Moff and Flickerlee

This is so cute it should be illegal and so sad it should be posted with a warning. It made me cry. Or maybe I am too sentimental and fragile right now, I don't know.

Taken from here: http://stressedjenny.deviantart.com/gallery/41817441/Moff-and-Flickerlee

Toxic relationships

Some relationships are toxic.

My most toxic relationship is the one I have with my mother.

I do my best to avoid toxic relationships, however it is very difficult to avoid the person I live in the same house with.

None of us is working right now and this means we spend a lot of time together. It's not quality time.

Many years ago, my mother decided to have a child in order to have someone to love and support her.

I am the 'lucky' child in person. 

She is not the first parent to make that mistake. A lot of parents think that a child will be a way to complete their happiness, expecting to receive a lot more than they are willing to give. A safe investment kind of thing. Make a child and it will make you happy.

Really?

Make a child and you will feel proud and completed.

If you want to feel proud and completed, nothing like taking a good shit to give you that warm and fuzzy feeling. Instead of making a child, add some fibre to your diet and drink lots of water. Satisfaction guaranteed.

I will never be good enough for my mother.

I am not good enough because my value as a human being is in direct relation to my weight. If I am thin and beautiful, I am good. I please her. Therefore she has to police my eating to make sure I'll keep pleasing her. Never mind the fact she is fifteen to twenty kilos overweight. That's another thing.

I am not good enough because I have friends she does not approve of. Right now, with me nearing my forties, she still expects me to spend time with her and not have friends. Or have friends, but you know, they should not be as important as she is in my life. And as she pointed out, what kind of person is happier to meet with her friends instead of spending time with her mother?

I am not good enough because I am stupid, I don't take notice of what's happening around me, a nonsensical immature little idiot who prefers cutting bits of paper and playing with stickers than doing something mature and more 'my age'. For example, watch TV by her side. Now that would be a mature and responsible thing to do, unlike writing letters and crafting.

I am not good enough because I am an introvert and I don't like mindless socialising. 

I am not good enough because I am 37 and still have not married and haven't had any children of my own. 

I am not good enough because it is perfectly okay to spend most of our monthly income feeding stray animals, but if I want to fix my glasses, go out for coffee or go to the doctor that's not really necessary or important. 

I am not good enough because my value as a human being is in direct relationship to how much I please her. Ideally we should be like conjoined twins and I should spend every hour of my day and every day of my life revolving around her, a blissful little planet orbiting around her pleasant personality.

You know what, mom?

Fuck you.

Fuck you and your ideas and your experiences and your understanding of reality.

Fuck you and your emotional blackmailing and your manipulation and your guilt trips.

Fuck your love under conditions.

Fuck your kindness under obligation.

Fuck you. I am going to find a way to do what I want.

I may not be good enough for you, but that's okay.

I am good enough for me.

I am good enough for my friends.

I am good enough for everyone except you, it seems.

And you know what?

I am perfectly happy with it. 

I don't need to be good enough for you.

I don't need you.

I just need me.

Depressed

Today I am awfully depressed.

I read somewhere that depression is pretty much like the weather. Some believe that if you just ignore it and shrug it off, it will pass. It is not so. When depression hits, it hits me hard. I am not sure why I feel that way, but I do. Just like I am not sure why some days it is raining buckets, but it is, when I am depressed I can't shrug it off or ignore it. It won't go away. It will take its time, will do a full circle and then it will pass.

One of the reasons I am depressed is the fact I have very few friends, and unless I call them first, they very rarely do. I am not sure why they don't. Maybe they don't want to pressure me or they have their own stuff to deal with. In fact I do know they have their own stuff to deal with. But a phone call would be more than welcome. I know that since I am feeling depressed I should call them, but you know what, I am tired of always picking up the phone first. Sometimes I want to see how long it will be before they call me, how many days it will be before they realise I have not called them. Sometimes even if I do call them they won't call me back. Does it matter? No. The whole thing will just make me even more depressed. It's a lose-lose situation either way. I hate feeling dependable on others and yet I can't live alone. That's how humans were made and hardwired: to depend on others. To have a family and friends. I loathe my family, or simply put up with them with amused annoyance, and on days like this I feel like I always give to my friends more than I receive. And I am not sure if something can be done about it and what that is. I probably need to meet more and different people, or just accept my situation. 

