The rebels of my round merry arsehole

I catch myself running. I have to be smarter than the ones who chase me. It’s guerilla war. They never show their faces or true intentions. They hide behind the mask of acquaintances or friends.  They are the ‘oh poor me’ or the ‘I’ll criticize the most irrelevant things with a personal attack’ garden variety enemies. On their own they amount to shit, but they represent dogma, fear, self-righteousness. They are the vessels for the Powers That Be. I smile, nod, run. Don’t look back. Don’t answer.  Just flee, dodge, laugh, put on some fantastic music. Don’t even bother.

These ‘lovely’ chaps are dangerous in only one way. If you don’t see them for what they are and you let them in your life and secrets, you are in trouble. Their beady rat eyes observe everything and evaluate everything. Because thinking is hard, they judge*, and everything that does not fit their idea of acceptable is immediately a reason to tell you their opinion. They are not jealous, but envious. They began their lives as rebels, but lacking the guts to back their convictions, they gave up. They occupy a couch, shoot opinions on everything (especially matters related to your life and choices) and shake their heads on how you can possibly be so gullible and immature. Or they have always been underdogs. Woe is me. Please pity me, oh poor me. Pity pity pity. Hard titty said the kitty. Eat my panties.

I sometimes wish I could tell them my opinion without any censorship. However, this is what they do, and come on now, I’d never do that. Besides I am not here to tell anyone my opinion on anything. If they can’t see they are being assholes, who am I to enlighten them? My job here is to fantasise about my glorious hero Nuare spending hours pleasing my gorgeous hero Nemeryl. Or the Archduke of Vantir, Aristius, paying homage with his lips to the flesh of his stunning L’etilian slave and-king-to- be, Liland. My job is to watch good series, movies, read engrossing books. I live to serve myself and my own pleasure on all levels, and be kind to those who love me, and not behead those lacking the good taste to do so. My cats worship me. If cats worship me all humans should stand in awe of my personal achievement. Bwa ha ha!

Other than that, I have editing to do. So long, and thanks for all the pageviews. :P

*Carl Jung said that.

Some thoughts on "thank you".

You can call me self-centered or an attention whore. You can call me selfish. You can call me naive, but I am still going to write about this: it doesn't hurt to say "thank you".

I am a member of bookmooch.com, a very nice site for book exchange. The whole system operates on points. You give books you don't need, get points, then use those points to get books you want. Good? Good.

I have stated in my profile I don't mind sending books even if the other member doesn't have the necessary points. Anyone can message me and ask for a book and I will be only too happy to send it to them. What really matters to me is sending the books I don't need to those people who want them. So, when a member asked for a book and they didn't have points, I accepted. When I emailed them with my acceptance, they said it was very kind of me to do that. 

A month and a half passed. I emailed them and asked them if they had received the book. No answer whatsoever. Of course the book could have been lost in the post, or beamed up by aliens to another galaxy, but would it really hurt so much to write back and say, "Hi, I'm sorry, I haven't received it" or "Yes, thank you, it arrived"? That's all I expect. One line of text telling me they received it. And if I'm not asking for too much, two more words: thank you. They never replied to verify either scenario. And this is not a one time occurrence. I've lost count of the times I have given or sent something to someone without expecting reciprocation, to receive absolute silence as the answer. It doesn't happen only with bookmooch. It happens with everyone and everything. It's an overwhelming new mentality of goldfish attention span and thick skin. One would have thought I run a multidimensional scam operation and as soon as they said "thank you" their name would be automatically added to an infernal register and after that, they and their children and their children's children would be damned for all eternity to serve my dark lord Boiled Broccoli. I don't know what is to blame for this mentality. The wayward planets? The overuse of mobiles? The anarchist communist black Jews who are the Saurians who hide behind the Freemasons who rule the White house by shooting laser beams from their asscheeks? Or maybe the fact so many people live, drive, fuck with their heads so deeply shoved inside their asses they have no clue? Your guess is as good as mine.

Hey. Yes, you. All those 'you' I've come across. I only want to know you got the damn book. Saying "I received it, thank you" does not hurt you in any way. Acknowledging isn't shameful. It doesn't affect your statutory rights. It doesn't affect your health, lifestyle or coiffure. But it does affect mine. It makes me less and less willing to send anything to anyone when they can't be arsed to spend maybe thirty seconds of their glamorous life to type a few words and press the 'send' button. It makes me angry and frustrated that humans pay attention to you only if they have something to gain. It makes me consider not giving anything for free ever again, but hell, I don't want to become like the ones I described. I enjoy giving. I enjoy making others smile. 

