In your kiss I can feel the expansion of the universe,

I expand by your touch, a feel, a caress;

I expand and encompass and spread apart and become one again.

I am just a minuscule particle set to vibrating by your energy;

With you I can expand, with you I can vibrate, with you I feel myself.

How can I deny you?

How can I deny you?

Deny you?

I don't know if I want to anymore.

White Knuckles

I'm welcoming the spooky month of October by painting my nails orange. My nails are freshly painted and I have a horrible itch on my scalp and all I can manage to do is tap it. Tap tap tap. Found a small piece of driftwood and used it to satiate my needs (how incredibly kinky). Speaking of needs, am I ever going to get laid again in a meaningful manner? How about passion, attraction, chemistry and maybe even love. Yeah, am I really ready for that? Is there even space for 'love' in my life? I feel like Rapunzel or some such shit. Waiting in this fucking apartment for, who?

During the weekend I made my own little personal retreat and fled to a friend's house in the mountains. I was able to figure out more or less the little bothersome feeling I couldn't shake. Funny enough, it is unrelated to men. I've been living the last couple of years of my life in a limbo in the sense that I didn't strive towards any particular goals, drifting through my own life without any general direction. So, I was able to come up with some goals and things to strive for in general. Where I see myself in the next 3 years, where I want to go, my path. Bla bla bla, poor little me, I can't find my way waaah waaah waaah.

Fuck.

This.

Shit.

I've been falling asleep intentionally with the light on. I tuck myself into a comfortable, cozy little ball and then let my eyelids drop softly close, the light seeping through my closed lids. It is safe. I wake up in the early dawn and walk sleepily across the room and turn the light off. I sometimes wish someone were turning off the light for me. I wish that I would open my eyes and see only the encroaching sunrise through the window, the artificial light having been replaced by the dark encompassing night, the softest of creeping light.

There is an ever growing pile of clothes on my bed. I have a feeling I will be sleeping on some possibly worn clothes, socks, blouses. It feels like such a kid thing to do, to be sleeping wherever, however, in whatever circumstances may arise, prepared for anything. Now I travel with my orthopedic pillow. It doesn't get more punk rock than that.

I miss, I miss, I miss

Possibly the idea of you;

If the day is bright

I miss the smile of you, cheeky

slightly cynical,

jagged teeth on meaty lip,

I miss, I miss, I miss

my bright red chin, rubbed raw

courtesy of an afternoon shadow

I miss, I miss, I miss

And I am certain you are seeing other girls, that you can and will and want to. Why wouldn't you, red blooded macho man that you are. Terrible with emotions, direct and forward questioning, hedging, curtailing, making a run for it. I call you melodramatic, a soap opera in hushed suspense and anxiousness. Take me away, Calgon! My ever present practicality goes up against your romanticized ideas and yearnings. I want concrete while all you want is a feeling, an instinct. I am the ever frigid bitch who wants quantifiable results. Show me and I will fall.

I wonder if I can be the fat, caucasian version of Chun-Li for Halloween. Hey, I can't kill anyone with my subpar martial arts, but I can commando a chocolate cake in no time.

I can't wait to get to the point where I don't give a crap about being cool. I feel like it's such a waste of time. I am fighting it all the time. Don't be a lemming. Do you really like this or do you like it because people might like it? Blah, stand up for myself and like what I like and not what the world dictates I should like.

I'm tired of dating rando weird guys, rando nice guys, rando creepy guys, rando guys who only like my ass, rando nice but creepy guys, too nice rando guys... I'm kind of tired of being single but at the same time I do not feel passionate about any of the guys I'm dating to actually make it more serious. So, I feel the need for a serious relationship, but it doesn't occur and I feel like a DVD with lagging sound, the voices out of sync with the lips.

There is always that compulsion to be someone, something. Define yourself, who are you? What are you? Where are you going? What do you want? I am quite possibly the most oblivious person on the planet regarding this. I used to find it amusing. Oh, I just don't know what I want to do! But it has passed from being this pleasantly cute obliviousness, to this very severe and serious issue. I just don't know what the fuck to do with my life.

So I will tell you what I will be doing right now (not in order):

• Smoke a bowl of gifted pot (gifted because I said I was trying to detox when the reality might be that I'm trying to save money, so I'll just mooch some off my friends.
• I have officially become a mooch after years of hating mooches.
• Perhaps I'll take a shower.
• Perhaps I'll do Pilates.
• Smoke another bowl.
• I even might hook up with the Booty Call for dinner and a movie.

Now this is exactly why it is dangerous to be bored and listless without any possible masculine entertainment in the visible horizon. I recur to the Booty Call or he recurs to me. Someone will text the other one, or send a funny picture or just mention it in passing, 'I miss you' and then the fucking cycle is back and we both end up worse for the wear. Completely compatibly incompatible if that makes any sense whatsoever.

The Frenchman showed back up on the scene this very morning. A nice round of Skype sex and I'm good to go for a long long, well for a bit anyways. He's cute. We talk about serious business after he 'ejaculates'. I'm still nude on my bed, a content smile gracing my lips.

Would it make me the most evil of bitches if I mention that The Musician might be demoted to the nice musician that I've been on a few pleasant dates with but for whom I feel perhaps 25% attraction to. Ok, I lie. There are moments when that 25% surges to maybe 50%, but his insecurity pushes it back to 25%. He's ever so quiet. Sometimes we don't understand each other's sense of humor and it gets awkward. I laugh too hard, I try too hard, I want too much, I expect too much.

Depressed 'cause I have no money. Unemployed. Smoking out of a grimy glass bowl. Wearing the same pajamas as yesterday.

At least I'm thinner.

