phetish: (Default)
It's been a wild year.
If we listed the litany of Job-esque sufferings we endured, we could compare scars until Spring.
Sometimes, Fate tests our will, but this year, he was a bully in a cosmic game of dodgeball.

At first, like most of you, I thought it was just me.
I strive to live an interesting story, but I was battered by more misfortune in the past twelve months than I have experienced over the past twelve years.

But that can't be true, can it? That seems so dramatic, so unrealistic.
Well, Samantha, I don't remember an ER doctor referring to you as "spectacular," before.
I don't remember any of the things we endured this year ever happening before, and they seemed to happen in a ceaseless, unforgiving, almost every-day rhythm.
Never experienced the nightmare of ___? Well, step right up, kid.

Worse, unfortunate events seemed to strike all of us.
I watched everyone suffer in unprecedented amounts and in new and terrible ways. I felt powerless, as if the city that we love was beset by the army of some unseen adversary. Towers toppled and familiar things vanished overnight, never to be restored. Nothing and no one was safe.

By the end of the year, we were literally asking the Powers That Be to stop killing our idols.
In my twenty years on the internet, I don't remember that happening ever before.

This cosmic battering shook people to their cores, but there is a silver lining.
People that I remembered to be great heroes had become soft and preoccupied with emotional dalliances. Writers had stopped writing. Artists had stopped creating. The voice of my community had become a whisper.

That is, until this year laid siege to their home.
As if in defiance, voices that had grown meek became strong again.
As if to spite the oppressor, my friends returned to their creative spirits.
Fires that had once illuminated my night, that had wearied and grown dim, responded to the cosmos' attempt to snuff them out by burning brighter than ever before.
People who decided that they had lost too much dug their heels into the sand and stood as their strongest, best, and truest selves.

I am witness to a creative resurgence that thrills me beyond words.
It is unfortunate that it took such a threat to shake us to our feet, but if I am grateful for anything, I am grateful that, in the wake of this terrible year, the world is beginning to make sense to me again as it has not in a very long time.

I wish for you love and happiness, but most of all, I wish for you to be inspired.
If it is the fire that forges us to greatness, then so be it.
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In the summer of 2009, I looked around my Pottery Barn house and decided to burn it down.
I was newly single for the first time since I'd discovered boys.
I had more money than I could spend. I was moving to a new place. It was a good time to be Samantha.

Rock Dude's headshot was my desktop background.
This time, I was going to talk to him, no matter what.
I spent days pacing in front of my monitor, rehearsing my speech.
"Hi, I'm Samantha. I'm really awesome and a little eccentric. I teach people to fuck and...
"Hi, I'm Sam. Is that a guy's name? Sometimes I do 'guy things.' I like video games - I was a moderator on Gamewinners, action movies - oh! I broke into prison last year and...Damn it.
"Hi. We met in high school. You may remember me. You were playing local gigs. I was Frank N. Furter. And Yvette. And Mitzi Del Bra. And we did burlesque. I can't go into CVS anywhere in the county without being recognized. And yet I have a crush on you. WANT ME.
"You know those people who streak at sports events to get noticed? I danced in my underpants in front of thousands of people. You're like the only dude in the state that didn't come to my shows, and I did them hoping you would notice me. That sounds great, Samantha. Is 'obsession' the new black?
"Hi. I'm Samantha. I'm into extreme sports and I use my skills to contribute to national rescue programs. Because that's sexy. I'm not wearing any panties. Come and fuck me into this dirt.
"Hi. I'm Sami. Some people call me Domina. You're a musician, I'm a dominatrix! We both have to know what people want, right? AUGH.
"You're a musician? I'm a musician! Well, not actively, but I play like, everything. My favorite instrument is the flute...which I learned to play from your childhood bully. Also, I may have made out with said bully, but I was really mad because it was New Year's Eve and my date decided he was gay at like eleven-fifty-fucking-nine. Oh my god just STOP TALKING.
"In my defense, who gets bullied by a dude who plays the flute? That's like the US getting beaten up by France. What, did he beat you about the head with his chromed baguette?
"Say something nice. I love...your hair. My favorite lesbian porn star has that hair and I have such a crush...
"Hi. I'm Samantha. I, uh. I really like your music. I came to see you when my husband started filleting his dick and...hiring midget hookers. Escorts? Do they like to be called 'Little Escorts?'
"Oh, yeah. I was married. To a kinky porn star with a 10"+ penis that he could suck himself, but then he doused himself in monkey piss and became a woman and I killed his mom with Facebook. References? Of course I have references.
"I may have spent the last few years tattooing dicks on the chests of suitors who were inferior to the guy I really wanted. Which is you. I promise that is so much less creepy than it sounds.
"Yes, I always wear my clothes this tight. Sexy, right? I used to be into urban exploration and this one time we broke into a bank to set...nevermind.
"Hi. I think you're really beautiful and I'm really hot. I've got like a billion photos and I run this community where people perform sex acts by request. Like this one time, everybody put Shasta bottles in a very uncomfortable place to save me from role-playing Precious from Silence of the Lambs. Precious is the dog. Do you like dogs? I'm not much of a dog person after Linda and the German Shepherd.
"That? That's a picture of me flying through the air on an armchair at a horror convention. It was the VIP after-party and there was a lot of absinthe.
"Hi. I like cats. Do you like cats? Yes, I'm single.
"Hi, I'm Samantha. There's this rumor going around that I'm a size queen, but it's only a rumor that came out of the sexual competitions we used to host.
"HEY. I'm AWESOME. I'm so fucking smart and talented and cultured and financially secure and I can pull the moon down from the fucking sky. LOVE ME."
"You know what, Rock Dude? I'm just going to show up and be so fucking gorgeous that you wouldn't even notice if I sold my voice to Ursula for free rides on your dick! Once you're addicted to this body like fucking cocaine, then I will shower you in a bukkake storm of Awesome Samantha and it will be too late for you to run screaming. You'll be my rock-and-roll slave boy."

At that moment, my friend bolted through my house, literally on fire.
"Stop fucking and stomp him out before he sets the couch on fire!" I yelled to the next room.
I sighed. This was doomed to fail. My world was way too wild for that little bunny of a man.
"I MEAN IT! That's a $12,000 couch!"
But this time, I was going to try.

He is my one enduring obsession and I not-so-quietly live with it by serial-dating fuckboys with similar physical attributes, hobbies, and personality traits.
Cheap knock-offs will never satisfy you, but the consequences make for hilarious stories.
My friends teased me about my infatuations that I burned through like packs of cigarettes.
Each was perfect. Until they weren't. Then, I wanted to carve out their imperfect eyes. Alas, I had to settle for my tattoo artist drawing dicks on their chests. That's still my favorite coffee table book, over "Glamourpuss: The Enchanting World of Kitty Wigs," "Deviant Desires," and "The Guide To Getting It On," which will live on my table as long as I receive buttsex inquiries.

Look. Since you learned to touch yourself, you've known exactly what you want.
I write, so I wrote my male lead...with an elaborate backstory, because mental masturbation is the artist's heroin.
Writers fanfiction the shit out of people for good or evil and no one is the wiser. Because role-playing your obsession always helps you get over it.
Just ask Norman Bates.

I was proud of my masturbatory Frankenstein perfect male lead.
Then, Fate the Sadist decided that it was my turn on the wheel.
I met my storybook lead as a real in-the-flesh person. No, really.
He looked it. He walked it. He talked it. His birthday was one day off my story hero. His home address was within one mile. It was creepy as fuck.