Maybe that's my real problem.

Catch 22

I love writing. I swear I do. But there are times I stare at the screen and want to break it. I feel beyond tired, beyond exhausted, beyond empty. 

What gives value to our efforts is time. The more time you spend on an activity, the more important it becomes for you. The reason you hate giving up on a person or activity you've spent years on is exactly that; time. Time is what validates everything, and it cannot be replaced, influenced, bought or brought back. It's the coin we give in exchange for meaning, the one parameter that cannot be omitted in the equation of understanding. It's the funniest thing; every passing moment brings more meaning to our life while making it smaller by that same amount of time. 

Time passes, inevitably, inexorably, mercilessly. The same eyes that stared at me in the mirror years ago stare back at me now, and yet I am not the same person. The only thing that authenticates our existence, makes us mature, that may even make us happy, is the thing that kills us. So I suppose what we should do is use it wisely. Choose what to do with the time we have at our disposal.

There is enough time for everything.

Everything happens in the right time.

So billions of people before me thought, and so billions of people after me will think. 

That they have time.

Oh, I know, I know, I am becoming obsessive; I am losing sight of the bigger picture. There is happiness out there too. Love, friendship, hobbies, art, so many sources of joy, so many distractions. Right now I could be out, seeking love, or friendship, or cheap thrills of any kind. Most of the time this translates as discussing existential questions with people who don't understand what it means to exist. It's so much fun. I see through all. I see their despair, their need to be loved, and the wrong ways they try to achieve it. I see through humans. I see through them and they are dirty, they are desperate, they are petty and disgusting. Then I feel pity for them, and for the human race as a whole, and I include myself in it. I see the very foundations of their misconceptions, the roots of their deprivation, and I still manage to feel pity because I know what they crave is love. They crave what they never had, or what they had a twisted ghost of. And so they make the same mistakes again and again and marvel at the fact the result is the same, they marvel at the fact they get hurt again and again. And one day, there is no more time to make the same mistakes. As Buddha said, the problem is, you think you have time. You don't. You fucking don't.

I am a hermit by choice, voicing out my deepest thoughts and needs to those few ones I know won't hurt me. They won't judge me for how weak or silly I may be, the same way I won't pass judgement on the rest of humanity for how silly and petty and desperate they are. I am spending my days and nights in front of a screen, working on a book, making it better, trimming it, polishing it, making it as good as I can. I could be out, talking to others, listening to the same questions and the same answers for the umpteenth time. I choose not to. I choose to walk the streets alone at dusk, talking to flowers and trees instead of humans, listening to music or the breeze or the chatter of birds instead of my own kind. Because I know my own kind cannot give me answers. The only answer is found in the silent toil in front of a screen, rewriting, erasing, perfecting what I have created. 

 

I don’t expect fame, or money, or even understanding. There is a story that needs to be told, it demands to be released out there. I struggle with so many demons to make that happen. I struggle with boredom, CVs, tiredness, headache, a language that’s not my mother tongue, distractions, and you wouldn’t have guessed it; time. I struggle with all those demons inside and outside and word by word I carve my way, sweating with the effort, cursing, despairing, straining like I am carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I write and erase and re-read and re-write and ache, literally ache with how long it takes, and how that time will never be returned to me, and it will be what makes this book important. It’s the one parameter that gives it meaning. It’s the payment I have to make to make it work. A part of my life, countless hours, days, months spent on it, and looking back I don’t regret a single moment. I just wonder what kind of life this is, and what it offers.

I don’t write to be loved or get laid. I write because there is no other way I’d rather spend that time. There is nothing else I love more in order to devote that time to that person or activity. I know that once the book is out some will love me for it, and some will hate me for it. It makes no difference. They do not know how many nightfalls found me struggling over a keyboard, how many dawns found me re-reading the same text with aching eyes. They cannot comprehend the happiness I experienced while I watched it take form bit by bit. They can’t understand the frustration I had to overcome, the resolve I had to show, the pain of not finding the right word or the next occurrence. They can’t guess how many days and nights I spent walking empty streets and listening to music in order to untangle a part of the plot. They can’t possibly know I chose that over going out and meeting with friends, or seeking love. And all these facts are also the reasons they can’t take it from me. They can’t make me regret, or change my mind, or doubt whether I spent my time wisely. No-one can make me hate it or disregard it. I know what I did. I know why I did it; because nothing else would have made me happier. That’s why. And the reason I wrote it like I did is because I, and not someone else, wrote it.

