uh

look I'm a cartoon. A creepy one.

Socks

It's been a while since I've felt like I have time to write. Or even collect my thoughts for that matter. "For that matter" eh ...WTF?.. Sometimes I feel like my writing slips into 1960ish Enid Blyton prim and proper sentences. They're in my bones, those books, I soaked in them, read them over and over, (that's past tense 'read' -it's strange the way they're written the same. I haven't been near one in years- although, I wouldn't mind). I remember what happened in them clearer than I remember my childhood. They were my childhood. Then the libraries banned them. Enid Blyton was labelled sexist, racist, maybe even homophobic. She was the reason the world sucked. I guess my young impressionable mind was warped by her, but honestly, I never noticed the sentences that caused so much scandal. Sure the boys did everything fun, and the girls stayed home, unless you were a tomboy, then you could tag along. I didn't question that logic, I didn't know any boys, as friends, except for one that was so shy he never spoke, and when he came to play he'd bring his older sister who he'd "talk through" like a personal translator. But we got along fine.

Around 7 when I wasn't trying to wear all my skirts at once and play Heidi, I'd try to dress like a boy, hair tucked in cap, shorts, knee socks. I was like some weird 70s throw back. I'd also drag a stuffed toy dog on a leash, convinced I could fool the neighbours into believing I had a pet. Again, 'normal' (American TV) families always had a pet dog. It was so goddam wholesome- and jeez (my swear word at the time) did I wanna be wholesome.

The main reason I wanted to be a boy wasn't due to Enid Blyton. Ahem. I'd discovered that putting rolled up socks in my panties felt really good. Yes, I felt a bit perverted, I just tried not to think about it. I've always been good at strategically not thinking. After the panty revelation, the "I'll be the boy" games became more frequent. It was the perfect excuse for stuffing my panties and sitting in this awkward position with 'the lump' shoved to the crotch of my panties, underneath, instead of the front. When I wriggled and rocked with the right size and shape bulge, I'd get a dizzy, flying feeling, with my heart in my throat. I remember trying to look this perversion up, in books, but I could never find anything that answered my questions. I decided I was just strange and that was that.

I used to think I was so abnormal for many reasons which now, I laugh at. I wasn't devil spawn for making-out with girls when I was 12 or fantasizing about my friends' fathers. I realize that now. I didn't understand all at once, just slowly, experience taught me. I feel the same way now, as when I was that young teen, afraid of myself and weird. Knowing that if anyone found out, they'd be disgusted. But now I know those first feelings were wrong. I was just a kid, everything I was thinking and feeling was normal. THEN. I want to discover I'm not a weirdo again, I'm just innocent, naive. I don't want to belong to a bedraggled group of people who steal and whore and lie and have become animals for a drug, labelled junky. That isn't me. I want to find out that secretly, behind closed doors, whispered softly, everyone is obsessed with filling their veins with sunshine. I want everyone to be falling, faster and faster, without anything to grab onto. If everyone was using, it'd be just lah de dah. There's safety in numbers. I don't want to admit it, but it's true. This time, I think I'm all alone.

Don't think

My bedroom is small, it heats up quickly. My hair is wet from the rain. Listening to music, I'm crushed with nostalgia. I don't understand how I could have listened to the same song less than four years ago, arms around my best friend, his breath on my face as he mascaraed my lashes, his fussy mannerisms, chewing his lip and smoothing his hair. The texture of his skin, pinky on his arms, the way he self conciously tugged his t-shirts over his belt. Big, tall. It hurts to think about him. How can this song still play when he is missing. Gone gone gone. I'd take a knife and cut off my own legs and arms to get him back. Anything. I can only keep every little memory safe, they're all I have now. That phone call changed me in so many ways. Since then I have done so many things I'm ashamed of. I can't trust myself any more. The nightmares pound me every night. They echoe through the day. Evil under my skin. I'm sorry mum, I'm sorry dad. The scars on my arm are spreading. I am a lego girl, numb. Moving stiffly through life. Paying the dealer my salary. Anything to not think. I'm just so afraid. I can't explain it. Maybe the statistics are getting to me. I feel like giving up. Merging with the cosmos where I can't hurt anyone, where I can't hurt myself. How could I do this to our family? They don't know, so they still love me. I'm no good with lies. It's hard to carry. But I'm so scared of seeing the knowledge on their faces. I have to keep lying. I make myself sick.