That's the first thing you want to do as a high-school freshman in a new town.
"HEY, HOT UPPERCLASSMAN! I've been writing you for my entire life. Look at this creepy evidence that I am either psychic or have been stalking you since I learned to walk. Do you want to making fuck, now?"

No, I couldn't say anything. But I could make a scene like a nuclear weapon with tits.
I was Holli Would. I cosplayed the cheerleader. I wore the tight red dress. I was Frank N. Furter, dancing in my sexy, lacy, string-underpants in front of the entire school and my gay Spanish teacher.
He thought I was hard to get. Out of his league. A stone fox. Whatever.
If I'd seen more movies, I might have just made him a mix-tape.

I was crushed. So I walked. There was no "not insane" explanation and I couldn't hide it. I'd wallpapered every available surface in my drawings. I was a walking, talking shrine to the god of fuck...who just happened to go to my school. Where is my teen sitcom, NBC?!
That's funny if you know that I bailed on writing a sitcom for NBC.

I moved on with my life, content with the knowledge that wonders existed in the world.
Let's go with that.
Let's pretend I wasn't terribly haunted, drunk on the torment until it turned me into a sadomasochistic juggernaut in the sexual edgeplay community.

I listen to one band almost exclusively. Apparently, "obsession" is my thing.
Their music is the soundtrack to my life. When I fell in love. When my brother died. When I loved my friends. When they died. When I was happy. When I was scared. The music was always with me.

Then, because Fate is a sadistic asshole...
The storybook-hero-made-flesh joined the fucking band.
No connection whatsoever between Where We Grew Up and This Band Over Here, and yet, Love Finds A Way (To Fuck You).
The one man I was desperately pretending did not exist (and failing hilariously) joined the fucking group I was bound to fucking experience every fucking day.
Now His voice was with me, always. Every day on the train. Every sunset. Every night, after the party. Every time I went jogging. Every time I felt something and wanted to resonate with a song.

Thank you, God. Constantly overexposing me to the one temptation I was trying to avoid was very helpful and did not drive me absolutely batshit insane. I started this entry talking to my desktop.

Music is emotional therapy and I developed a Pavlovian response that endures to this day.
His music is my joy bell; I cannot stay sad or angry.
It's like when WHAM! comes on the radio and you find yourself singing and dancing like a giddy idiot before you regain control of yourself and roll up the windows in shame.
You can't fight feel-good music. We are all powerless to this irresistible human impulse.
Mine is just specifically tuned to one person, because he inherited my favorite band.

I had it so bad that it was going to kill me if I did not do something.

Do fuckboys call you intimidating?
Fuckboys always call me intimidating.
I don't even know what the fuck that means.
I'm 5'6" and I can barely move a couch.
Am I funny? Funny like a clown?
Do I have a magic vagina? Is it because I know enough about sex to suggest lubricant?
I know it's not because I'm famous. Warren Ellis has my first fisting experience on his blog and you don't see me pissing all over my fingers.

Let's assume I am intimidating to casual acquaintances because they're crazy.
What happens when I say, "Hi, dude. You've been my definition of perfect since I could comprehend what that meant. My connection to you borders on supernatural. Also, I love your music and have listened to your songs constantly for years. I've experienced them so often and so deeply that hearing your voice or hearing you play instantly brings me to an almost meditative state of peace and happiness.
"Oh, and don't look behind the curtain, because viewing me as a two-dimensional fangirl is sufficiently intimidating without the richness of my identity coming down upon you like an avalanche. I am a woman, a lover, an experience that, for you, will redefine the words."

He'd say, "That's nice, thank you."
I'd lose my hero, my muse, and my shit.
I'd be like Wile E. Coyote if the Roadrunner suddenly dropped dead.

No thanks. I'll be awesome up on this stage and be content to let him admire me from a distance.
Except I wasn't content. It drove me fucking nuts. It was libido cocaine.
I chased anything that helped me quiet the beast caged in my ribs that never stopped trying to claw its way out.

I learned to talk dirty.
It granted me confidence and command in conversation that I hadn't had, before.
It was like learning how to talk to dogs, so that every strange dog suddenly obeyed your command.
If I could bring all the scary people in my life to their knees, surely I could control one man.

I created a Facebook profile as a vanilla front so he wouldn't be eaten alive by my friends.
Talking to him was like dismantling a bomb attached to the holy grail. One wrong move and it's gone forever.
Red wire, blue wire...wait, is that a switch?

He didn't answer my fake vanilla profile.
He pounced on my real social media profiles.
He thought I was awesome and, now that I'd finally opened the door, he wanted to know every last, scandalous detail.

Yeah, sure you do. Everybody wants it all. Bravado is ignorance's bedfellow.
Everybody wants the biggest dick in the house until they discover that it belongs to a donkey and now they're the star of the show.

He'd invoked me and my people in my temple.
The train couldn't be stopped, now. I could only make popcorn and watch the wreck.
I walked him through our world. Waited for him to tremble and bolt like a little baby deer.
He wanted more. Like he was really into it. Like he'd just discovered his fetish.
Nobody's into it, except our tribe, White Man From Town.
It was like he was mocking me.

I narrowed my eyes and set fire to the sky to light the full breadth and scope of my power, wisdom, and experience. If you're going to be burned at the stake, burn the whole city to the ground.
You know I'm serious now, because this part is written in Serious Voice.
In my hubris, I had given more of myself than I had intended, trying to shock him into revealing that he was a coward, because that is what I feared and believed to be true.

I showed him stuff I wouldn't show a priest for fear the winged gestapo would smite me then and there.
He devoured it all and wanted more. He wanted to experience it with me.
He met my eyes with a smile and said, "This is awesome. Why are we still standing here?"

I was pissed. Everyone told me my gut instinct was wrong and he was a vanilla sprite.
Like I was fucking Lilith and I'd devour him in the first five minutes with my magic monster vagina.
It is magical. Not monstrous. Maybe a little fat.
Everybody laughed that I was going to destroy him.
That's how it ended for them, after all.

All those YEARS I had spent in the dark. I was the dark-humored, rule-breaking, eccentric sexual deviant Beast watching the beauty from the shadows. That was enough, even though it never was, because it was all that I had.
Beauty never married. Never had anything serious. Just pranced around my castle indulging his obsessive-compulsive need to clean and organize.
Finally, I got the stones to talk to Beauty and he was all "Nah, sweets. Beasts are my fetish!"

We were married on the stage of the next concert of my favorite band.

That lesson isn't always easy to remember.
It's one of the reasons I started writing again, and one of the reasons I wrote this, first.
Don't let the world scare you into hiding in the darkness.
The people who would love you are waiting for you to shine.
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Have you ever used a sex doll?
I haven't, because it's cheaper to use a popsicle stick and some tape.
But I've been close; my former roommates fucked my Love Ewe to death and then stashed the corpse under the futon. Some people just can't have nice things.

When you're not a big, square slice of Bimbo Milquetoast, then vanilla people - even the hot ones - are like sex dolls.
They look at you all wide-eyed and terrified, like Bambi.

Maybe more "Shot in the Mouth Bambi" than intended.

You've got to be a serious pervert if you think ignorance is sexy.
Like stereotypical feral hillbillies fascinated that you can read and magically draw water from the shiny stick with the knobs.
Ain't nobody got time to share a life with people who don't know how to live.