Exploding Interwebs and taxes

I asked a recently married friend if anything had changed and she mentioned that her last name and the ring on her ring finer. I asked her for reasons why I should consider marriage and she mentioned taxes. As romantic as it gets. 'Hey baby, let's get married for tax purposes!'. Fuck. No.

I don't want that in my imaginary marriage.

Give me passion, give me that oft misquoted and misunderstood idiotic feeling called love. Give me understanding and support and a damned sense of humor that does not belong to a twelve year old (all the time). Give me a creation, a space imagined where only we live, a world of our own, haven which you and I inhabit. Give me an exploration of tastes, of senses, of skin touching, molding. Two worlds colliding and for a brief instant (be it 10 minutes, 20 months, 15 years) truly communicating, everything understood implicitly.

See also: naive.

You took my pizza slice

and with it a little smidgen of my heart,

blood still pumping through the vena cava,

sucks to date a zombie.

I just went on a date with The Musician (yes, it is capitalized). We went for some nice reliable pizza. I was the carnivorous one who ate three slices of pizza and called it quits. Umm, yeah small please. This is the second day in a row where we hang together. I do find him cute and appealing. Yes, isn't that a fantastically bland word to describe someone? Appealing? He's quiet and introverted and an incredibly gifted musician, smart and kind of geeky cool. I'm liking everything so far, what can I say. He seems kind of safe and reliable. I wonder if he's sweet, the touchy feely type. I need contact, I realize this now, but my relationships need to include some sort of PDA. I am comforted by a soft hand on my leg, fingers on the neck, cupping of my lower back. He's got this quiet, dry sense of humor, slightly offbeat.

Me gusta.

I'll go to sleep and dream of you,

put me to sleep with a lullaby and

find me in the clouds.

'I am not ok' she said while smiling a valiantly white bright grin, her teeth shining, ivory tusks embedded in pink gum.

'I never thought you were'

'But... no one is OK. Point me to someone who is OK and I will show you a wall built of paper cranes'

'So, you're the philosophizer now that you've tried acid.'

'Oh, you're a fucking idiot. Expand your mind it might due your brain some good. Stuck in that room all the time, get the fuck out! You're driving yourself crazy and by consequence you're driving ME crazy!'

Eyes offended, hurt, he looks at her, barely knows her anymore.

'You've changed' he says, his voice hiding a break in the vocals.

'Everyone does.'

I changed my sheets and you are now replaced and forgotten, your scent disappearing behind a cloudful of lavender scented Lysol. Pppppppppppppppfffffffffffftttttttttttttttttttt and goodbye.

The Musician happened into my life about a month or two ago. He plays the guitar, is incredibly introverted, but when he does bring out his self to play he's a lot of fun, surprisingly so. Very intuitive and sensitive, but at the same time kind of insecure and unsure of himself. He's so quiet people often forget they have met him time and time again. Until they see him on-stage and then he is remembered, engraved into the medulla oblongata, part of an exploding synapse somewhere in the left brain.

I'm dumping the booty call. I'm tired of the games and it's not really working for me. I thought I needed a bit of drama in my life but I am recalling that idea now. No, no drama.

El Club de Los Corazones Rotos. Maybe that could be the name of our band? We'd make really sad, slightly depressing music. Bittersweet tunes that move and console you. Bring you to tears and wipe them away and cuddle you. Sad Panda.

I had decided to call it off with the booty call. I was too emotionally involved, I was bound to get hurt. Nothing was clear, everything was blurry. Things got tangled, we tangled. I've been getting some off phonecalls from numbers I don't recognize. I thought for a fleeting second it was the booty call being funny, calling me and saying naughty things over the phone. I also got them as text messages. I decided to call him and ask him pointblank if it was him making the phone calls from an unidentified number, He said it wasn't and I believe him. Why do I still believe him after all of this? he has proven he isn't trustworthy, yet somehow I keep giving him more chances. When will I learn? He said he missed me, he always thinks of me. I always think of him as well, how can I not? He's been a part of my life on and off for the past 9 months. As much as I tried to keep him at an arm's length, he has found a way of infiltrating himself into my life and now it's so hard to extirpate him. I don't even know if I want to anymore.

Aural Orgasm

Salem - King Night from Sean Michael Pheanis on Vimeo

I absolutely fucking hate American Apparel's classic girl. Classic according to who? An 80's WASP advertisement?

This guy who I believe might be interested in me (and I say might because we've hung out a couple of times, and by hung out I mean listened to music and gotten stratosphericly high) called me just now to see what I was up to. I think he might have been trying to invite himself over, but I'm not really in the mood to hang out with anyone tonight so I dodged that self invite.

I usually don't mind people coming over and chilling, but it might be a bit weird because he's going to be travelling with the same rock band that the booty call is in this weekend. They're going to a different state that is eight hours away and I am kind of hoping my name doesn't come up, 'cause how awkward would that be?

Is it terrible that I am seeing a slew of different men? Keeping my options wide open. But not my legs 'cause I'm trying to be a proper bitch, not a 'ho bag bitch.

The Frenchman has been calling me at least once a day if not more. We chat about work, about golddiggers, about roommates. What the hell is going on? Je nais cest pas, but I am finding it enjoyable in some odd way. I absolutely love getting into these sorts of situations, eh? Internet affairs that go nowhere. Hey, do you live 30,000 km away? Why don't we start this incredibly meaningful Internet relationship where we'll both get frustrated, mistrustful and end up hating each other? Sounds like a fab idea! Count me in!

I'm sorta shaking the grey cloud that has been haunting my ass since last Friday. By sort of shaking I mean I haven't cried today (but then again, it's still early).

Blargh.