Choking on bloggerotica

It's hard to avoid the blog fad with pictures of girls touching themselves and writing shit like "then his rock hard cock stabbed into my pulsating vagina..." I was starving for good words when I stumbled onto these two sites. If you want to read something refreshing, look here:

Unfortunately tard blog isn't being maintained anymore, you just have archives to read. But the archives are amazing, they had me hooked start to finish. It's bittersweet writing, simplistic and raw. Emotionally charged. So nice.

Another site you should check out, which is actually a big brother site to tard blog, is written by Tucker Max. He's pretty famous web-wise, totally cunty, graphic and hilarious. I recommend this story to get a taste. Fuck he's funny.

So, shoo, Go read.

More eye candy

A treat

For those of you who haven't seen it already. Enjoy.

Treat me like shit please.

I'm trapped. At work. Grinding my teeth (it's the last time I promise), as the rain charges down, bruising the pavement, calling my name, laughing. I usually have 2 umbrellas (yes I'm a virgo) at work, I like to coordinate okay! Hell, you should see how many shoes I keep here. Anway, of course the day it rains, NADA.

Speaking of umbrellas, (I'm trying to make this coherent) I like having my bum whacked during fucking, but not hard hard, you know? Not enough to hurt. I like being held so tight I can't get away. I love forceful play sex, I've always had fucked up rape fantasies, but I just don't get into pain.* Because of this, I think I'd find it hard to make someone else hurt. Although, no one has ever asked me. Maybe I bring domination out in my lovers, because that has always been the theme.

On another tangent, I remember reading a study about how lovers can feel each others' pain. Scientists conducted research, by slightly electrocuting one partner, while the other watched. The way the watching partner's brain reacted, is the same way it would if they were to feel that same pain themselves. I have always been able to feel other people's wounds, I'd be a hopeless doctor. In fact, maybe this is why the most unempathetic, heartless people seem to always go into medicine. (Personally I've had some shockers).

Aha, brolly problem solved. I just sent out a work email and although everyone is sposed to be home watching telly, I got inundated with offers. Nice people. Okally. time to wind up post and depart...

Click here once more for luck...

*Disclaimer for any psychos who may be reading: I think rape fantasies are pretty common for women (men? I don't know) but a fantasy is so different to reality. Rape is one of the worst things that can happen to anyone, no one enjoys that. No one.

Un-blinded

Okay, so I thought it was just going to be one night. One coke spattered night of amazingness. I could talk, I could meet people, I could feel every movement oozing fuckability. I actually went out alone and it was a success.

So when on Saturday I had to go to a scary sit-down meal, knowing no one except the birthday boy (turning 60) I knew what to do. Coke in my arm every 20 minutes. I went through twice the amount that had sustained me the night before. I charmed the elderly and I actually had fun. One small problem with me on coke, is that I need twice as much heroin to keep me calm. It gets expensive.

I breathed in Sunday, lounged and dozed in sun shadows. Waking up to the "let me out/let me in" meows.

Monday, I had an opening to attend. I wanted to enjoy it, instead of slinking around like I usually do. Unfortunately, now I know how. Coke. My track is getting scabby. But the thrills that surf my blood, they're bliss. And I'd actually forgotten that feeling existed.

I thought heroin was what made me feel good. Now I realize how tricky it is. It has confused me, blanketing my memory. Masking what used to be special and nice, so I can't compare any more. Fuck. This is another tangled post. I need to brush harder before I press publish. Maybe next time.