Next time you read a book, remember you are bearing witness to how a part of someone’s life was spent. I wish you to be lucky enough to come across those books that were written because the writer loved them so much they wouldn’t have spend that time in a different way. I wish you to find those books that they’re not the voice of the writer, but all those voices of dusks walked in silence, and dawns that arrived without any sleep. I wish you to find those books the writer had no choice but to complete, or go crazy with the voices inside their head. 

I hope my book will be one of them. I hope my book will be as deep and as quenching for your thirst as it was for mine.

Time, time, time.

Will I ever find the one who will make me forget about writing for a while?

Where are you?

Maybe you’ll show up in due time.

Time. Ha ha ha.

God/dess, I am so tired. But there is writing to be done.

Goodnight.

(If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.)

Love

What do you do to deal with the inadequacy of every day life?

What can you do to deal with the fact you are isolated inside a body and will be so for the rest of your life?

I thought I saved myself from danger and my own temperament that loves tragedy and impossible loves but in reality I opened the door and stepped out of life. I left everything behind, and as the piano pours out one melody after the next, I watch life from behind the window like a beggar outside a busy restaurant. I watch everyone else eat and have a good time. I cannot enter because I don't fit. I never did. Or so I used to think.

The line that 'killed' me came from an excellent TV series called True Detective. It was about how each of us considers ourselves to be something more than a collection of biological urges. Each of us considers ourselves to be more real than the rest, each of us thinks that our perception and life is more real than other people's. And we are all the same, a pitiful bundle of flesh and urges wanting to go on and condemned to die. We crave reproduction and power even when we claim that our causes are noble, even when we dress our desires with a higher meaning.

I crave the sky. I crave death. I crave freedom. I crave life. I crave godhood like the protagonist of 'Perfume'.

I am a bloody idiot.

I am no different than anyone else, just better at deceiving myself. Smarter than most, enough to muddle my thinking with my own mind games. I have exiled love from my life and feel comfortably numb, empty and safe, unfulfilled and manic. Yet I go on. I despise my own biology for condemning me to these urges because I have glimpsed something else, bigger, better, different. And at the same time I realise just how silly I am to despise something that is perfectly innocent, my body. And also because what I have glimpsed may be nothing else but Love. Love as in everlasting Love, that we try to bring down to our human size and try to live it as best as we could, reducing it and twisting it to something we can understand.

When the protagonist of True Detective briefly crossed over what he found was Love.

I am almost there. Almost at the point of understanding.

Almost at breaking point, where everything will make sense once more.

All I need is to take one more step, even if I have to crawl.

Open the door again, even if my hands are shaking and I am absolutely terrified.

Welcome back to the game.

Welcome back now that you know how everything is connected.

Breathe. You are safe.

Just breathe. The rest will follow.

Officially beat and writing fan-fiction.

 Australian flying foxes (species of bats) . All together now: AAAAAAAWWWWWWW!

Running around like mad today. I am glad I managed to get things done. But, presently I feel that awkward combination of tiredness, being hyper and restless and craving something I can't get my finger on.

Oh, I actually can get my finger on it just fine, I just can't have what I want, thank you very much.

I do wish I had the same unshakable resolve when it came to eating sweets. I wouldn't look the way I do.

This is a combination of all the wrong things creating a nice potent combination of melancholy, arousal, useless passion and low self-esteem. I do like myself, very much in fact. Enough to dislike most people I come across because their moral code is not as strict as mine. I do not judge them. I just do not like them and know I can expect very little from them. At the same time I am perfectly aware of my own faults and the cracks in my own mask of so-called perfection. I am an unlikely combination of a misanthrope joined at the hip with an altruist. Most of the time I want to rebuild this world, and then there are times I just want to destroy it all, crush it under my heel and let nature, gods or chance sort the mess out. I see right through most humans I come across, and I am bored, and sick of them, sick of life, bored of death, simultaneously uncaring and desperate, perpetually thirsty and locked up and unavailable like the goddamn frost maiden, sick of myself and clinging onto myself like a baby at its dead mother's tit.