I should go out and take a long walk just like I do when I am feeling so low. I resemble a bird with a chain around its leg. No matter how far I go, I am forced to always return to my nest, to home sweet hell. 

I am not sure what can be done about me in general. Time passes and I feel like options close instead of opening in spite of my efforts and everything I do. I know I am depressed and see everything distorted right now and I should not worry about it too much. I should ride the wave and let it pass. Because it will pass. No matter what happens, I will press on.

I just wish I didn't feel that it is pointless. I wish I did not feel so empty inside. That's all.

Learning Excel online

Perfect example of an elven king tailor-made for the purpose I describe below: Thranduil from the Hobbit.

It mostly hurts after a while. It feels like someone is repeatedly rubbing half onions on my back. I want to do something else than clicking on boxes, calculating sums and dragging ranges. Like a good girl, I suck it up and sigh. And dream of elven kings with long blond hair, who are so snobbish even dust avoids settling on them, fearing their disapproval. As a way to blow off steam, I dream that I am chasing the aforesaid king on horseback. In a field full of brambles. And he is terrified, on foot and wearing absolutely nothing. And I am holding a flogging stick and hit him for extra encouragement. There's probably a hapless human in there too, and I am sure he or she is the creator of Excel. They are an easy target; sooner or later they will collapse inside a bramble bush, and I'll leave them to find the way out on their own. 

So the elven king runs for dear life, his testicles dangling about like a meaty pendulum, his penis making a flapping sound against his thighs, his wide back golden pink in colour and full of crisscrossing red welts, his legs covered in scratches, his firm, muscular butt poetry in motion, and I yell like a banshee from the back of my horse. Run, motherfucker, run! Run because when I catch you I'll have a distinguished elven aristocrat for supper and guess what, you'll be the main course! 

If I keep going, I am pretty certain eventually he will stumble and fall. I hope he lands face first on a pile of horse or bear shit. And rest assured I'll jump off the horse and step on his head to make it sink deeper in it.

(What do you mean this is just too cruel? It's a mating ritual. You wouldn't understand. The way these fuckers pose and their behaviour manages to tickle all the wrong anatomical bits of me, unfortunately together with the right ones.) 

The reason my basic hero in that other story (/book/ trilogy/ saga) is a dark elf, is that they usually are stronger, faster, and more vicious than any pure-blooded, arrogant, belonging to a superior race and blessed by the gods elf. And they have absolutely no qualms about punching those arrogant dickbags in the face and bloodying their perfect noses. In fact there's nothing they, or their maker, would enjoy more than that. So I cackle with glee and go back to learning Excel. Maybe one day I'll write that story. Maybe not. Let me finish with what I'm halfway through first, and we'll see about that.

Here is the site I am using to learn Excel, if you feel like torturing yourselves:

http://www.excel-easy.com/

https://youtu.be/8L1OVkw2ZQ8 

And here are some more Thranduil photos in case you want to have a better look. ;)

A sincere cover letter

I am trying to write a cover letter to include with my CV. It's one of the most boring activities someone can engage in, with advanced accounting and being whipped to build an Egyptian pyramid being marginally worse. I am tempted to write a sincere cover letter praising my unique and amazing abilities, like being able to discover the petting spots that turn cats into goo, writing good porn with just about any gender and species involved, regularly producing farts of outstanding potency and duration, and being able to make successful divination with a thesaurus. The more I struggle with inane templates of cover letters and the pompous statements they contain, the more facial ticks I develop. So here is a cover letter guaranteed to land you the dream job you were always looking for, or a place in jail and one hell of a reputation.

