Friday, November 5, 2010

it's bonfire night

...and i really really want a smoke.

one for each hour
drag each minute in

Monday, July 19, 2010

Instructions from a coffee mug on a very awkward morning

Drink me, drink me, my black bubbles bursting into smaller bubbles like those scientists say. You think there's no rush, no hurry, no urgency? Well my friend, this is a very urgent situation. What is it that you wanted to say? Admit it, come on say it. You want to, you know you do. That's why you're clutching me like a beat-up stress ball. Have a sip...there. Didn't that feel reassuring? Now say it. Don't stare at me, look that way. It's a wall, I know, with a portrait. Oh look, the portrait is just as nervous as you are. Don't look so glad. And don't look out the window! There's nothing there but ants and beetles. Hey, HEY! Take a s--

Ok that sip took too long. It's not like I'm getting cold. Are you? Feeling cold? Maybe if you say something from that pool of thoughts simmering in your head...
... ... ...
I'm cold now, you know. You hate me when I'm cold. There's no punch, there's no burst. You missed it, the punch I mean. Not the punch, the chance! Dammit, stop stuttering. You got too much punch from me now you're just flying on a kite. Here's what you're going to do.

Let's just see where this goes.

Friday, July 16, 2010

n reasons why I prefer rug burns to whip bruises

On the question of munching versus sucking, I now have answers legitimized by experience, and well...experience.

n+1=pound pound pound unh unh unh uuuuuunh...was I good?
n=I think I'm too chafed to answer that question.

n+2=if the ratio of knob gobbling vs carpet munching in your relationship is lower than are one lucky bitch.

n+3=disco sticks like to go deep, deep deep deep, like your asshole deep, only your throat. Do you really think skull fucking is sexy? Raise your hand and let me punch you in the face.

n+4=let's talk serious here. No guy will ever want to come on a towel after the perfect blow job. Raise your hand if you do, or if your hookup did. The three seconds before they come, your face becomes target practice for that creamy warm gob of protein and hydrolytic enzymes. Really not good for your face there.

n+5=your boobs are also targets. In fact, I don't know if not swallowing is the lesser of the two evils. What do you think?

n+6=knobs never last as long as a cunt, or last too long, then your face becomes target practice.

n+7= that long, juicy stalk may be making creamy honey syrup in the early stages, but you know the end result is more like bad yogurt that's been left out in the sun and treated with Tide and and sulfuric acid.

Admit it, cum tastes like what a feminist revolution tastes like to the boys club, like battery acid to even the most trained taste buds. Nobody wants battery acid on their faces, or down their throats, with the exception of gay men whose taste buds have evolved to confuse the taste of cum with the taste of sweet florida oranges, acids included.

At least with a feminist revolution, there will be more fag hags to choose from.

Clear steamy juice on the other hand...

Friday, May 21, 2010


sweet motherfrakking aphrodite i have seriously never been so HOT in my life...indoors. and i live in britain. BRITAIN. NORTH OF FRAKKING ENGLAND!

ffs, a little VENTILATION would be nice for this building.

today, i had period cramps, heat flashes, almost kissed the bathroom floor as i almost fainted, felt faint for a good half hour WHILE lying down, and everyone in this flat has pretty much seen my naked ass/pussy/boobs 'cause i barely had a towel around me as i stumbled around trying not to faint.

but thank you, sweet darling.

Friday, April 23, 2010

So you wanna be an internet startup _______?


The internet has seen it all, and it has shared all with us. How many musicians out there got their big break through Myspace? (I'm looking at Lilly Allen, yes, her). I don't know. Tons. Mark Zuckerberg got crazy rich when he moved the Harvard Facebook to a server farm. Hell, throw in some Chris Crocker for good measure.

Yes, I've been straying from the topic. It's not as if I really wanted to share my insight into the subject introduced by the title, but I felt like my creativity needed another output. Basically, the internet will make you famous, even for the proven 2 seconds of full attention that the average internet junkie will sacrifice...just for you. For fraks sake, all Chris Crocker had to do was put aside the fact that he's gay and propose to Britney Spears complete with a ring of tears.

So pornstars have been complaining about the internet, and how it is shaking up this billion moolah industry and bring it to its knees, pun intended. We can't help it! Orgasms are good. Free is good. Porn is good. Free orgasms from free porn...hmm, you get it. After all, when we get down to it, it's the action that matters. Who wants to watch all the prefuck bad acting and dialogue anyway? