Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Does anyone even understand the probability of another shooting happening at a separate showing of the Dark Knight Rises? Or even at an entirely different movie. How can you possibly have anxiety over something like that? Are you afraid to go to high school or college because of Columbine and Virginia Tech? I honestly don’t understand. It was a shooting. At least twenty shootings happen a year, mainly on school or college campuses. But fuck, are you freaking out about going to college? No, you’re probably not. In fact, you’re probably fucking excited to go to college. Most people are, it’s normal. Six shootings have happened this year alone. A fucking former student went back to his high school and randomly shot students. Are you afraid an alum from your high school is going to come back and randomly put a bullet through your head? No. That’s ridiculous. So is going to see, I don’t know, MIB3 and being in fear or your life throughout the entire thing. Or not enjoying the movie because you’re too busy keeping your eyes on the emergency exits. Or eyeing anyone with a bag because maybe, just maybe, they have a gun in it… You get the point. It is an unecessary burden to your life to be afraid that anywhere you go you could potentially be shot and killed. People die. Every day. It is a basic part of life. No matter what you do, whether it’s checking the mail or going to school, your life could end during it. Shit happens. But you know what? Life doesn’t come to a screeching halt when it does. Now please, for the love of God, go see a fucking movie and shut up.

Friday, July 20, 2012

Sex is not a goddamn performance. Sex should feel as natural as drinking water. It should not require confidence. Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe. Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire. You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh. It’s not about being “good in bed.” It’s about being happy. One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough. What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you. Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later. Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be. I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this. I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want. It’s originality. It’s passion. It’s joy. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception. I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way. “Good in bed,” what. You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you. Show your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel. This isn’t a test.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

"His kiss was like white lightning, A flash that spread, and spread again, and stayed."

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Most of the time, it blows my mind how inadequate I am.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

This Just In:

Here's some shitty poem I wrote in middle school:

Look down on me,
Like I'm something you envy.
Beat me,
Like I'm something you're not.
Treasure me,
Like I'm all you have left.
Love me,
Like I once was dead.
Mold me,
Like your own.
Worship me,
As I sit on your throne.
Carry me,
Throughout the forest.
This life.
This life.
Is not your own.
Treasure it.
Love it.
Mold it.
Worship it.
For this is all you have.
For this is the last.
For this is the dead.
Beat me,
Like you did your mother.
Mourn me,
Like you did your father.
Worship me,
Like you did the knife.
Destroy me,
Like you did your life.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

It literally, or more so metaphorically, blows my ragged mind with how idiotic everyone is. If it isn't some brother telling his friends how annoying you are or agreeing that you did, in fact, deserve to have a knife pulled on you and kicked in the face, it's your white trash mother throttling you with pathetic threats. If you were a stronger person, this would not happen and you need to recognize that sooner rather than later.

Katie, you need to learn how to stop caring what they think about you and use them for all they have. Ignore your brother, steal from your mother, use your father for money. They're all expendable anyway, so it's not as if you'll actually be hurting anybody by doing so. You only have to put up with them and their bullshit antics for another year, which, when your pathetic little brain thinks about it enough, is not that long. You will have freedom, money, a license, and hopefully will no longer be pining away over some boy who wants nothing to do with your chemically imbalanced mind. Everything in your life is an illusion, so try not to take everything so goddamn seriously. You will literally be feeding off the lower life of the white trash community of your small fucking town until February, then your ass can do whatever. Go on dates, get a job, fucking kill them for all I care. Just grow some balls and defend yourself when they threaten you. No wonder he's embarrassed by you. I fucking am and I'm a PART OF YOU. If a part of you feels like you're a fucking moron, then who else can you trust?

Fucking grow a pair.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

I just really wish things would actually work out at all.