As a high-school freshman, I had a hard-on for Rock Dude that could have severed steel beams.
It was the Hanzo sword of hard-ons. But, Rock Dude was too vanilla for my world.
Just when I thought, "He can be my little puppy and I will protect him," my immediate family attempted to beat my classmate to death and we fled the Orlando.
Because that's what my family needed to rein in the batshit. Florida.
We moved there just in time for the "Rapture" event where Jesus came to earth in a spaceship.

Not joking, not even a bit.

Eventually, the charges were dropped and we came back to New Jersey.
We started a theater troupe and did floor shows of Clue, Priscilla: Queen of the Desert, and Rocky Horror. I loved the floor shows, but if we could have written more than 30 minutes of burlesque each week, the floor shows would not have been necessary.

My immediate family made me take them to get their nipples pierced.
I told my foreplay-buddy that I was going for a nipple piercing and that I needed moral support.
It wasn't a lie.
He made me go clubbing with him as an apology.
At the club, I saw this tall, athletic blonde guy grinding on the floor with ten chicks all over him. Looked like freaking Caligula.
I said to my foreplay-buddy, "You see that guy? He has the biggest dick in the club. You know what that makes him? My new best friend."
Ubercock became my first husband ("Michael" in the maid story).
He loved music and we'd go to shows all the time.
I don't really like concerts, but he did porn with me, so I compromised.

One band was my favorite. I played their songs over and over again until I hated music.
Then the bassist quit.
I was crushed. No amount of "other bands" would replace the one I wanted to see.
Husband and I bought a house. He got into midget prostitutes and filleting his dick.
"Reckless and potentially mortal bodily harm" is one of my limits.
So, we drifted apart. I was so depressed.
Then, my favorite band got a new bassist. That was something to be happy about.
Went to the show.
Rock Dude, from my high school, is the new bassist in my favorite band in the world.

Okay. It's been roughly ten years since I've approached this guy. You can do this, Samantha.
"Hi, I wanted to date you in high school but my parents were homicidal maniacs. Now I'm all grown up and normal. I'm so glad the band is playing again because my porn-star husband is filleting his dick while a gay midget rams a chair leg into his ass and I've been really lonely and depressed. Would you like coffee?"

That is literally what went through my head as I attempted to approach him and strike up conversation.
"Maybe I can tell him about my friends," I thought.

Then I looked at the Bosch painting that is my social network and realized that my ability to fake a "normal" lifestyle vanished long before I could stop pretending I was still a virgin.

I didn't say a word. I stared, longingly, and returned to the denizens of my bordello life.
phetish: (Default)
I'm a racecar. I am sexy, loud, fast, and graceful, but I have a two-inch ground clearance. If my life depended upon my ability to jump, you would be looking at a purged Livejournal account.

I don't know what that's about. My ancestors must have been the basis for those video game characters that can walk for 170 hours but can't climb over a log.

We find our heroine as a high school freshman in a new town. It's Humiliation Gym Class.
If you're old like me, then you recall the National Fitness Requirement.
You had to run a mile, do so many pull-ups, jump so many hurdles.
Yes, I said jump hurdles.
I stumbled over two hurdles like a deer launching itself over suburban fencing.
Then, I took out the entire third hurdle apparatus like a psychotic giraffe crashing through burning scaffolding.

As the gym teacher ran to examine me, I leapt from the rubble...and collapsed. My ankle wouldn't hold me.
"Oh god, no," I said, looking at my creepy touchy teacher in real terror of being fondled to death.
"I'll carry you!" he said.
"I'm fine!" I argued. Up. Fall.
"No, really!" Up. Fall.
Shock, pain, and panic released adrenaline. I was in full-on Friday the 13th camp counselor mode, frantically dragging myself across the gymnasium floor like I was about to get hacked by a machete. My gym-teaching homicidal maniac plodded after me.

My girlfriend broke line formation and rushed to my side, steadying me on my remaining ankle.
"She needs to go to the nurse's office. I'll take her," said Jason Voorhees the Gym Pedo.
"I'll take her," my friend protested.
"You leave and you'll get detention," he ordered.
She sneered and proceeded to walk me to the nurse's office. I stopped her at the gymnasium door.
"Don't. You'll get stuck with him all afternoon. I'll be fine. I just need a minute. Get back to class."
She left me in the doorway and I braced myself to walk down the hall.

I tested my ankle. It hurt. A lot. But I could feel it, and that was something.
If I could feel it, I could stand on it. Right? RIGHT?!
Considering the alternative, I was going to walk until I had to crawl. Then I would have crawled until I found someone significantly less creepy to carry me.

This, by the way, is why I was unafraid to walk myself into the hospital with a broken foot in 2006.

I held my head high, threw my shoulders back, pulled my stomach in, held my breath, clenched my teeth, and walked down the hallway like I was the Queen of Earth walking the Green Mile.
It felt like I had a knife attached to a taser sticking in the bottom of my right foot.
"Pain is in the mind," I said, "You're not going to die. Walk."

"At least I'm alone and no one can see me," I thought, steeling my gaze to avoid ruining my make-up as the pain leaked out my eyes.

The upper-classman I'd had a crush on all year turned the corner.

"Really, God?" I snarled under my breath.
I was vibrating with pain. I could hear my heart beating. The perimeter of my vision was darkening. I bolstered myself and walked like a runway model, head high and hips swaying.
You only get one chance to make a first impression.

I think he said "Hi."
I couldn't hear anything over the nonstop "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!" of my internal monologue.
I walked past him and didn't look back.
Didn't even pause.
Reminded myself that Marilyn Monroe developed her signature walk after a shoe broke.
That's almost like a busted ankle, right? Right? Sure it is.
I played it cool until I turned the corner and collapsed.

Rock Dude remembers this moment, that I was this cold, hard-to-get incredibly hot girl with a mane and red lips and a walk that he remembers to this day.

Moral of the chapter? It doesn't matter that the worst possible thing always happens. The results still count. Also, if you push yourself when you are young, it will still hurt when you are old.
phetish: (Bitch Please)
Which is the better analogy: Have I been released from prison or broken out of the shipping container?

Good lord, there is shit everywhere. I write this parked on a seven-foot industrial-foam sex bench. Six-and-a-half feet of this fuck slab is buried in the snowstorm of a confused life; files, projects, and crap with no home.

"Sex bench." It's a foam block covered in vinyl. Someone picked their daughter up from gymnastics, saw the big blocks, and said, "Heeeeeeey..."
Now, it's $300. If I had a dollar for every household or industrial item repurposed, repackaged, and resold as a "high end adult novelty," I could retire. But I digress.

Today, I am discovering that Zombie Sam feels she needs a lifetime supply of bagged hotel coffee packs for the imminent uprising.
Seriously, I could make a coffee table book where I pin them like butterflies.
"Now grinds through the coffee pot, these are the souvenirs of my one-night stands."

My electronic filing system looks like a hostel in Amsterdam. Boobs, errant children, pictures of wine, piles of disorganized (but awesome) crap. Files have exploded in size while technology has plummeted in price. Photographs are five times the size and videos are commonplace. Personal Media took over my computer like urban sprawl, and I'm wondering if I can upload it all to Google and Youtube like Earth sending the humans to Mars.

But I need a secretary to organize my files and I just don't feel right doing that to another living being.

"I don't recognize these video files."
"Oh god, I hope they aren't porn."
"Maybe I can play them discreetly while wearing headphones and quickly minimize them before anybody sees them."
"It's...a video of me singing and dancing to Mickey Mouse Clubhouse's 'Hot Dog Dance.'"
"...This would have been less embarrassing if it were porn."
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Esquire once named Jeremy Piven "the best-dressed man in Hollywood."
He said he lets the shopgirls buy his clothes.

