves of Grass"

and watch the corresponding porn,

most likely called "Leaves of Ass"

or " Ass Grass"


But don't fucking complain to me

that I'm not giving you enough to work with.


I give you PLENTY to work with,

y'all just lazy.


You're not getting a cum shot, even if I do get a new computer.

An intimate spring

Nobody, not a soul

can make me crumble

tumble headfirst over

my heels draped on

your shoulders

gasping, I can't

help but call out

as you take hold of me


No other touch has

hypnotized my bones

since the night

I kissed you and

you walked me

a few steps backwards

to bend me over while

I slid the cotton off my

skin without a moment's

hesitation, breathless

feeling you for the first time

in the balmy night '

of early spring though

I thought I would surely

never see you again.

Culture Shock.

I am a stranger in spirit,

confirmed in print

on documents that

mask their insignificance

with authorized ink.


Though tastefully acquainted

with the bounty of this land,

I cannot help but weep at

the monstrosity of magazines,

a harem of dead eyes baring

white teeth wearing coats of Vaseline.


Despite all didactic efforts

to dissolve into the lost

cause of suburbia,

the consequences

of plastic tastes can

force madness upon

the trembling artists

who will not work to

worship profit.

American Son

In you I have found

the shimmering soul

of poets uncorrupted.

You are the child that

America used to love,

now neglected at the

hands of currency that

demands unwavering affection.


Your body sings electric;

Its melody dances on the graves of

currents quietly extinguished,

delighting the ghosts of

forgotten pioneers.

how LOVELY!

What a tremendous afternoon!

spent writing on my favorite thing

the ephemeral chola, my ideal


But really, it was something else

That caressed the bristled fur of nerves


A few words heard and replied,

A sound so lovely, it cannot possibly described.

Come for Tea.

I don't want to hiss

and click my tongue

at you like a frustrated hen,



I've said ( well I haven't SAID it yet but it's been written)

my fragile piece to you, waiting to see its consequence


Come for fun;

For tea to sip

beside me;

Let's keep each

other company

and dose days

with prescription

recipes.


Let's make a real romance out of this.


Because the story is almost over;

You will be the one to end it,

whether you end it well or not.

To The Two

One of you is terrible

cruel and malicious

and I've kept far from

his company for a

long gone while.

The other is different

Though mabye he isn't.

In our many

midnight

rendezvouses.

he lends me his

tenderness

I knew that one was

something unsettling

after I met him and

fell in love to only to be

played with like a ragdoll.

The other hasn't said a thing

But I have always loved him,

Ever since the night I saw him

I hope that I see you again,

But then you...

I'll never speak to again.

To my Adonis ( Don't Die Yet )

Adonis, forgive my mental infidelities,

I was taken by the fantasy of Love,

Though I escaped without regret

chasing after me, for no error

had been tried to be convicted.


Do be kind and give me piece of mind

in scarlet stripes of dawn treading on

the hushed yawn of morning, come

back, come in, and don't think about it.


Live for me, Adnois, do not die

in memory, you are far too lovely

not to see again, sleeping in sin.

Que Sera

So if my instincts were right...



I learned my lesson, and it's a blessing not a curse to be unflinchingly reserved.




I hope you come around, even if you've decided against it.


Don't let it be the last time.

Scatterbrained bitch v. vindictive cunt.

There's a difference between a benign pothead with the organizational skills of a 6 year old child and a cold calculating vindictive cunt.


Here's what a cunt does. A Cunt gets off on other people's pain. A scatterbrained bitch is too confused to even realize what's going on.


You know when like... you pet a cat for a long time? they get really frisky and they'll bite you. But that's not out of hate ( maybe it is. cats can also be little fuzzy sociopaths)


Here's what I'm trying to say: If I hurt your feelings, I didn't mean to. Unless I wrote it down. Then I mean it ( till I don't. I won't tomorrow, for example. Maybe.)

Mah Words.

Sticks and Stones will definitely break your bones,

But my words will give you an aneurysm.


Or an erection.


Or lead you in the wrong direction.


Or curse you with a malediction.


And if they don't,

I've got gravel and a bat.

Why assholes exist

The purpose of having the world littered with assholes, is to emphasize the importance of non-assholes.

Don't let an asshole ruin it for you, boys and girls. Just use that experience as a measuring stick for future characters you'll be sure to meet.

I mean, after my little ordeal ( start to finish in less than three days) I can safely say that I appreciate all my Good 'Uns more than ever before, both the ones I don't fuck and the one I did.

I don't claim to be a saint; Just a narcissist. But I'm not sadistic about it.

Remember though, don't let assholes, whatever form, ruin a group of people for you. They can't help being full of shit, after all.

DICK.

Really?


You Cunt! You dancing sphincter, honestly, REALLY!?

You might as well be punching kittens in the face. Which you probably do. You probably have a bag of kittens that you choke, punch in the face, and toss out the window so they land in a child's playground. And you time it to make sure you ruin Latino birthday parties.