Dear Sir/ Madam,

I am writing to apply for the position of Exalted Asslicker in your prestigious company of nitwits and attention whores.

I am a unique and highly resourceful individual, managing to stay out of jail although I can't pay any of my bills due to the current political situation. I am a fast learner, competent in bullshitting or threatening to have it my way, and adaptable to any situation, including zombie apocalypse. In my last job we were adequately trained in shooting the delivery boy and one of the accountants if they were late. I can cope with a vast range of administrative tasks while balancing a waffle with ice-cream on my left ear and juggling with living piranha. I am fully capable of prioritizing my workload, putting porn and masturbation on top and leaving office work for the clerk I am blackmailing with photos of his current affair. I am motivated by cocaine and fueled by speed, have a gangster attitude and love learning new skills, like ritualistic sacrifice, taxidermy and shibari (Japanese bondage). My communication skills are excellent; everyone does as I say or find themselves swimming in the nearest large body of water wearing cement shoes. I can fulfill a variety of roles due to my numerous interpersonal skills. I prefer Dominatrix, but I also double as a bodyguard and negotiations expert, because my plasma cannon is way bigger than yours.

I believe that every problem is unique and needs to be handled as such, applying both past experience and new ideas to tackle it successfully. I am in constant contact with hit men of different nationalities and most mafia organizations. I am also discreet with personal information and can handle a range of possible situations, from blackmail to murder.

I am well versed in the use of the written word in a variety of subjects and occasions, from ransom notes to political manifestos. I am fully capable of adapting to given guidelines and improvising according to circumstance and need, moderately good at wording contract loopholes and fully proficient in forging. I am also highly skilled in planning, customer communication, and handling all the different tasks and challenges of a busy office environment, such as hidden landmines, possessed managers and drug addicted CEOs. I am keen on meeting with new challenges and expanding my professional horizons with a reputable company like yours. I believe that I will prove myself to be a valuable asset to your team, or I will make sure there isn't a hole deep enough to save yourselves from my wrath if you don't hire me. 

In my free time I am an astrophysicist and a neurosurgeon. I love recreational drugs and occasionally run the gatherings of the local Freemasonry organisation, including minute taking of their plans to take over the world with the assistance of Pinky and the Brain. 

I’m looking forward to learning more about this position and what it entails. I would greatly appreciate the opportunity of speaking with you at your earliest convenience, via e-mail or phone. Thank you for your time and consideration. And psssst, nudge nudge. If you hire me, the girls for stress alleviation and the office cleaners are on me.

Sincerely and/or not bothering much,

Elizabeth Armpit.

Many letters to write, and one.

I have several letters to write and I am too busy to sit on my arse and do so. However, there is one letter I want to write more than others, and it is the one letter that the receiver will never be given. It's a very long catalogue of swearwords and things I have been meaning to say to that person for years now. I have never told them because even if I did, they would get hurt and not understand a thing. They live inside their own head and love to play games. The games they play are preferable than their real life, which sucks. I play games inside my head too; it feels nice to be queen of the universe for a while, even if that universe is solely inside my imagination. But I feel the desperate need to get it off my chest and will do so. I will do so in my diary, because I don't want to say it in public, in case they stumble upon it and then freak out. You see, contrary to them, I do consider the kind of impact my actions might have on other people. I am not beyond it. I am not too busy being Sorcerer Supreme or the Left Testicle of Odin to bother with reality or other people's feelings. 'Nuff said on that.