That always stayed with me. I am not going to tell the woodchopper how to chop wood.
What do I know about wood? If I had the chops, I wouldn't have to rent them.

And there is a big, old, gothopotamus Butt, here...
That trust comes with the caveat that they are working in your interest.
Asking the eyeglass receptionist for suggestions is not the same thing as a salesperson trying to convince you that you need a suit.

Do you need a suit?
Maybe. Maybe not.
Is YOUR personal interest that person's primary interest?
Or is it money? Or their personal gain? There are virtually limitless primary interests that are not in YOUR self-interest...Which isn't to say that your self-interest can't be a close second. It is complicated.

I am glad you've stayed with me through the foreplay.

Writing on a daily basis changes the way you think and process ideas.
I empty my mind onto the page, like emptying a suitcase stuffed after I woke up late for my flight.
Of course I have a vague idea of what's in the suitcase. I packed these outfits and...oh, is that a washcloth? Did I steal a washcloth? Oh, right; I bought a magnet. There's that card from that restaurant. I brought all these mini-toiletries and forgot I had them. Oh my god. Did you keep the bagged coffee prep items? Like what, you're going to be stranded in the desert and need powdered creamer?

You forget. You cannot keep track of it all. When you dump your mind onto the page, you rediscover all the pieces and you can organize them in a way that makes sense to you.

That is the most important part of my day-to-day that I lost when I lost Livejournal.
My brain became something of a constantly-overstuffed purse.
I forgot the details, the minutia, the very things that make us who we are. I forgot the funny things I said. I forgot the little things that pissed me off and moved me. Life became a series of obligations - rent, food-shopping, and laundry. As the months wore on, the grey haze slipped to an emotional coma. I don't remember the most important thing on my mind on November 21st. On October 21st. On September 21st. I don't remember. For all intents and purposes, it is lost, forever.

That is not the end. Oh no. Hell is a shit cake with many layers.
Now, you wander the world like a blind man. You are not yourself. You do not recognize yourself. You do not feel like yourself, do not recognize your face in the mirror, do not sing the same music in your head, your body is alien, the world is different.
Because you altered the way you processed information and then cut off that process. However unintentionally, you disengaged your senses.

"What's wrong with you?" people ask, observing that something is wrong but lacking the wisdom to comprehend the problem.
I've always equated this to the way people understand "a bad musical note" or "bad grammar," with no real technical comprehension. It just "feels" wrong and usually leads to a series of uninformed and absurd hypotheses. I imagine this is how the Greeks ended up with "all the gods live up there on that hill. Yeah, 1 Olympus Avenue."
Did you see what I did there? :)

You don't know what's wrong. Your brain is too constipated to think.
Go ahead. Say the "c" word. Crazy? Or is Asperger's the new "Crazy Bitch?"

You were not crazy, then. You are not crazy, now. Your whole blogging social network did not simultaneously "go crazy" because of some global change in the water.

I am not saying mental problems do not exist.
I am saying that "we are hopelessly fucked" is not an answer.
I am saying that I used to pass out copies of Rilke's "Letters to a Young Poet," and in that, Rilke told a young man that, in the quietude of his night, he should ask himself what he would die if he could not do, and if that thing is "writing," then be a writer, but if it is "painting," then be a painter (et cetera).
We all said "writing" was the thing that we would die if we were forced to live without it.
Then we stopped writing...and did not credit an overall personal deterioration to sacrificing the one thing we said we could not live without - and that's what surprises me.

Letting a person who does not understand "what writing is to a writer" diagnose "a writer who is not writing" with "something is wrong with them" is like letting a man tell a person who keeps a Great Dane in a studio apartment that "something is wrong with his dog."
The dog doesn't need training or medication. The dog needs to be allowed to be a goddamned Great Dane.

You don't have to be adaptable to every environment. Some environments can be hostile and unsupportive. You do have to seek out what works for you and, if a place or an activity is not working toward your self-interest, then move.
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Zales customer service chat has the unique characteristic of screen-sharing.

These poor people. Well, I am nothing if not generous. :)

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phetish: (Default)
If it were not for Amazon, there would be no such thing as Christmas in the Coals household.

It may have been a mistake to torment my UPS delivery driver by repeatedly ordering 240 lbs. of cat litter. He finds his revenge by hiding my packages like the Easter Bunny. I suppose I deserve that, and maybe more.
Or, he could be mistaking one of my very warm animal onesies for a bunny suit.
Maybe he thinks this is the way of our fuzzy people.

I am grateful the presents are arriving, and not a moment too soon.
Christmas is this weekend and all I have under the tree are cookies for the aides in Max's life.

His big present arrived, today.
It's not a toy; he has dozens of those. Toys, games, tablets, entertainment galore.
I bought him a pressure vest from Abilitations, designed to help children with sensory overload to focus. It's the same concept as Temple Grandin's invention to calm cattle.
He wears a vest in school and accomplishes tasks I have never seen while wearing it.

Six months ago, he could not say his own name. Now, when he walks up behind me and says, "Today is Tuesday," a chill goes up my spine because I fear that there is suddenly a (talking) stranger or, worse, a ghost in the house. He is developing so quickly that I can barely keep up.

My parents, I am upgrading their houses to "smart homes," to streamline simple tasks and provide additional (if not satellite ("me") support). Technology is one of the few areas where my skill surpasses theirs and I can be of great assistance.

Everyone else is so easy. Wants are always easy to sate. Fulfilling needs is the art.
phetish: (Default)
It has been eight years and six days since I became a dominatrix.
I want to buy myself a present, but I have built an entire dungeon.
What do you get the self that has everything?
I suppose I could use a new whip. You can never have too many whips or shoes.

Walgreens just had a sale on the original Hitachi wands, the #1 woman's toy since the 1970's.
I am in for two.
All I can think about are those pin-jugglers.
Forgive me the lack of bowling pins. This guy looks much cooler than the creepy old grease-painted clown I had seen in my mind.

You thought I owned a Hitachi?
I love saying it. It's like the Masamune. The Hanzo Sword. The Hitachi Magic Wand.
I had purchased a similar nameless knock-off (from Radio Shack) when I was too young to know about quality, and that has sufficed. I haven't met anyone who would recognize the Hitachi for what it is. I am, albeit, a little embarrassed of my youthful ignorance.

But my poor little toy (and it is, distinctly, a non-magical toy) is beginning to wear down, probably due to the countless abuses of friends cranking it against their genitals like a mortar and pestle. Savages.
I choose to blame it on my girlfriends and refuse to fathom the possibility that some errant man has ground it against his ass like he was performing a sonogram from the vantage point of his butthole. Dear God, why did you give men their g-spot in their ass? Why?

You always hear the man's side. How unfortunate it is, that he has to play with his ass.
You never hear it from the woman's side. Imagine if your partner "borrowed" your favorite toy...
...and stuck it in their butt. Like a mule.
I mean, that is an unfathomable reality to most men. They have no need to actively fear thieves "borrowing" a treasured object, thrusting it up their butt, and then returning it - "clean."
That is what it is to be a woman. To live with a disobedient man.

So, I bought two. One for myself and one stick to throw in the yard for the dogs.
Is that enough?
If you could reward yourself, what would you give?
Time? Energy? An organized home? A completed list of tasks? A series of soul-searing orgasms?
I think we all want the same thing.
A deeper, truer sense of self.
The gift to yourself is whatever puts you in touch with yourself.