I am just tired, and nothing will change unless I get off my ass and change it.

The trouble is that I am scared out of my wits, absolutely terrified of what will happen if I even try.

I do try. Baby steps, tiny little baby steps, little by little. Better than no steps at all.

I get discouraged every two to three steps. I think I will never make it, never go anywhere, never reach any safe place. Just remain stuck here.

I write fan fiction to quench my thirst for the unattainable. I have no other solution. I write my own version of marriages made in hell and my insolent fingers play the chords of the wrong characters like they are harps. I toy with them from a safe distance and pretty much write like there are demons on my heels. Twelve thousand words in just three days and I am not done yet. You see, there are indeed demons on my heels. They are called CV, job finding, and the rest of that unhappy lot. Give me villains, serial killers, the cream of lunatics. None of them terrifies me as much as the word 'resume'. Give me man-eating men and monsters, give me sadists, pedophiles, the lowest of the low. Anything you want. I will write it for you and make it rock your world, or even better, write it and rock my world till my titties are salsa-dancing. Just keep the job search and the CV editing away from me. I am absolutely terrified. 

I head back to my fan-fiction. I am writing this for myself, I say, and yet I can't help not share with my best friend. She is the only one who will not call me weak and stupid, will ignore my improvisations and not judge me.

Even monsters need a friend. Even gods of death need a home. Everyone needs to belong somewhere, to a person, place, or the memory of one.

By the way, I have not forgotten you. I still expect a letter from you. Then I remember you are gone. And the God of Death comes and gives to that knife stuck in my gut that charming extra twist.

I have so very, very few friends. The tiniest portion of humans manage to pass the threshold into my heart and every single one of them is not treated as a friend, but as a small miracle.

In your case, someone decided to take the miracle back.

I am patient. I will dig that little bastard out and sooner or later I'll be the one holding the knife.

The pen is mightier than the sword indeed. 

Empaths suck a donkey's ass.

There are days that I seriously wonder why the hell I keep trying.

It’s one of those days.

For the good things that will come in the future?

Yeah, right. Judging by how many good things have come my way already, I should have thrown in my towel years ago.

Come on then. Bring on the good stuff. I am already out of here mentally. I might be out of here literally unless something good happens. I am not referring to dreams or swaps or reading books or meeting with friends. I am talking about something tangible, practical, happening in real life. I am one step before I collapse and decide I don’t want to get out of bed anymore, because there is no point whatsoever.

Do something. There has to be something more to life than eating, bathing and dragging myself from one meaningless chore to another.

I am sick of this so-called life.

I am sick of everyone and everything.

There must be something I am doing wrong.

Some clue I have missed.

This can’t be real.

I feel dead,

cheated,

used up,

gone.

And even as I write this I know nothing is going to change. It's personal, isn't it?

Yes it is.

Hm.

Here is some Ian Somerhalder because it's a better option than taking pills and slitting my wrists or something equally melodramatic and stupid.

 

Empty skins

I have become an outsider. I don’t know any of your friends and feel cut off for good. I loved you so much and now I am an outsider because you, the link that united us all, are not here, and I don’t know if I like any of those people. I knew you, I loved you, I cared about you, and all I have left from you are letters, emails, messages and a circle of total strangers, some of them famous, who knew you personally and I have no place among them.

At night I listen to music and you come to my mind, and the pain just blooms and withers, blooms and withers, like blood escaping from an open wound. Each heartbeat makes it expand and vanish, expand and vanish in flowers of scarlet. I feel so awkward, so isolated in my mourning because I can’t share it with anyone who knew you. I was just the random person who happened to land in your circle because you opened your arms and took me into your embrace and now you’re gone.

How the fuck am I supposed to deal with that?

Oh, I go on, don’t worry, I go on and write and breathe and brush my teeth and suffer fools gladly just like I did before you were gone. But sometimes during the day or late at night I extend my hand and touch a solid object and then once more realise you are no longer here. The indisputable reality of matter under my touch just makes your absence bigger, harder to swallow and completely irrational. I can’t, won’t wrap my head around the fact you’re no longer here. I know I could talk to you about everything and anything, I could tell you my troubles and you would understand, and even if you failed to understand you’d never judge, and then you’d say something funny or try to offer me advice or relate something from your own life. I speak of my troubles to so few people, and you were one of them, and now, you’re one of them no longer and I hit the keys on my computer and cry and nothing changes. No matter how long and how hard I cry, what I write or don’t say, what I do or don’t dare, there will never be another conversation with you, there will never be another letter from you, and no-one will understand me the way you did.