Generally speaking, it helps to write letters to people telling them everything you never said, even if you do not intend to give those letters. I am serious. You can do it even if you are not on speaking terms with them, or they aren't alive. What really matters is the inner cleansing that follows a proper vent. Get it off your chest, my darlings, and don't be afraid to write anything you damn please. Then you can burn the letter and complete the cleansing. I do advise burning, not tearing it up. For those of you into paganism, Vesta is the Roman goddess related to purification, and Hecate can also help. Give the ladies a shout. For the rest of you, just set it on fire. Try it and you will see. :)

Precious secrets

He's got secrets too. He's also part of several more secrets. Some of them are mine, some are his, and some connect us in a highly unlikely manner. He has given me a very precious child. I may pay the favour back, or at least, let him know about it one day. Or I may just decide to keep it mum. ;)

I have many secrets. They get more with the passing of time. I wish they also got a lot more interesting.

For example, this entire blog is a secret as I have not included it in my CV. I don't want the wrong person reading my musings, especially if that person is the key holder to a possible job. Then there are other secrets, which I don't write about even in this blog; only in my diary. And there are those secrets no-one knows about, and I will never write down.

Most of the time even those people who read my musings and have a relative background have no idea what I am talking about. I choose to write in a way that it is open to interpretation, in order to say what I want and avoid detection. I am pretty sure that the reason this blog exists is to read it and feel comforted by my own words and my own point of view. From this aspect, all humans are the same. We love that which is familiar.

Okay, let's share some of these secrets. See if I can shock some of my readers into stop reading me, thinking I have finally lost it.

My favourite author who also happens to belong to the First Ten (or maybe Eight or Twelve) is married to a woman who despises him, and she is a siren. Not metaphorically speaking. Literally siren, which means, winged woman who eats people kind of creature. Every time she smiles, she looks like she is about to bite a chunk of flesh off someone. Of course, he has no clue, and when she is around he smiles, a man in love. She always grimaces as if he disgusts her. Then again, she always grimaces as if she is either disgusted by the entirety of existence or she's about to lunge at some poor human and eat their face.

Another author I love has a son who aspires to be as successful an author as his father. The son hates his father and is very jealous of him, because deep down he knows he's not as good as his dad. The son has gone and made a deal with an entity for fame, and his books leave an aftertaste like licking the floors of a slaughterhouse. I am serious. It's an essence of rotting blood, fluids from entrails and shit combined. Of course, no-one seems to know it. Instead they pile awards on him, making me wonder about their taste and doubt my own sanity.

A few weeks ago my house was under magickal/ demonic attack. In the course of just few days, I had two dead cats, one possessed cat and a very sick dog. I had to actually exorcise the cat.

The crazy lady next door was under possession of a thought-form or entity. I could see that being looking at me from within her eyes. A similar entity resided inside my father before he died. I can tell apart those possessed by thought-forms or entities. They all have the same glassy, unfocused eyes. I wonder why other people don't see it when it's so clear and unsettling. Then once more I wonder if I am crazy.

Two of the people I hold closest to my heart see visions and spirits and other such. I sometimes wish those visions came with names of people, phone numbers and dates.

I have written a thank you speech in case I ever receive any kind of literary award. I even checked how long it is by keeping time. I hope I'll get to use it one day.

Now guess which one of these is a lie. Then guess again, because maybe I am pulling your leg, and they're all true, or all lies, or what I perceive to be real. And that is obviously debatable.

I am off to finish a book no-one knows about under a pseudonym no-one suspects. Ha ha.

Twiddling my thumbs and shitting in my pants.

Down went the desktop due to the recent thunderstorms, effectively crippling me. Oh, I do have an ancient laptop with missing keys and a busted battery, and that's what I am using now. It's just that I want to do other, more urgent things instead of writing at my blog, and the data I need is in the desktop. I'll settle for what I can, I guess.

About an hour ago we had two earthquakes, one after the other. I decided that the best way to handle it was fill a bowl with Coco Pops and milk, place it on my altar to be consecrated and eat it. Actually the basic reason I placed it there was that there was no space anywhere else. My bed is full of cats and stuff. I shouldn't have eaten Coco Pops, because I had flossed and brushed my teeth before. But what the hell, we don't get earthquakes every day.

