Thursday, September 18, 2014

does any one else depeche mode?

i was in high school...or

middle school maybe?

when i first heard them.

all the songs were just so super sad, i just went like, "whoa, what's that guy's problem?"


except you know the name right, and then things tighten down, and you get sadder as things fall apart.  eventually you hear the name again, and plug it into youtube to see why you remember it.

and it's all "enjoy the silence."

and you can't stop crying, because (i'm pretty sure) the last time you heard this song, you were about to eat out someone who meant the world to you.

but now she's off doing something not involving you, and you just have that memory.

someone who you would die for, but who left you behind like the greasy paper of the french fry bag.

so anyway.

i did the social media thing.  the dating thing.  i got a response.  i'm trying to be not-as-crazy as i feel in real life.  we'll see how that goes.  she seems a bit broken too, so, that's sure to end well, right?

well, i'm here, so let's do the whole thing.

i may come back to this later.

hawaii has kind of crappy radio.  i tend to do the NPR and the jpop station.  i like that boring shit.

but this morning was a thing about slavery.  like for realsies today slavery.  people bought and sold to others for things.  sex, it seems.  it sounded like mostly sex.  slavery for sex.

and i was like, "that sounds a lot like annie and sammy."

which sucks.  i want to write this fantasy thing that makes my brain better, and it makes me think of the actual people who live in horrible situations like i'm actually describing for my own fun.

how fucked up is that?

a lot.  a lot fucked up.  that's the answer.  and i guess football dudes are beating up their wifes all over the place now?  wtf?

so, here's how i rationalize things for myself.

sammy and annie aren't in a slavery thing.  annie has this scheme, and sammy is cool with letting annie run the show.  sammy totally could claim "no, stop, we're done, stop it all."  this next story has that as a topic.  i might emphasize it more now.  annie's thought is "i think sammy is cool with this, so i'll push her as far as i think she can deal with things."  is she wrong?  maybe?  annie may think that blah is cool, but sammy isn't happy with it.  what happens then?

well, they're probably both allegories for my own brain, so they sit down and have a quiet conversation.  this maybe isn't realistic.

but like...i hear this news?  that's not cool.  if you lock someone up, and you obviously have a serious power advantage, you're a dick.  this is where i think annie might be a dick.  so, she has to think that too, right?  we're...the same brain.  god damn it, annie.  stop fucking crying.

second news thign;  if you hit someone, and it's not like an over the knee, ping-pong-paddle as a tool thing, you're a bad person.  there are other things.  duh.  but like...bdsm is this thing here (i'm pushing my hands to my left like i'm pointing at something), and hitting someone because you're angry is this thing (hands to the right, this is a different thing)?

i was spanked when i was little.  do you know what i learned?  hide things that might be wrong better.  i wasn't a big problem child, but that was still the lesson.  "don't get caught doing X."

that's not what people who think spanking is cool are trying to do, so it's not working, right?

if you're cool spanking for funsies, that's a different thing.  you know what you're doing, i think.

grumblewardch ble ad;lfkja;dfja;sldkfj;aslkdfj;akdjf

sorry for doing another random ramble.  i just look at things, and i hear the news, and i try to form it into a thing that makes me not feel horrible.  and this week, i've felt kind of horrible.

why do people have to ruin everything?

Monday, September 15, 2014

real life

i hate it.

i have to wake up, do work things, take a shower to be respectable, go away from Captain Bed, do work things at stupid shit, go buy food so you don't starve, eat that food, be a dilettante in the world of "stupid shit and not starving," eat more shit, then go to sleep and hope that you die in the night.

but no one ever dies in the night.  they die because the hope and wishes that sustained them stop pulsing.  it's that final "zero" that ends things. this concept of a permanent sad world of past loved ones probably isn't healthy.

and it's not like i could change a thing.  she died of a massive stroke.  he died of lung failure, after years and years of smoking.

i hate having a legacy.  you can't disappoijnt peop,le you've never met.

in any case

i hate lots of things.


dealing with people.

trash day.

but the thing that's the most stresser?
dealing with people online

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

have i told this story?

so, a few years ago.

my dad was like "hey, people are crazy, so you need to be able to protect yourself if you're walking home late at night.  take this knife"

it was black and fancy looking, and had a screw you could tighten, and it was loose enough that if you kind of went "ba-kow!" with it, the blade would flip open, and you'd be in stabby mode.

except i never really was out super late, so it mostly just sat on my table at home, and collected dust.

until a bit later, i started getting sad and drinking.  then it was like a fun game.  you could flip it open, and drink a bit, then close it, and do it again.  whee!

then a bit more later, i was like "oh, it's probably not even sharp."  so you drag it across your thigh, or over your tummy a bit.  "ha ha ha!  i didn't even feel that and it's dripping all over!"

then one day, i got way too drunk, and pulled it down across my left forearm.  i woke up the next day with that arm pretty much covered in blood.  i woke up because my friend called to say we should go get lunch.  i washed up, got dressed, and we went out and had some crappy sandwiches.

i was sure she'd be like "whoa, wtf?  did you like get murdered last night?"


the thing that semed like a giant gash on my arm wasn't something that ever came up.  it eventually healed, but even now there's this four inch scar running from my inner elbow down.