I just miss you so much my silly Finnigami.

I miss you so much it’s like time has stopped.

If I could get my hands on Time I’d strangle the living daylights out of him for the trick he pulled on us both.

Damn it.

In and out

Tired again.

Slept late both on Sunday and Saturday and now I am sleepy and just a little bit cranky. :( I am cranky because I want to do things and as per usual there are one thousand obstacles, as if I am trying to kill someone. I don’t think that there are obstacles because what I am trying to do is wrong, but rather, because what I am trying to do is right. :( 

I am more than 84 kilos, which is not good. I ought to eat something sweet to drown my sorrows. ;D Ha ha!

Somehow everything is useless, and somehow everything matters. I do so many things, try so hard, and see no change whatsoever, no improvement in my life, nothing better, nothing different, as if I don’t try at all. 

The temptation not to try at all becomes very strong sometimes. Why try? It’s not like something is going to change anyway, so why even bother? But if I do nothing, I’ll most definitely go mad. 

Last year around this time I was trying to help a kitten live, and he didn’t make it. Don’t pat me on the back and tell me that I tried, I know I did. And just as he had started purring while we were feeding him, he died. 

Now don’t you dare fucking tell me that I tried and that’s what matters. I am going to rip your fucking throat out because what really matters is that no matter how much I try, it’s to no avail. And that matters a lot more than any effort I make. Result carries a lot more weight than merely trying and trying, and the result was, once more, death. For all my efforts, once more, death. And I tried so much with him.

Sometimes I am certain that the reason I came to this world was to have my heart broken into a million pieces again, and again, and again. I am not sure if I can find the pieces anymore, let alone put them together. I am just here so that someone can be amused, and use me as a chew toy. Beth thinks she is Loki’s chew toy and this enrages me, but it turns out I am no better. Just a chew toy. And no matter how much I try, and try, and try, nothing will ever change, and I’ll never find the one responsible and kick their ass until it gets wrapped around their heads. Unless I go, and then what’s the point? If I am already dead, there is obviously no point.

“I still catch myself being sad over things that don’t matter anymore.”

If that makes me human, what the fuck is it that makes me happy and whole?

At least the ‘Umbersun’ is playing, and it soothes my heart with its darkness. Thank fuck for Elend. I would have written, “thank god”, but tonight god can go fuck himself as far as I am concerned.   

There is one thing that can calm my heart, going to the rooftop again. Looking at the stars somehow makes it all better, and then once more nothing makes sense. In the rest of my life absolutely nothing makes sense. It never did, yet in the past I wasn’t as tired and sick of everything as I am now. I know right from wrong, I know the value of each thing and at the same time nothing of what I know by heart and by instinct applies to the world I live in. It just makes no sense. My inner compass is so strong, so certain of what I must do and why I must do it. So I follow my inner guidance and what happens is that I am merely saved in the nick of time, or put on waiting forever, or I am thrashed around perpetually for good measure. Nothing comes to fruition, nothing grows, nothing happens, I just exist to be used as someone’s amusement.

Is this fucking war? And if it is, where are my reinforcements?