Clickety click

Mary (and her breasts) got me on to this thing. So I figured I'd take a dirty photo of my own and post it. I semi-filled out the sign up form before getting distracted. I figured I'd go snap a bum photo and re-sign up with it later. But looky looky, the application process must've fucked up, because somehow, there I am. Fuck I'm famous. The idea is, if you haven't already seen this kind of thing, go here and click on my photo. How many clicks determines how long I have my photo on their page (or something).

Your peep, Tui

*Too high to type. That post took me over an hour to complete. I kept falling asleep on letters like thisssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.

Love your warts

Letmetalkyourearoff

I just shot some coke for the first time in, oh, a year I guess. It's so nice, I'd forgotton. Edgy, but really nice. It's the opposite feeling to h, a feeling I'd forgotten, but I just realized I've been missing. With h, I'm happy to be alone, I don't want to go out and talk shit, I don't want to meet people, or dance, except alone in my bedroom, I don't want to fuck, or even masturbate. I don't want to do anything except be.

With coke I want to do everything. I feel extra super duper alive. The rush is amazing, life is so positive I could burst. That's what's dangerous. With every chemical high, the low is equivalent in strength. I feel like calling all my old friends, going out socializing, typing a novel, ringing relatives, drawing pictures, the world seems so easy, like I could pick it up in my hand. I know it's rampant in advertising, at least one agency in Montréal the creatives snort lines from their desks, in plain view. It's funny that these are the same people who think heroin is disgusting.

There are no lows from h, well, until you quit for good. Then it all comes pouring in, like being hit by a tidal wave of emotion. More intense than any physical pain. That's one thing I have learnt from using h, physical and emotional pain are inextricably linked. I'd always assumed they were very far apart.

Thank you to all the people who come here and read my ramblings. It's so nice to have someone to talk to. I never start typing with a plan, I just swerve here and there, pulling things from my subconcious and looking at them- often in wonder and amazement, for the first time. A couple of people have suggested writing a book. I don't feel like I could. I don't think it would hang together. My stories are short, they always have been.

That's why I love advertising. It's ideal for my attention span. 30 second TV commercials and radio spots, a headline there, a concept here. The ideas and the products are always changing, I have to hit refresh almost every day. I don't know what I'd want to do instead. Fuck the thought is scary. Just the weekend makes me feel blue. To balance the monster ethical issues I try to work on positive products and charity organisations. Also, I feel like a ton of ads are pollution. Not mine. I don't cast cheesy, unattainable model-types, I like individuals, real, full of quirks and personality. I always try to create spots that people will enjoy, through humour, twists and intelligence. I refuse to speak down to anyone. Aesthetically, I'm fucking picky too. I truly believe ads can brighten people's days and change thinking in a good way. They're powerful and I like that. It's a shame more people in advertising don't agree. Often I've had to fight not to dumb it down. Especially for the American market. Strategists have such a low opinion of Americans.

Ack. Breathe. Slow down. Apologize. I don't have many friends here in Montréal, I've either neglected them due to h, they've moved, or I'm avoiding them because they use. You guys fill a big gap. Thanks again. Please no lectures, I'm just treating myself, it's a once off. Hugs

Nailed

Bruises

I'm good, no, better than that, at a lot of things. At others, I suck. Everything is all or nothing with me. Lets take painting my nails as an example (cause I'm attempting to apply nail polish as I write this vastly imaginative post). No matter how slow, precise, careful, patient, whatever, it makes no difference, the polish ends up blurring until I may as well have dipped my entire fingertips into the pot of polish. Then I'll knock one, and in my haste to save it, knock another to another. It's a domino effect. Finishing looking like a page from some ADD kid's colouring-in book, everything's outside the lines. Wash hands manicly. Start over.

Never hire me as a waitress. I'm hell at that too. Carrying full plates or cups there's always a thick trail of drops behind me. Actually, that comes under my balance in general, which is shaky at best.