For me, it is something as superficial and sensual as sex and beauty.
It reminds that this meat machine of mine needs attention and maintenance.
It reminds me not to eat junk food or skip on sleep. It reminds me not to put myself last.
To go that extra mile, even when I am tired and do not feel like shaving my legs.
Like moisturizing my body. Like doing something about my nethers so that it does not look like I am smuggling kittens in my panties. Like doing something with this goddamn medusa hair.

The world and its people can be beautiful, or they can be unkind.
It is easier to weather the unkind when you are confident because you did the work.
Do whatever it is that makes you feel awesome.
If it is a thing or an act. Give it to yourself. For me?
That's what I want for my birthday.
phetish: (Default)
I give. I give up. You win, god. I'm just going to get "Live To Fuck" across my lower back and call it a fucking day.

For the past twenty-three years, I've been trying to hide my sexuality.
I've become better and better at it over the years...but my appetite has correspondingly increased. So I'm plagued with snafus.

Like the time my mother found ejaculate all over the glass door of the entertainment center. Somehow I missed that...until I heard my mother's shrieking voice and saw her picking at the glass door, "Is that come?!"
Very uncool, culprit. Very uncool.

And the time my former housekeeper found our flogger and I convinced her it was a cat toy. My poor cat was terribly confused when she proceeded to spank him with it. "Naughty kitty! Who's a naughty kitty?"

And the time my father overheard Michael's conversation at his uppity little gala and asked me what a money shot was. Without missing a beat, I replied, "It's like the conversation you never want to have with your father, only it lands all over your chest."

Or the time my boss told me that he doesn't wear underwear, and I asked how he doesn't sit on his dick all the time. In front of our entire department, he said that's only a problem for men with huge cocks, "like Michael."

Or the time my former boss overheard us talking about oral sex and told me that his brother had plastic surgery on his testicles and he was considering the same thing.

You know, I don't know why it happens. People with whom I have no sexual relationship whatsoever somehow drag me into their sex lives. I was trading sex jokes with an Austrian rabbi last Sunday. He kept rubbing my knee, too, as if to confirm that I wasn't wearing underwear and had recently had sex in the vehicle down the street.

Despite the apparently impossible dream of hiding my sexuality, I still try to appear (to an ever-shrinking group of people) to be a normal (if not asexual) human being.
So I can keep unwitting contact with unwanted bodily fluids to a minimum.
Trust me, you don't want certain people (waiter, gynecologist, dry cleaner, contractor) associating you with sex.

Every Thursday, my housekeeper cleans my house. A "housekeeper," as "a person alone with your bed and your toys for several hours per week," should be very near the top of the list of asexual creatures in your life.
I don't want her knowing I own batteries, because if I were her, I would take advantage of the local resources and fuck like an animal in that house. And I'd bring friends.

So, every Wednesday, I go into cleaning-panic mode, packing away everything I don't want her to see. I jam it into hard-to-reach drawers or leave heavy shit sitting on top of it.

But Christ that's hard. I mean, there's so much to hide. So, for the past three months, I've been going home on lunch to finish the job (meaning, I clean what I can and throw the rest into the storage closet and spread blankets over it). She doesn't come until 3pm, anyway.

This past week was particularly bad. You know I've been fucking like a beast five, six, eight times a day, and you also know that Michael was raising the bookshelves. So, I had to empty them. The shit was all over the house. So I re-stocked the bookshelves but left everything else to my lunch hour. Worst case scenario, I thought I'd shovel, drag, and throw it all into the workout room and sort through it over the weekend.

Imagine my surprise when I stopped home at 12:30pm and found the deadbolt locked. It wasn't that way when I left this morning.

"Oh no," I said aloud in the hall. Turning the key, I opened the door to my spotless house. "FUCK!" I screamed.

My mind raced to remember what it looked like when I left that morning.
The video camera was still on the tripod. There were torn panties and lingerie all over the floor. There were lubricant handprints all over the walls. There was come on the ceiling. There were sex toys in the sink.
There were sex books all over the house. There were ropes and handcuffs still resting under the mattress. There were stiffened towels all over the house. There were bottles of lubricant everywhere. There were half-empty bottles of alcohol and empty bottles of whipped cream on the kitchen counter, resting on an ass-shaped syrup print. There were ripped pillows and sheets all over the bedroom. There were scarves still tied to the bookshelves. There was candlewax and latex embedded into the floor. There was a pile of vinyl and studs next to it, remnants of my dominatrix outfit.

There were similar piles everywhere. Schoolgirl. Corporate woman. Geisha. You name it. Panties were nowhere to be found. Probably hanging on some light fixture. There were vibrators everywhere, of all shapes, colors, and sizes. Living room, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom.
Everywhere. Paintings were crooked. Mirrors were splattered with bodily fluids. There were journals of erotica all over the dining room table...stained with hand-prints and tit-prints and ass-prints from our fucking on top of them. There was a bright yellow vibrating duck wedged between the couch pillows. I walked through the house, trying to remember what was where. I've been too busy fucking a mess on top of last night's mess to pay attention to it until now.

Worst of all, my desktop image was a picture of Michael lying naked on his back, his big, wet, shiny dick sticking out of my pussy as I knelt over him, spreading my ass cheeks and grinning over my shoulder. Sure, my monitor was on low-power standby, but she had to wake it up when she moved my mouse to dust my desk.

And there it was, glowing in brilliant color. Dick, balls, cunt, and ass glistening in all its splendor like a campground river on a sunny Sunday morning. Michael gripping my thighs and pressing down as his mouth gapes in a moan, me grinning like a flower-fresh douche model as I spread my cheeks, my cunt yawning over his giant dick like a five-year-old trying to mouth a submarine sandwich. Oh, titties in the sunlight, too. That's nice.
At least it was a beautiful day outside.

I don't even know if that's worthy of being called "worst of all." My ass toys are now sitting in my dish drainer. She hand-washed my anal sex toys.
She made the bed and neatly hung the ropes and handcuffs from the workout equipment. She unscrewed the camera and put it all away in the closet.
Maybe she watched the video. She wiped our come off the walls, mirrors, and ceiling. She fucking folded and put away my freaky, dirty, sex underwear in neat little piles in the corner of my bedroom beside the hamper...apparently unsure as to whether I wanted to save my come-stained hand-ripped fuckrobes for the sake of nostalgia.

The more I think about it, the more I remember, and the worse it gets. I didn't even take inventory of what was there. I don't even know what she saw and didn't see. We even played kinky little sex games and left notes around the house. "Can't wait to fuck your pretty little ass and pump my come all over your tits," and such. She left those in a nice, neat little stack on my computer desk, right beside the handcuff keys, half-burned candles, and nipple clamps. Right next to the stack of porn that I'd tried to wedge behind the desk. And the panties on the floor beneath it. She even washed the chair, which apparently smelled so much like sex that she felt compelled to wash the fucking thing.

Some part of me feels like I should get a new maid.
Some part of me feels like I should get her a gift certificate to Victoria's Secret.
Some part of me feels like I should just let it go and ignore it, since she apparently had no problem washing my butt toys.
Some part of me wonders if she came early just to see what I was hiding.
Or if she went through those hard-to-reach places and already knew.

I'm nearly certain that this is the first time she's seen me naked, though.
I called Michael to tell him. He laughed and said we'd have to try harder to mess up the house. At least she managed to dig out the floor. Now we can fuck on that, too. Maybe tonight we'll order Chinese and have a threesome.