So what happened in my desktop-free days?

My mother is sick with a cold. I told her that if she gives it to me, I will kill her. It will probably be the first cold I am aware of that ended up in death. ;)

I finished two books, both very pleasant.

I visited a friend.

Watched three episodes of the new series Constantine and the movie Dracula Untold. The second one was very nice.

I buried two deep frozen cats and one kitten.

I disassembled and thoroughly cleaned my calligraphy pens. It involved lots of water and ink and my fingers turning black, brown and blue. But now my pens are working like a charm again. Yay.

I wonder what magic ability of the mind helps us struggle on when, for all we know, next week could bring about the earthquake that will bury us all under a ton of rubble.

I really need to get the desktop going and finish with my current work.

I also need to continue this in my diary, because the rest of my banter is not fit for public consumption. It involves deep thoughts and people in various stages of undress rubbing against quasi-naked people. Or aliens for what I know. I have some very intriguing alien species in my mind. And no, they don't have tentacles.

I am off. Before I go, just a note.

From time to time, light a candle for the lost ones you have.

It doesn't have to be in a church.

Believe me, it helps.

The 'curse' of feminism.

I did not write this, but it expresses my views and experiences on the subject. So I might as well put it on my blog.

Article taken from here:

http://viralwomen.com/post/honey_i_want_you_to_stop_being_a_feminist

My mother phoned a few weeks ago, and she sounded purposeful but hesitant, like she had finally worked up the courage to tell me something important. 'Honey,' she said, her voice broken with concern. 'I want you to stop being a feminist. I love you too much to see you turn into a terrorist'. As she went on about her concerns, I quietly amused myself with the thought of coming home to a room full of concerned faces and a big banner reading: INTERVENTION. Muffled sniffles of my loved ones. 'We fear it's gone too far,' someone would say. 'You need to stop being so conscientious of the social inequalities and hierarchies of power that plague this world. Before it's too late.'

I've been a feminist since before I knew there was a word for it, and it has always baffled me how it was even possible for a person not to be. If feminism is the belief that women are as human as men, that women should be able to own their bodies and make choices about their lives, who could possibly disagree with it?

It seemed so outrageously simple to me, and it confused and saddened me that so many men and women who were so clearly aligned with my beliefs, not only refused to identify as feminists, but out of some obscure understanding of feminism as a grainy, black and white montage of women burning bras and chopping off their husbands' dicks, went as far as condemning it as a destructive movement, or dismissing it as an irritable fad that needed to cease. Why weren't these people feminists? It was a question I just couldn't crack. Eventually, in the midst of flipping the bird at a group of particularly rowdy cat callers, the answer came to me: because it's easier not to be. 

Feminism is hard. Being a feminist isn't as simple as putting up your hand and saying that you think women are humans too- though that's a start. Feminism is not a mere political orientation; it's a process- a long, difficult, exhausting, and often disheartening process of unlearning every problematic 'truth' one has internalised over their life, about sex, gender and race. It involves a lot of self-education and self-reflection, which requires initiative, and a very thick skin.

A person who identifies as feminist never does so because they've been taught that it's a swell thing to be, but rather the opposite- they are feminist despite society's efforts to demonise it. You don't declare yourself a feminist expecting a pat on the back; you do it knowing there'll be backlash, knowing that your friend will roll her eyes every time you exhibit even a trace of it, knowing you'll make yourself a leper in the eyes of your cute-as-hell date, that as soon as you say the word he'll cringe away like it comes with a side of herpes and a sixth toe.

We all exist in the thick of it; of rape culture, of slut shaming, of glass ceilings, body shaming and the normalisation of humiliation porn- and it takes a certain kind of person, a certain analytical mind, a certain amount of open-mindedness and courage, to question a culture from within it. It's incredibly hard to question what you know to be true. To locate and then pick away at your own internalised misogyny, and to try to break down how it came to form such a fundamental part of your understanding of gendered identities. To sit there and think, 'So why do I think that wearing a short skirt legitimates rape? Why do I think women's hormones make them inferior professionals? Why do I think that women are bad at math? That sex is something masculine; what men enjoy and women endure? Who told me that? And most importantly, why?'