Sexually, I can't get into hand jobs. My own and for other people. The angle is always wrong, my wrist gets bored immediately and wants to go on strike, the rythym gets all fucky as I daydream or start watching the TV in the background. In my breathless, soft-focus pastel la la days of virginity, I'd use it to keep my panties on and the penis (like a dangerous animal you never turn your back on) where I could see it.

I did have a motive, but at least I used to try. Now If I have an inkling that I won't ace something, I don't bother trying. I'm not sure if that's realistic or fatalistic. But either way, it won't change my mind. Stubborn, that's one thing I'm good at.

Wordling

Round and round the rumours go. "Fake, stuck up." And apparantly I'm only ever friends with beautiful people. They snowball me out of every city I live in. In the dark moments I wonder if they're right.

Imagine if we could live on words. Instead of eating a meal, you read a meal, the butter soaking through the crunchy skin and soft fluff of baked potatoes, the sweetish crunch and tang of cauliflower drenched in cheese sauce, served non serif, black type.

This has always been a problem for me. Reading about things satisfies me more than actually doing them. As a child, my terminally grumpy father hated it, he wanted me to do. Do, do, do. But why should I join a sports team when I could be a wonder athlete, effortlessly talented, exercise-free, simply by opening a book? He banned the books. I'd flop listlessly around, reading the back of cereal packets and moisturizer tubes, until he'd finally relent. Nothing has changed, I still live dangerously, at arms length.

One day I'm going to punch the air and feel a ripping, tearing of paper. And my fist will have broken through the page of this book I'm in. Out... out, into real life. Or maybe vice versa.

Burble

My meowy-one gives me feelings I'd forgotten. Big rushes of love and caring. He stretches out, purring, impossibly long and straight, and then his little spasmo stretches, each limb pointing in a different direction, a snuffling purr smile, his fluffy orange trousers and round tummy stuffed with cat-meat, soft and screamingly cuddly.

Feel lucky, I just deleted four more paragraphs of cat-lovey-shit. I know it's boring, yeah yeah. He's not an ordinary cat, that's all.

I've spent the weekend moping. I'm always blue when I'm not working. I should've just gone in today. Fuck, and I need to take my meds. Idiot. I always wonder why I'm feeling like death and it's because I've just forgotten to take a pill for 3 days. Work keeps me to a routine, mindless, safe.

There's a new guy at work. From first seeing him, I melted back into 'old-me'. So I do exist, in there. I just haven't been attracted to someone in a long time. Montréal is very sparse. I was warm and friendly, around handsome men I'm in my element, it's like I get high on the electricity, become more eloquent, my eyes change, I can feel it. I become so self aware, where I touch myself, touch him. The words I use and the curve of my tongue. Every time we'd pass in the office we'd exchange a flippant something, a blush, standing close, laughing into each other. It was quite fun. I could see how other girls hated it, one in particular, plasticized from so much surgery growled, keeping track of our interactions. High-schoolish.
Last Monday, we were partnered on a project, me and him. Working one-on-one every day.

The sparks lasted the first 4 hours. Then he grew more and more irritating. Now he may as well be obese with long greasey hair and acne.

Ahh, I can hear my little baby snoring.

Go me

I did it. I wanted it so badly, my mind couldn't look away. So I brought the cat, stuffed it in my purse to distract me, and went and got my methadone. And now I'm back safe, drug-free, in front of Law and Order re-runs. And I'm glad, I'm really fucking glad. $60 is just a sweet flush through my veins, then nothing. It's too expensive to feel wow anymore.

I'm surprised how good it feels, saying no. It's exciting, like beating up your bully.

Hey sugar...