I whined to my friend network as I wrote this. My old buddy spookychik suggested that I leave increasingly deranged items in the house until she finally cracks. Do they sell inflatable Ron Jeremys?
Should I get some brown hamsters? Maybe I should waterproof the bed with saran wrap. Or leave a gimp mask on top of a bottle of bleach and a box of sewing needles. Maybe leave a chalk outline of a midget. Apparently the trail of blood leading through three rooms didn't phase her. Jesus, but this woman has an iron will.

That reminds me...
Dear Jesus, Please don't let strange people fuck in our temples. Amen.

Dear Housekeeper,
Please don't write about me in Customers Suck. Thank you. :)
phetish: (Default)
I swear to god. I have to stop dressing like this and start wearing some real damn pajamas at night.
It's hunting season and somebody is going to get hurt. And I'll plead self-defense. :)

phetish: (Default)
I have tried to fit in on Facebook, Tumblr, Instagram, Twitter, Flickr, Posterous, Blogspot, Wordpress, and other seedy corners of the social internet where you are promised a soul in exchange for your email address.
Livejournal is the only perfect balance of community and anonymity. Beyond the litany of detestable elements within Facebook, I most loathed that the loss of anonymity and the ease of posting meant everybody - grandma, classmates, garbageman - was on it and linked to you. People stopped being honest and started being polite, and we lost all the intimacy. Without it, without people with whom to resonate, we lost ourselves.

Do you understand that? I've never heard another person say it. We knew ourselves because we knew others. We mirrored each other, giving everything of ourselves as others gave everything. We discovered ourselves as a consequence of a desire to know and love others. We loved so deeply that it made us honest with ourselves in a way that self-love, that ego, that pride could never hope to touch. If there is one lesson that Livejournal taught the world, let that be it. In a world beleaguered by depression and loneliness as its most common mental ailments, why is it that we must fight to keep the lights on in this magical place?

Having reached a new pinnacle in social networking, the absence of communal intimacy was as Hell, was as the Shadowlands beyond the reach of Love.
We were desperate, so we settled. For Facebook. For Tumblr. For mimicry of what we lost.
Like dating someone that you find attractive because they look like your ex.
As sweetly familiar as that peach tastes, it also makes you feel a little sick.

I know it isn't just me choking on the meat of this strange fruit.
I feel like the weird exotic pet in a world of housecats. Nobody else seems to think we should be outside. Everybody's on Facebook. But I remember when we were free and we felt alive.

I remember you.
You did not write about cats and sandwiches.
You wrote about your dreams, your passions, your soul, your fears, your adventures. You wrote your story. You gave yourself to me and I to you.
Now, you are more naked than ever and caged in a box of glass, with your real name, your real family, your real address, coworkers, partners...everyone has you on stage like a circus animal.
You are stark naked under a blinding light, on display in the Facebook museum.
But you are mute. Deaf. Blind. You express nothing. You quietly hum little tunes, safe little memories which will either not be recognized or will go unpunished.

I don't care about your grandmother or how racist she is. I never wanted to know.
I remember you when you were wild. I loved it when you sang. You have a voice like no other voice in the world.

What did they promise? Community? The same feelings we used to have?
For all the money in advertising, the competing sites do not have souls to sell. All you get is a knock-off that fits like a cheap suit.
You do not get intimacy. You do not get deep connections. You do not discover yourself.
You get a network of people who are obligated to follow you as you are obligated to follow them.
Every milquetoast jackass you wish you could forget and their grandmother is going to piss aggressively willful ignorance and grammatical sodomy all over your monitor all day long while you are strapped to a chair and forced to endure it. Like high school all over again.

But it is community. It is a huge community. That is what you wanted, is it not?
"Isn't that what you wished for?" asks the Djinn.
No, it is not. Not at all.
You know it. They know it. It is an exploitation of the fine print, a reimagining of a desire that only vaguely resembles the original in the complete absence of the original.

What I love most about anonymity is that doesn't matter who you are. It matters what you do.
This is to say what you do matters. Imagine the power and consequence of relevance.
There is a consequential responsibility in journalism absent from social media where we are identified.
Mary Jane can spout bullshit ad nauseum because her boyfriend and his friends and her sorority will always be there, even if she posts cat pictures every hour on the hour from today until kingdom come.
But Rubyone? Nobody will follow Rubyone unless they like what she posts, and if she posts cat pictures every hour on the hour, she will die young and alone.

It makes us better writers. It makes us care about what we put out there.

All right. Enough melodrama. Let's get back to the funny stories. I'm glad we are home.


Dec. 19th, 2016 01:43 pm
phetish: (Default)
My name is Samantha. I am a thirty-two year-old pirate queen with belongings and booty stealthily stashed all over the United States in only the most fashionably modern vintage trunks. Naturally, I do this only for research purposes, as I am currently writing a guide to catnapping in trains, planes, automobiles, and luggage of a convenient size (Wiley Publishing can't wait to get their hands on it).

I lease a 1920's brownstone on an island just west of New York. With blues and jazz seeping from my windows on a jasmine-heavy breeze and the backdrop of the greatest city in the world, I wonder if some lucky gumshoe might stop by and see me sometime.
When I am not defending my company from industrial espionage in my custom Giorgio Armani ninja suit, I indulge in the most passionate affair ever to stir the soul of an artist.

Unfortunately, my capricious shrew is as unpredictable and inconsistent as the sea. But, my lady English and the lovemaking called writing are two things that I cannot live without.
Call me, baby?

I sleep for seven hours once every seven days in order to rewind my internal Ignatz clock.
I eat when my inner fat and spoiled child growls and howls.
(I punish it with broccoli)
I drink cold, unsweetened, black coffee like it reveals the path to enlightenment.
I am learning to speak Germanic, Romantic, Ugrian and Altaic languages.
I play the piano, the guitar, the drums and a number of wind instruments.
I win rodeos, I scale stone, ice and most of the buildings downtown,
I am learning to spin fire...and I can juggle.
I danced ballet, take courses in tap and have learned the Flamenco.
I can fish, I can cook, and I excel at the uneven bars.
I am going skydiving in August.

I drive the speed limit unless the music is good. I have never been in a car accident or received a ticket. I learned to sail a catamaran and found it to be much easier than wind-surfing, which, as you know, is much easier to master than its saltwater, sailless cousin (which, in turn, is far less dangerous than the reaper-invoking ritual of surfing on snow). I spent my childhood summers shark-fishing and was dragged for two miles by a misdirected whale in the wake of the perfect storm. While learning to scuba-dive, I was amused to discover why they never show people walking in fins. It does, however, prepare you for snowshoes and the impersonation of penguins. If anyone ever tells you that it prepares you for skiing, they are lying. If you want to prepare someone for skiing, take them to a fat camp and tie their feet to the rear of a crowded sled. Then, when they aren't looking, strap an A.C.M.E. rocket to the sled and light it. Wherever they land, there shall they be buried.

I am the great grandchild of one of the founders of the jazz movement in the 1920's.
I am the prodigy of composers, arrangers and musicians of considerable fame.
I am the relative and student of acclaimed anthropologists, brilliant writers, talented artists and artisans, saintly heroes and devilish villains.
Our names are carved in stone, from government building to concert hall to garden monument.

Personally, I believe that the only foolishness is in taking yourself too seriously.