If any of you knew how tired I am. All those people who chat with me and laugh at my jokes and thank me for my swaps. I am so, fucking, tired, that I hold it together by the skin of my teeth and not even that, I am slipping, slipping, slipping, and losing it, I am losing it all, meaning, purpose, sanity. Hope was the first to go. I try to function on an everyday basis for the sake of my own safety and sanity, I try to function and try to be polite, and try to be nice, but there is no end to my despair, no end to my anger. I am hollow and blackened and dead inside, disillusioned, dead, so fucking dead, I feel 90 years old and used and wasted and stupid, the only person who didn’t get the joke in a room of laughing people. There is nothing funny here, nothing funny at all, just stupidity and shallow, scared people, putting on a show for the sake of society, putting on a show for the sake of faces, and they are the real monsters, they are the real hollow ones, and I want to kill each and every one of them, I want to strangle them with their expensive handbags and crush their bones using their expensive cars, I want to flay them and tear their eyes out, I want to do terrible things to them and I keep it together, keep it down, keep it secret and cool and keep smiling and nodding and walking and eating and going to work every day as if it changes something, and it changes nothing. It changes nothing. And they won't let me be. He comes to me, blind, blind as the rest, lazy, chasing his own tail, pretending to be alternative, in reality just another pitiful junkie of his own self- loathing, and asks me for my opinion, and I want to be so mean, I want to spit on him and kick him away, and it’s not my place to be mean or to be his therapist and so I shut my mouth. And she comes to me demanding that I take my dog away, because her grandchildren are coming and they are afraid of a 15- year-old fat dog with arthritis that can barely move. And she demands that I take the dog away NOW, and I want to grab her by the hair and knock her head on the opposite wall, because she has turned her grandchildren into crippled, useless individuals. She lives in a country that you can’t go anywhere without coming across stray dogs, and unless they get familiarised with dogs they won't be able to go outside their home without being scared; still she claims I am the weird one and don’t understand. So I once more shut my mouth. But one day I won’t be able to shut my mouth anymore, and unless something happens to convince me that there is indeed some kind of universal, higher justice than the one I hold in my hands, someone will die or end up in hospital. And I try not to let that happen if I can. But if it continues going likewise, then I won’t be able to keep it together for much longer. So if there are indeed reinforcements on the way, now it would be a good time for them to show up. Or even better yesterday. Know what I mean?

A change of plans

We’re such a silly race. We cling onto our plans and carefully designed routes with single-minded ferociousness.

We fear change and anything that threatens to throw us off course. At least off the course we had thought as ideal. We’re so silly and scared. I am so silly and scared. Going with the flow is supposedly the easiest thing to do, yet how unwilling I am to do that. How scared I am of any kind of commitment on any level and for any reason. 

A friend wrote to me in one of her letters, “I always had an escape route handy in case something went wrong.” I know exactly what she means, and this is how I usually plan my life too. Making sure I need to rely on no-one except myself, and if relying on someone cannot be avoided, I certainly don't choose to rely on someone I am evolved with in an erotic manner. Depending on my lover is my greatest nightmare. I want to be free. I want no power games or need involved. I want to be myself, and approach someone because I feel the need for companionship. Not their help. Feeling helpless drives me nuts, being in need for something only another person can provide makes me beside myself with distaste and annoyance. It’s actually better than what it was; in the past I got sick with self-loathing whenever I even thought about such a possibility. I probably am the most deluded fool of all, wanting to exist alone in a perfect void, where desire and need cannot take root. This cannot happen, such a state of being cannot be achieved. Not while I am still human. Perhaps at some other point. Oh no, you will not capture me again, I say to desire, I will never again be your prisoner, as if desire is the executor, or the bad guy. And this coming from a person who’s nothing but desire in its purest form. I have the ability to bridge and understand and download and merge and shape, using desire as my guide, and the one thing I do understand to a frightening degree is desire. Yet I struggle against it tooth and claw. At least the erotic type of it, because I splurge in every other type. They’re safe. They cannot make me depend, or humiliate me. I have avoided drugs and alcohol and every single option of desire that can make me lose control. The rest, yeah right, bring it on. I’ll dive head into it. Music, any kind of art, food, pets, even friends have been safe choices. Never sex or love. They are the dangerous choices. And even with friends, I make sure to choose the ones I can guide and help to my advantage and therefore control most of the time. Sad freaks, those choosing not to play the game. Sad addicts, those choosing to play it. And I pretend to be standing in the middle ground. Yeah, right. Jesusing my way on the angry sea. You go, girl.

If only there was a way to re-acquaint myself with erotic desire in a safe way, with no strings attached and no stupid power games. With respect, responsibility and an open mind. Then again, if pigs could fly… (I would make swarms of them circle the houses of those I hate, and shit on them non-stop. Ha ha!) Yet, strangely, my best friend has managed the balance. Maybe I can do it too.

Sometimes the cure to a very unusual problem is an equally unusual solution.

The solution in my case, strangely enough, involves death in an indirect manner.

Not my death, and not through my hands. I did my part seven years ago. It nearly killed me, yet I did my part. I tagged you and I wait.

Let me hear good news from that front. Please.

In the mean time, I’m ovulating. Pretty boys, cover your rear. The butt chasing menace is out there, salivating and making gurgling noises. Need I tell you how dangerous she is for the sanctity of your butt? No sir.

The voices inside my head.