It's easy to do what you do. You dishonest fuck. I'm a young girl without the embittered knowledge of a leathery whore- so I'm the perfect victim for your shitty mind-fucks.


I mean, here I am, all EARNEST, all a-glitter, like a catholic girl after her first communion,


And you just emotionally RAPED me. And you had fun with that. May Jesus strike you down with thunderbolts. Then rape you. The way only an angry Christ would, because he has my best interests at hand. And my best interest is your asshole getting tore up by a 7 foot man in white robes.


Listen: I hope to God the Taliban finds you and cuts your dick off

I hope you wake up in a bathtub with your dick floating on an ice cube

And I hope you come out of the emergency room with a shit bag.

Let's see how easy it is to Don Juan the bitches with a shit bag on your side.



This is the last time, Fucker, that I ever give you the benefit of the doubt.

I mean... I get it, you get kicks out of this thing, and if I had been trying

to marionette your nuts, then I would deserve it.


BUT I WAS ONLY INTENT ON LOVING THROUGH FUCKING

( random: wouldn't it be nice if there was an in between word for making love and fucking? not sex... making fucks? Fuck making? Love fucking? ) )


I was going to be so NICE.


But you! You grinch of all Cocks, you antichristic Cassanova FUCK, you filthy bag of assholery, you just made me furious, fumbling for the right insult.


No, I'm not touching myself with a lotion of my own tears, supplemented by Lifetime ( favorite time of all) not anymore. not THIS year.


I am sincerely hoping that Fate will wrassle up his fucking nuts and beat you over the head with a statutory rape bat.


You insignificant cock-munching, shit-stroking derelict. I hope you get syphilis then you get cured. Then you get the worst kinds of AIDs. Then you get rid of AIDs. Then you get dick cancer. Then you get cured. Than a Samurai kicks your door down and fillets your dick.


There's nothing quite like fury to get the old word-motor going, I'll give you that.

Lady Friends.

Lady Friends!

Y'all my glue, even though I don't see any of you ( curse the distance!)


The way I love my lady friends,

Well I might as well be gay.

Despite my love of Men and Their Parts.


But really, we need to remember that our pain

is what brings us together; every lady, except for the stupidest whores,

shares the burden of loving only the way a woman can love.

Plot twist.

you can't make this stuff up.


One day I'll write the story down

and make millions off a screenplay.


I've never been tickled so pink

by a false assumption.


But words cannot possibly

do justice to my regret

in causing you pain

as great as my own.

Some old pictures I forgot to re-link y'all to.

http://owlc.blogspot.com/2009/06/sexy-without-photog.html


If someone wants to get me a new computer... with a working camera, I've been dying to do one of these little series again. It definitely gives me something to do when I can't sleep, and when I'm old, I'll have something to look back on.


Everybody should do it!


But... you know, I'm an Erotic GODDESS ( in a dream, someone had said this to me, so it's probably true) so yours might not be as erotic as mine... but regardless, go get sexy.

Julian Assange: The Lord of the Nerds.

First off, anybody who gets Hillary Clinton's panties in a twist is a winner. I find that woman deplorable and it pains me to have to call her a women when she's very clearly a calculating and overly pompous pant-suit.


Second off, I went on wikileaks to see if I might dig up some dirt to make mud out of in watery conversation, but I didn't understand anything. I'm sure it's super important.


Thirdly, Julian Assange is the epitome of BAMF, and nobody can wear a shock of white hair like he can. I think that all nerds should try to amount to the cyber-outlaw hacker cowboy persona of Julian Assange.

It would guarantee a constant flow of sex for you, my lovely nerds. I didn't say it would make you a skilled master of the fuck, but you'd have techie groupies following you everywhere.


Now the point is that the nerds need a serious role model. Please don't assassinate him, world governments, or else the nerds of the world will revolt, and not only will important things be leaked, but photo-shopped pictures of world leaders fellatiating each other would undoubtedly cause tension and jealousy between them which would ultimately lead to a nuclear blitzkrieg which would then usher us in to the age of the Zombie Apocalypse.


In short, if you kill Julian Assange, you are indirectly promoting the rise of the Zombies.

Let's make sure 2012 isn't the year we carry off sawed off shot guns to shoot our infected neighbors, huh?

Be nice to me, Blondie.

If you're dumping your cock in everything that moves, you should tell me Blondie.

I did kind of peg you for a selective type, but I'm not going to hold it against you if it turns out that you love wetting your dick on whore-mats. It would be a shame, because that makes you pretty fucking filthy, in a dirty laundry kind of way.


Be nice. I mean... just say, " Camille, you really are just an arbitrary cumrag, whenever is convenient, but you're my favorite."


Then I can say, " Okay ----, thank you for smoking my weed. Now get the fuck out of here."


Because if you don't EXPLICITLY state this to me, Blondie, I'm going to keep on using my imagination on you. I'm going to keep on imagining things. But I can't do this with ease if I keep suspecting that you're a pussy philanderer.



I'm not asking for a boat Blondie, just clarification.