It should be noted that my parents call me "Samantha" and never refer to me as "Kaos," my super-secret internet identity. "Chaos" is my reluctant crimefighting sidekick Maine Coon cat.

When I am not an anthropomorphic Armani ninja crimefighter, I am an "oldest child" as well as an "only daughter." My father is a hero of an attorney from whom I inherit my wild spirit and white-knuckled tenacity.
My mother is a beautiful artist specializing in oil paintings in a style similar to Monet. A free spirit and close friend, she is omnipresent.
My stepmother is an artist, a master archer, a mistress of the sail and a globetrotter.
I was the sister of the late, great Gregory Marcel. His spirit will forever watch over anyone who hikes the Adirondack Trail.
It was my pride to be the mother of the most awesome boy to ever wear superman underoos.

My family supports me in everything that I do, even when that includes air drops, riding a Kootenay highline, or sailing to Peru. I take great pride in hacking my own path with my machete of a lack of experience leads to a deficit in foresight...which leads ambitious people to believe that invading Russia is a new and innovative idea involving low overhead costs and the potential for profit.

I am not prepared to plant my flag in the Gulag market. It is, however, a bullet point on the five-year plan.

"I want you to face your deepest fears and I want you to let me be there with you when you do. I want you to fly through the air without benefit of wings, to be there with me when I scream defiance in the face of my personal terror, and to celebrate with me once we reach the ground. I want you to watch a sunrise with me from the peak of a mountain and a sunset across the waves of an ocean. I want you to party with me in New Orleans until our bodies give out from hedonistic excess. I want you to converse with me on all the topics that motivate you or move you and let me see the world through your eyes. I want you to offer me your mind, your body, your passion and fire without doubt or hesitation. I want you to live the life that you choose to live and want to share with you the time you wish to give to me. I want your best, Samantha, and I want it in everything you have to give me as a friend.

"As to what I offer to make it worth your while... I offer you myself. You have full access to me at any time and place that you so desire. Merely speak the word and I will be there as soon as is physically possible. I will match you, step for step, on every adventure you wish to share with me. I will not falter, I will not fail, I will not give you anything less than my best in all things. I will provide you with experiences that would make angels weep and devils sigh. I will march beside you on adventures both locally and abroad all the days of my life. In me you have a partner, a confidant, a twin, and a friend." -

This is the best illustration that I can offer of the definition of friendship. Josh is, unsurprisingly, my very best friend.

(A photograph will be posted after August...of him screaming as he hurtles toward the earth. I will be sure to photograph the ridiculous bunny tattoo I shall place on his abdomen when he loses our bet. That's right! You heard me! I said LOSES!)

I love to photograph humans.
I have unlimited access to a model.
I have converted to a digital medium as I no longer have a darkroom.
I post many products of creativity.
I have no singing talent.
I do it anyway.
You have been warned.

I drive a Chevrolet Avalanche which is regularly loaded with some or all of the following material: absinthe, apples, an amazon tree boa, ashes, backpacks, bats, bear spray, bird feeders, blankets, boats, Bodrans, books, boxes, cameras, candles, carabineers, car parts, chairs, Chaos, chess boards, chickens, chiseling tools, clams, climbing equipment, clocks, clothes, coal, coats, coffee, comic books, computers, a corn snake, costumes, cow meat, devil sticks, directions, dogs, donations, doves, dowels, drums, electronics, elephant tusks, Everclear, falcons, fans, films, fish meat, flashlights, flowers, flutes, gasoline, goggles, groceries, guitars, guns, hats, harnesses, helmets, hiking boots, ice, ice axes, ice grippers, ice skates, Jameson's, kites, knee pads, knives, leather gloves, leather coats, leather pants, legal documents, lights, lime, literature, luggage, a machete, mail, manure, maps, mirrors, mining equipment, Murano glassware, nanotechnology, narwhale horns, oil paints, oranges, orchids, packs, paintings, party food, people, plants, poetry, pork, pots and pans, presents, propane tanks, quartz (strawberry), rescue equipment, rocks, rollerblades, rope, rubber gloves, rugs, saddles, safety equipment, sails, seashells, sex toys, shark jaws, shark meat, sheet music, skis, sleds, smithing tools, sneakers, snowshoes, speakers, swings, swordfish, surfboards, tack, Tanqueray, tapestries, tents, tent poles, tonic, tools, tripods, trombones, trumpets, turpentine, undergarments, venom antidotes, vegetables, videos, water bottles, water filters, wet suits, wine, wine glasses, wine racks, wires, wood carvings, wool clothing, writings, x-rays, you (likely if you've read this far), zebra-striped clay pots and my trusty Zippo.

I play full-contact chess. I learned that there is no such thing as a facetious statement in a game of poker. For the want of fame, glory and trophies, I dove into sand, grass and mud. Then, I realized that there is no diving involved in track and ran across land and sea. I still run between four and ten miles a day, depending upon my schedule. If it didn't involve so much cold water, I would still be a lifeguard. Instead, I volunteer and participate in community service.

I can chop firewood, throw knives, spin a quarterstaff and often carry a hammer and chisel. I am a novice with a rapier but if given a pistol, I can disarm an Olympian midget at fifty yards. If given a rifle, I can give him a haircut. If given a bow, I can enlighten him to the stigmata. If given a crossbow, I could steal the olive branch from the dove. Before an injury, I would kick-box. My father taught me to box. I want to become a lifelong student of the martial arts and am currently studying Krav Maga and Taikwondo. I believe that a membership to one's local gym is the most sound investment a person can make.

I've played car tag with Thunderbirds, pretended to be a swamp fox in a Kenworth and driven on sugar-white sand under a sunset that made me wonder if God invested in a local timeshare. In my pocket I have sand from the Sahara, Thai currency and lemon zest from a homemade bottle of Limoncello. In my car I have two army medic bags, the coat of a fire chief and a well-worn pair of New Balance sneakers that have seen the world from an angle I won't see until I'm dead.

I collect antiques; I feel that I cannot own anything that has a less interesting story to tell me than I have to share with it. I imagine mall furniture to be weak and easily intimidated. Give me something with a soul. As a secondary source of income, I hunt treasure.

I was on Sesame Street as a child and learned, on camera, that puppets are not alive. The Hispanic puppeteer taught me that it's okay to hug what frightens you, as long as an adult has an arm stuffed in its butt.

My favorite music genres are jazz and blues. Rickie Lee Jones, Ray Charles, Frank Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, George Shearing, Kenny Rankin and Hoagy Carmichael never leave my CD changer.

Welcome to my blog. I maintain it because a life well-lived does not leave one with the time to write the individual letters that each worthwhile friend deserves to receive.

That, and it passes the time while I wait for the karma bus.
phetish: (Default)

I just smoked my last cigarette. I apologize in advance for what I may say or do over the next few days.

I could lie and say it's because cigarettes are twice as expensive in New Jersey, but that's not the truth.
The truth is that I spend every night sleeping on Rich's chest. I can hear it in his lungs like a darkness devouring his breath.
I know I haven't written a lot about Rich. It's been so long since I was actively writing that I'm not sure I have the chops, today.

I've spent my life entertaining you with bad sex anecdotes starring dark-haired, psuedo-dominant guitar players who couldn't fill out the shadow of the one I wanted. My obsession with Rich may be the only surviving constant across all the incarnations of myself. I can't fathom carrying the weight of his death. I don't know what I'd do with the rest of my life.

I suppose I'd go into the revenge business, train for twenty years, and eventually hunt down the six-fingered man.