I feel like being a feminist is a lot like having shards of shattered glass in your body that you have to painstakingly remove one by one. Some shards are hidden so deep, lodged so stubbornly that it may take you years, or even a lifetime to locate, let alone remove. Unlearning internalised misogyny is something you must do alone, and navigating the twisted labyrinths of your own prejudices is not a happy pastime. The truth is that it hurts, so much, to be a feminist, and to consume or be involved in feminist dialogue.

It is gut wrenching to learn about the 8-year-old Yemen girl who died of sexual injuries on her wedding night to her 40 year old groom. It is soul crushing to see the slut shaming and victim-blaming that followed the brutal assault of actress Christy Mack, who is now in need of a facial reconstruction after having her skull crushed in by an MMA fighter's vengeful fist. It is infuriating to learn that sex education practitioners still pass around chocolates around the classroom, to demonstrate how the more a woman is touched, the 'dirtier' she becomes, the less fit she will be for male consumption, and thus, the less she will be worth as a human being.

It's impossible to become immune to images and tales of misogyny, and it's incredibly painful to have to seek out these images, to follow stories of the shaming, abuse, rape and death of women, day after day, to expose old wounds and create new ones, in the name of education. It is so, so difficult, and nobody tells you that.

Feminism is not for the faint hearted. God, I wouldn't wish it upon anybody. But alas, I believe in feminism like I believe the earth is round, like I believe that burritos are delicious and that Mark Ruffalo is beautiful. So for all of you poor bastards that have been cursed with the belief that women are full human beings who deserve to live as they please, and feel the need to label yourself with the dreaded F-word, my deepest condolences to you.

If you feel like you're consuming or contributing to feminist dialogue only to be filled with sadness and dread, hang in there. If you feel like you're constantly defending your character against people who deem feminism to be a pollutant of it, aren't we all? If you feel like you're a little sammie swimming upstream, it's because you are. And you're a damn soldier for it. 

Gia London

(via stuff.co.nz)

Beyond the human scope

LL Ori and the Orion Nebula

The Milky Way

I was recently looking at photos of the Milky Way. I have always been fond of looking at the stars, images of galaxies, nebulas, you name it. I had a realization that pretty much shook me. When I am looking at them I am in fact witnessing the very proof of our death. Tiamat’s body was used to create the world. Oh, I know, mythology. I also know how close mythology is to the truth. Our bodies, if we can call them that, have created what we witness as the multitude of an entire universe. There was enough creative force in us to make it all, and even now, it keeps growing and expanding. Imagine that. Imagine what we’re talking about. And now you can understand why I want to take them and hide them all in my embrace, kiss them like they are little birds or children and softly sing to them. I want to put the galaxies to sleep, or maybe at rest.

Today I was talking with your daughter about us, about you. You know, you are always there though the conversation may not be directly about you. My brain is just too small to fit everything in, yet my imagination can bridge any distance. This is the curse and the tragedy of the human race. Our very consciousness that set us apart from nature as unnatural, and it gives us a sense of self-importance. Importance. The importance of a grain of sand in a beach; that’s what the entire planet is in relation to the universe. And yet we feel self-important. I don’t know why. We feel self-important enough to be fanatical about what we believe in, and take the lives of others, and hurt them. Hubris at its finest. The human race excels at it. And no matter how much I try to discover our positive traits too, most of the time I am pretty certain we haven’t that many to flaunt.