Liz: No, no, don't do it that way. Too easy. It's just too easy. Plus, if every time something wrong happens she appears and saves the day, there is no stopping it. She'll be deus ex machina every goddamn time. You can't do this.

Elizabeth: Yeah, smartass. And what do you propose? He saw them, he will alert the rest. What if they kill him? This is the logical thing to do.

Elizadeath: I want to die. It's all meaningless. I don't know why I bother writing. It's going to be a failure anyway. I'll never be good enough. English is not my first language. Why do I even try?

Liz and Elizabeth in one voice: SHUT UP, MORON.

Liz: They can't kill him. She won't allow it, and none is powerful enough to do it. He has to stay alive. But if he remains alive, cut the memory loss crap. It just isn't a good idea. Work your way around it.

Elizabeth: For the fuck of love. Why make things complex? He saw them, she erased his memory. If he dies it will be World War three in London. The Overseers from the other capitals will fly there and then London will be turned upside down. Two out of three protagonists will have to flee. How the hell am I supposed to write a book with two of them in different countries?

Elizadeath: I have become so fat. My tummy is like I am pregnant. I will never get laid again. Look at how white my hair has become. I want to die. I want to eat an ice-cream. Everything is meaningless.

Liz and Elizabeth: SHUT UP, MORON.

Liz: Plus the "erase the memory" thing is basic in Identity Crisis. You cannot do that, you know it's not really a solution. You really need to find another way of doing it. Even if it means killing him.

Elizabeth: I thought about that. I am not sure I can handle the way this will go if I kill him. Simple solutions always work best.

Liz: That's not a simple solution. It's a sell-off. You can do better than insult the intelligence of your readers. You need to find another way to do it. Quit it already with the 'no can do' routine. You can, and you'll do.

Elizabeth: Arrrrrghhhhh I hate you! I fucking hate you! You make my life hell!

Liz: But you know I am right.

Elizadeath: Stop arguing. You're giving me a headache. Life is meaningless. No-one loves me.

Liz and Elizabeth: SHUT UP, MORON.

Elizadeath: Whatever. I am making tea. Who wants some tea?

Liz: Roasted Japanese tea for me.

Elizabeth: Vanilla flavoured black tea for me.

Elizadeath: Fuck you. I am making some rosemary. Make your own.

Liz: Eat my shit and die.

Elizabeth: Get stuffed.

Elizadeath raises her middle finger to both and goes off to make tea.

Both pictures taken from here: http://pavel-petel.tumblr.com/

Yahoo, relationships, and the hermit's point of view.

It's  been five days that I have no access to my primary email account, the one I have registered for almost all social sites I use. Facebook, this blog, bookmooch, thealterium, twitter, tumblr, vistaprint and youtube are connected to it (to name the majority). If I permanently lose access to that account I have a lot of work ahead of me. It's not going to be fun. Let's hope the technicians will be able to fix whatever is wrong with it because I am not the only one who has a problem from what they say.

Sometimes I wonder why we do what we hate being done to us, like judging.

And sometimes I don't think. Judging is so tightly woven into human nature that it's impossible to avoid.

I've been in a void of partly my own choice. Away from erotic relationships. I don't want to change that.

It resembles unlearning to eat candy. If you unlearn it, you no longer feel the craving for it from a point onward.

It's not like I feel no craving.I just don't want to bother with all that ensue a relationship and intimacy with another person. It's not worth it. I am tired of the trial and error process relationships are. I want to keep my quiet, for the rest of my life if possible.  Not bother what this and that and the other means.

I look around me. I am not blind. Erotic relationships have an expiration date. Those that stay with the other person even after the interest has died out are pretty much buried alive. They stay because they have a child, or joined bank accounts, or they are afraid, or whatever really. Is any of that a valid reason to stay with a person for the rest of your life? Or is it better to stay with one person and cheat on them because you still want to have interesting sex?

We never really get to know anyone. People are like moons, with a hidden side.

We always think we know others and ourselves.

In reality we know shit.

We make relationships with strangers that remain strangers throughout and even after the end of the relationship.

And how surprised we are when we find out we knew nothing about them and never found out anything, even after years.

All this makes me sick.

There must be a way I can play by different rules, or failing that, not play at all.

I am seeing strange dreams.

I always see strange dreams.

I don't want to do what any of the rest of you do.

I want to play with your perception of reality.

I want to fuck with you and fuck off.

And I am outta here.