I thought that was poetic since, a) "I don't know what I'm going to do with the rest of my life," is the last line in the "movie", and b) Mandy Patinkin (Inigo) was visualizing that if he killed the six-fingered man, it would be killing cancer and would bring his father back from death.

I can't face Rich's death. Too much of who I am would go with him.
Every time I look down at my hand, I see the thing I hear in his chest, spreading around his heart like the cloak of the reaper.

I can't take it. I can't stand it. It's not a pleasant stress reliever; it's a reminder of the mortality of the person I love most.
I'm not going to tell him what to do.
But I'm not going to hold the smoking gun. I'm done.
phetish: (Default)
Dear Asshole,
Stop wearing your son's clothing, or you will asphyxiate. He is just a child. You cannot wear his shirts. You're going to kill us all.
Love, Tits´╗┐

Rory is mad at me. Because I saw him make a fool of himself.
I may be hungover, but I'm not the one who got so fucked up last night that I drank out of the toilet and then locked myself in the garage.

I love you guys. Happy New Year's. Wish I could do more to keep this place alive.
phetish: (In The Rain)
I miss writing.
It adds meaning and purpose to a life which could otherwise be stylized as a comedianne in purgatory.

This is the week of my semi-annual Fast Blast.
I swear, the fact that I have to keep myself busy to avoid the Demon Noms has nothing to do with my rekindled love of writing.

I'm doing my own variation of the Sacred Heart diet.
Have you heard of it? I hadn't heard of it until I typed "lose" into Google and it predicted my search phrase as "lose 40 pounds in a week."
Wow, that sounds amazing, doesn't it?
Far be it from me to keep such magic from you:

Magic Sacred Heart Hoax Soup Miracle Lose 40 Pounds In A Week Diet

The soup is a lie. It's been denounced as a hoax by Sacred Heart.
First, it's hilarious to see what you can make people do if you post a weight loss miracle on the internet and claim that a hospital endorses it.
Secondly, a diet like this requires a certain fanaticism and telling a fanatic that something is a hoax does nothing to deter them. You're still curious, and you don't care that it was denounced or by whom.

The Stewage (The Great Big Magic Sacred Heart Lie)
2 Big-Ass Cans of Tomato. Don't be a fatass like me and use spaghetti sauce - it only makes a bad thing worse.
Green Onions so you can weep over what you are about to do.
Beef bullion so you can torment yourself with the flavor of real food.
"Dry package of chicken noodle soup mix." You might as well hunt for unicorn horn. Campbell's "Hasn't-Changed-Since-1950" Chicken Noodle works fine, too.
Celery. It works better if you chop it, unless you're drinking this out of a fishbowl. Don't try to break celery. Celery hates being associated with spaghetti and will rip into a tentacled Urotsukidelery mass in your hands. Trust me.
"Beans." What kind? Magic beans. Jumping beans. Any kind of beans, as long as it says "beans" on the can. How many? As many as you can stand. There's protein in them there plant poops. If failed "meat hunters" had a "consolation prize," it would be beans.
Shitload o' Carrots - so your eyesight can be at its best when you stare into this soupy abyss.
1 Pepper. It doesn't matter what color. Your tastebuds will be burned off long before you get to it.
A bucket of mushrooms. You might as well make them the most interesting mushrooms you can find. If our twenties taught us anything, it was that nothing accompanies culinary abominations like illegal street drugs.
"Vegetable cocktail" - I have no idea what the fuck that means. I'm assuming vegetables, like fruit, are saturated in peach juice and canned. Ew.
A head of cabbage. Every "love your outside more than your insides" diet involves this heinous shit. It is the "...and tongue of bat" of the culinary path of witchcraft.

Boil that shit like my Hungarian ancestors did until it looks like raw Mexican sewage. Now, get a spoon! You can eat as much of the Stewage as you can stand, under the absurd pretense that you are "cleansing your body," when the author REALLY knows that you will get sick of it before you consume enough calories to sustain your own body. The key to weight loss is "consuming fewer calories," and the key to consuming fewer calories is unappetizing food.

Seriously, this shit is disgusting. At this point in the exercise, you should realize that no health-promoting organization would endorse this and somebody on the internet is fucking with you. Anyway. Onward!

Day 1: Eat Insubstantial Fruit (No Bananas) and Stewage.
You can drink beverages with zero calories - which means you take your coffee black just like your metal.

Day 2: Eat Insubstantial Vegetables (No Potatoes) and Stewage.
Oh wait, I misread that - you can have one measly potato for dinner. The Irish drop dead right about now.

Day 3: Eat Insubstantial Fruit (No Bananas), Insubstantial Vegetables (No Potatoes) and Stewage.
This is the worst day, when your body goes into full blown "oh my god, the king has gone mad, we're all going to die!" mode and you start salivating over housepets. The diet recommends that you drink plenty of water to sate your hunger. Because that works. They also recommend clearing your schedule and avoiding anyone you might find the slightest bit aggravating, because WHO KNOWS what you could do in the throes of starvation-induced temporary insanity.
Seriously. The diet actually recommends that you avoid human interaction because you will not be recognizable. That sound is your Darwin alarm going off.

Day 4: If you are still alive, eat 3 bananas and chug as much milk as you can.
Also, don't forget to eat your Stewage.
If you have been following the diet, then you are scaring your loved ones and they have come over your house to save you. This is the part where you convert them by telling them that they can lose 20 pounds in 7 days, and they join you, making more of that fucking goddamn stewage.
See, it's a scheme. They're now on Day 1, and by the time they get to Day 4, they will be "almost-dead," and their loved ones will attempt to rescue them, get sucked into this nefarious spiral by false promises of quick and easy weight loss, make more of that FUCKING STEWAGE, and then those people will be on Day 1...
Humans have invented DIET PYRAMID SCHEMES. It is the End of Days.

Day 5: Eat a steak. Chug more Stewage.
I'd suggest that you throw some Hallah bread in there for shits and giggles but these are the actual diet instructions.
On Day 5, you should be sufficiently delirious that the Stewage begins to communicate with you.

Day 6: Eat as much beef as you can fit into your abdominal cavity with another side of "Jesus Christ It's Rotting I Bet That's What It Looks Like Inside Me" Stewage.
This is the part where you throw up what looks like bananas.

Day 7: Boil some rice. Eat all the remaining Stewage or you'll be 500 pounds for the rest of your life.
Rice. Nature's "We're sorry you were violated" comfort food.

According to the diet, "You may have lost more than ten pounds. Resume a regular, healthy diet for at least a few weeks before trying the Sacred Heart Diet again."

I honestly don't know how people go through with these absurd fad diets.
I'd rather not eat anything than suck up that mess up there.
...and that's been my day.
Black coffee, wishful thinking, and spreading seeds of diet chaos.


Jul. 17th, 2013 01:47 pm
phetish: (In A Box)
Still alive.
Been sick all week. Boo.
Made it through the first two seasons of the previously-unseen Game of Thrones. Yay.
Hope all is well.
phetish: (In The Rain)
Toys R Us is hosting a massive clearance event.
If you don't have a child to use as a beard, you should still go. The sale is so good that I'm wondering if Toys R Us is in trouble.

Of course, Max didn't want any of the clearance toys.
He wanted the "cooler version" of what he sees at his pediatrician's office - a Toddler Companion Cube.

Note, this is actually the voice of the box:

As an anime fan, I can attest to the fact that there are too many great unemployed voice actors for this to be a problem. :D
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