I think of you sometimes, the Father of all, the Protector, the First One. The mainstay of an entire cosmos, first and now last of his kind, the name of whom was erased from every holy book and every story, or twisted around to make it the source of evil. Maybe in other worlds they still remember us; in this world, vindictive Gods killed even the memory of us. They erased our name from all scriptures. They tried to erase you too, but you will never be removed from the Collective. You will always stand, the tallest of all, the most powerful, walking alone halls that are empty. Your head is weary with the crown of the oldest tragic hero; you get no rest. You are the only one who’s everywhere at once, not because you have permission from the god/dess, but because you, just like god/dess, are ever-present everywhere matter exists. You can bridge any distance and divide anything, you’re the archetypal skeleton key, the ultimate key, the only one left from an entire race. We decided to die and we were slaughtered to create what we understand as reality. We went out with a bang; that much I can say.

All the male heroes I have ever created that were truly close to my heart have bits of you in them. Sergios, Orion, Xandrix, Audrius, every trustworthy, kind-hearted male that prefers acting instead of speaking empty words, have been fashioned in your image. Every single one of them had the tell-tale black hair, as black as the purest erebus of your wings, a multitude of possibility waiting to take form, an orgasm of creative energy waiting to be channeled into one option. Every one of them has been you. Every single time I’ve closed my eyes and dreamt of the one closest to my heart, closest to home, I have been dreaming of you.

I have no home to return to. No place I belong to, except for the Heart, god/dess. I was so happy when we just existed two steps away from it. The universe was so new back then that there was no time, and you could still smell the paint, so to say.

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. I miss your kindness and the feel of your wings wrapped around me.

Day, night, night, day. The cycle continues non-stop, and I struggle on, an ant amongst billions of little ants. An ant that dreams of cradling the entire universe in her arms and kissing it goodnight.

Promise me that you will come to me at night, to protect me from the pain.

Not all who wander are lost

Today once more I missed two people who used to be my friends. I missed them because I remembered how funny they are. Whenever we discussed, they made me keel over with laughter. It's so rare to come across that and I miss it fiercely. But together with the jokes and wit came the rest of their personality, and I didn't get along with that bit. So our ways parted, they went one way and I went another, finita la musica, passata la fiesta. Do I miss them? Hell yes. Life is a very short affair and laughter one of the most important parts of it, at least for me. Will I try to contact them? No. It's pointless. I tried again and again. It didn't work. Do I wish there was another way? Like crazy. Does it change anything? Not really.

We spend our days chasing those made unavailable by choice and being chased by the ones we don't care about. It's funny if you think about it, but not the kind of funny that makes you laugh.

On the matter of Sherlock...

I really needed to hear this, because in spite of my love for gay erotica, this unstoppable mania with the John/ Sherlock slash fiction is not something I truly comprehend. I also can't understand why anyone would think that Sherlock is cute and fluffy. I don't have a problem with people having fantasies, or writing fan-fiction, or creating fan-art. Art and fiction are a noble pursuit and a great way to improve your skills. What I do have a problem with are those who think that their fantasies are the one and only truth, and will attack anyone who doesn't think the same.  So, from the horse's mouth, Mr. Benedict Cumberbatch, on his Sherlock from the latest TV series...

“People keep coming up to me and saying, ‘Oh, he’s so sexy, do you think [Sherlock would be] interested in me?’ ” says Cumberbatch. “Do you not think he’d just look at you twice and tell you everything you hate about yourself and crumple you up like a little bit of paper and flick you away? He’s a machine and brutal and ruthless and has no time for the distractions of your fawning. Because, you know, they either want to make John [Watson] into a sort of cute little toy, or me into a cute toy, or we’re fucking in space on a bed, chained together.”

Cumberbatch is referring to the rapacious slash fiction community that has turned his chilly, acerbic, and distinctly asexual Sherlock into a lustful cock monster. “It’s always, like, one of them is tired, one comes back from work, the other is horny, a lump appears in his trousers, and then they’re at it,” he says. “It’s usually me getting it — I’m biting Watson’s dog tags.” Perhaps, I suggest, making Holmes and Watson gay is a way to remove other women from the picture. “Yes, yes,” he replies enthusiastically. “I think it’s about burgeoning sexuality in adolescence, because you don’t necessarily know how to operate that. And I think it’s a way of neutralizing the threat, so this person is sort of removed from them as somebody who could break their heart.”