Can't stop eating le sugar. It's like the only fruit I eat is sour apples and marshmallow bananas. Vegetables don't come in candy flavours, so them, they have been away from my mouth for a long time. I crave them, I just feel all blank in the supermarket. If I buy a carrot I have to buy lettuce and tomoatoes and sprouts and I start getting scared and find my feet walking to the cereal section, again. My fridge shelf has catfood on it. I wish there was a can of something like that for me. I don't even want to chew, just suck it down. How many years do we have to wait for Willy Wonka's full meal and desert bubble gum to be created? I was sure by space age now we'd at least be living on pills. I guess some do, and in a way, I live off an injection, that fills my mouth, my whole body with a taste sensation. Yum.

Just thinking

He's wheezing squeekily, licking his tail purposefully, like he's ticking off a chore. I'm lying warm and damp, radiating heat, hair spread out, flowing over my pillow the way a young maiden's would, or an old women all done up, dressed up for death. You know who I mean, she's swallowed all her bright little pills and lays herself out in a frilly lilac gown with her best jewellery, holds a note in one hand and waits. A kind of sleeping beauty, like me. My eyes blur over, colours sing lullabys.

Every so often I reach out to stroke the cat, warily it shuffles a couple of inches back. My mind dives into another dream, I steer it to the side of the pool and try to hold on. Then I remember today and let myself drift. I'm good at forgetting, that's why it keeps happening. How many chances do you give someone? My life is complicated enough without money disappearing from my account. Whenever I start to re-trust him, curl closer, kiss his neck and let my heart creak open, just a crack... it happens again. I know it will continue, if I don't leave him. The pattern has been set, it's familiar territory now. Like a snowball out of control, he's got a talent there, big blue eyes, so very genuine. Anyone else and I'd file a police report. Maybe it's time. Although the thought makes my skin crawl. The police are not my friends.

The cat tenderly bites my hand, he has a tiny, pink erection, like a stamen in a flower.

One two

Two Michaels.
Both 23 (when IT happened). Same year of birth. Both gay. Both had been abused. Both brought up in small town NZ. Both had closeminded families who wouldn't accept their sexuality. Both tried to be straight, dating girls at high school. Both had drug addictions- although to different drugs. Both have lived with me, and cooked dinner with me, drinking, dancing around the living room, modelling different outfits and umming and ahhing. Fallen asleep curled in front of shitty movies. Held me tight as I rained salty tears. Both gorgeous, lanky, dark haired boys. Both could have been famous. One hung himself for his best friend to find, swinging over her, blinking his last moments. One gassed himself in his car, alone, in the parking lot at work.

Chores

The Axeman, David Shrigley

Free*

Most dealers just want money. Not Jessy. He's always trying to sit me down and talk sense into me, tell me how much brighter my life would be if i quit. It's pretty annoying, but he used to use, so he knows the ins and outs. He's heavily tattooed, young clear skin, boyishly beautiful. Gold teeth, cheeky smile, expensive super baggy shirts and pants he's always pulling up. When I see him he shakes my hand, replacing my folded up cash with drugs. But on Friday, when he came to my door he wanted to come in and sit down. He was worried.

He had been swaggering down the back streets with some friends, when it turned out one was under surveillance. Police pulled up, sirens screaming, guns drawn, searched them all. His friends were coke dealers, so when they searched my guy, they assumed what he had was coke too. Four grams of coke. Four grams of coke is a lot less, and a lot less serious than four grams of heroin. They took a liking to him I guess, because they took his friends to the station. They drove him to a vacant lot, to talk. "We can make this all go away," they said like pigs in a movie. "You help us, we help you." I can just imagine their tough movie-cop faces, over-expressive, regurgitating their favourite lines. Sharks, wanting you to believe they're friendly, so you'll get back in the water. When Jessy asked what they wanted from him, they wouldn't say. "Just lie low for two weeks, then call this number." He hopped out of the car, exchanging his freedom for the unknown. When I asked him if he'd call, he shook his head fondly at my innocence. He won't cross onto the streets of their beat, he's moving, his number's changed. Just like his drugs, now you see him, now you don't.