eventually i couldn't hide it all anymore, and we talked about it, and she was like "this isn't cool, you should go to therapy."  i didn't until years later, but one day when we were out, i gave her this dumb present wrapped in some kleenex.  it was the knife, and i basically told her that i didn't feel safe with it around anymore, so i wanted her to take it.

flash forward a few years, and she's moved to the mainland, but we're still friends, so i'm visiting for new years.  we're going to play some game, and i go to get it from the closet.  "it's next to the towels!" she shouts from the living room.  i open the door.

it's there.  the knife i gave her.  sitting on the shelf next to the cube of toilet paper.  i look at it, and immediately the only thought in my head is, "no one will get curious for thirty seconds at least.  you can open it and cut some more before anyone knows."


why is this the story of the day?  one of the things i read pointed out it was 'suicide awareness day' today.  and i had a shitty day at work today where my boss and a coworker basically fucked up a bunch of shit, and i have to fix it, "because you know how that works better than we do."  fuck you.

and i've learned recently that a lot of people that i've met online that i super really care about have had a lot of the same crazy depression thoughts that i have.  all the time.  like right now.  which is why the fucking screen is all blurry because of the tears.  we never notice when people we love are in pain, i don't think.  that's terrible.  no one should have to hide their pain.

i don't want anyone to have these thoughts.  they suck.  a lot.  going through the motions of your day, using all your energy to hold up a veil of stability, if for no other reason than to keep other people from asking you why you suddenly have this giant red gash on your arm.  "i slipped and my bathroom counter is crazy sharp!"  "i dropped a spoon in my dishwasher, and i think i caught a knife that was sticking through?"

and people believe it, right?   "those are stupid answers, sammy.  you can do better!"  no, i can't.  and i don't need to.  and i shouldn't.  and this is all fucking crazy, right?  like, if i say "a goddamn unicorn came out of nowhere, and was like 'fuck you, bitch' and then tried to stab my arm, but i moved so it was just a deep scratch, and then the unicorn was like, 'next time!'", i'm pretty sure people would buy that.  it's not possible, but people are more willing to accept that than "sammy maybe tried to hurt herself a lot last night."  why would they?  i'm showing that veil of sanity or whatever.

anyway.  this was a long rant, and i hate doing these.  but none of you have to know me in real life, so i don't have to hold up the veil of "oh, i'm doing much better now, thanks!" or "i'm just an everyday person who's happy to pick up your shit because that's what we do when we're all a team!".  thanks for sticking around, and i'm going to claim that this helped me, and maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

Friday, September 5, 2014

important update!

i've decided i'm going to do twitter again.

but only when i want to eat pizza.

so go follow the twitter.

if you're really concerned when someone from the internet thinks about pizza.

i am serious about this.

100% pizza, whatever% of the time.

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

So. How you doing?

me?  oh, what?

how am i doing?



you know.  "feeling like cutting"

as you do, right?



ok, but seriously, yeah.  that's how i'm feeling tonight.  which is kind of a shitty shit storm of shit cakes.

but here's a thing that i've come to the conclusion on:

i think me writing stories is a proxy for therapy.

i'm not at all saying it's a good proxy, or that i shouldn't go back to therapy.  i'm just saying that my brain has apparently decided it can work some shit out if i make really perverted fiction.

so.  like.  three cheers for my brain being that kinky, i guess.

here's the theory:

it's all about Exhibition.  Annie represents the me i put out day-to-day.  She's the "fuck all this shit, we have to earn the money so we don't starve to death" bit of my brain.  you never see her, because she's the me i try not to put here.  Sammy is the me that i am here.  the fucked up moron that pretty much just wants someone to tell her she's fine the way she is, and sometimes pet her head and reassure her she's not the fuck up she's scared of being.

basically, i think i write stories so the part of my brain that's confident can tell the other part that's scared about everything that it's not so bad, and it'll be ok.

but, maybe that scared bit has to obey the confident part all the time always, because that's the part that is distilling sheer panic into action.  i suspect this is why i've had three ideas for Annie crying in the past few days.  i think that part of my brain is really panicking and over-worked, and it just wants someone to hug it back.  i'm sorry, Annie-brain.  i'll try to support you better!

so.  yeah.  the psychological things you come up with when you write porn, and then try to figure out why porn story A is so much easier to write than porn story B.

i will get back to spa treatment, although i'm thinking i may break it up into parts 2a and 2b.  Exhibition: B was half the size of what i expect spa 2 to be, and i think that may be why it's taking so long.  write something until it's done, get it out, then move on to later bits.  i can submit only "full" parts to the story sites when i'm happy with them, but i can do smaller bits on the blog faster.  then, it's less of a burden to edit, and it can get out, and it's not like a three hour thing to prrofread.

also:  here's the secret about the title:

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

The Exhibition: B

The Exhibition: B

for fucks sake.

i have to get up early tomorrow.

because we have to do a telecon the day after a three day weekend.  because of course we do.

why would that be a problem?  you've only had THREE DAYS to go learn how not sleeping in works.

"plus, we have kids and shit, and so we wake up the same time everyday, so why does that matter?"

seriously.  this is why i hate people and wish they'd die.  not all of us get to have families, you jerks.

but anyway, i took the sleeping pill.




i'm up and writing this post, and wtf?

anyway, you'll probably get an exhibition story tomorrow.  it's written, i just need to do the last proofread on it.

sorry people who wanted more spa treatment.  i can only write what my brain wants to write.  this was the decision.