Interview excerpt taken from here: 

http://indigojester.tumblr.com/post/100032167631/out-magazine-interview-the-gospel-according-to

Well into the a.m.

 (The pictures have an educating purpose. Do not disregard them. It's Khan from Star Trek- Into Darkness  dressed as a French maid in the first, and about to have sex with someone in the second. Read the text below for more information. Source: http://kimeido.tumblr.com/post/91128959618 and http://kimeido.tumblr.com/post/99052818858 )

Naturally, the best time to visit my blog is well into the a.m., while my mother is asleep and the house is absolutely quiet. One of my cats is sleeping in a basket close to me, I have music on, and two candles are burning on an altar across me.

It's funny. I started spellweaving again after ten or more years. I have an altar again. I haven't had one since I came home from U.K., and now I have an altar in my room and I do spellwork, demanding nightly spellwork I never thought I'd have the patience or the guts to do again. Go figure.

Desperate situations call for desperate measures, thought there is nothing that resembles desperation in my current state of mind. Desperation isn’t only a bad advisor, but also not an inappropriate reason to do spellwork. You're most likely going to fuck up spectacularly. No, in my case, it is ‘lex talionis’, lawful retaliation. To put it simply, I am sick and tired of being every idiot’s asswipe for 36 years now. They want to screw me over using magick, fine, free will and all that. How about they get that ‘nice’ energy handed back to them on a silver platter, by a universal force/ porn star wearing a leather French maid costume and brandishing a huge erection? No? Why not? I mean, you had no qualms about sending this energy to me in the first place. It’s not like your conscience bothered you so much you couldn’t sleep at night. But if you don’t like the discovery that the one you have been throwing knives at can actually catch them in mid air, and oh shit, she’s throwing them right back at you, well tough shit, sweetcakes. Oh, it hurts? Oh, you didn’t expect it? Oh, it sucks having shit energy shoveled in your life? You poor, poor thing, maybe you should have thought twice before shoveling it in mine in the first place. Dang and fudge and ginger-pie, someone I loved had to die. 

Most of the time I am perfectly happy because I have cats, a steady supply of correspondence, a roof over my head, good music, good health, food to eat and people I call friends. I don’t go out of my way to hurt others, I steal no-one’s money or boyfriend, and I keep my mouth shut when I don’t know who I am dealing with. I treat so fucking lightly I doubt there is a single person who knows I who I am except for my circle of close friends, which is the staggering number of five people. And I treat lightly because I hate being disturbed. In the same manner, I don’t want to disturb.

You’ll be surprised to discover how many people see that not only as a weakness, but also as a reason to attack you. Why? Because you and they are so fundamentally different that a person with your mentality rubs them the wrong way. They see your lack of involvement and think you consider yourself too good to bother with them. They see you being humble, because you fucking know how easy it is to die and also because you take nothing for granted, and they perceive it as haughtiness and arrogance. They will project their sick inner landscape on you and then proceed to eliminate the threat by attacking you.

There are two ways to deal with these people. Disengage and go away, or kick the living daylights out of them. So far disengaging has not been working, so we’ll go for the killing them dead option. Not literally. Metaphorically. Let’s not forget that magick is the art of changing consciousness at will, so metaphor, symbolism and all that noisy and colourful lot are your tools and most trusted servants. Kind of the most evasive, obscure and drag-queen elements of human sciences being your homeboys. Great fun.

If you ask me, I’d choose the universal porn star with the leather French maid costume and the brandishing erection any time as my preferred pastime, but if needs must, they will eat my dust. 

:D XD :P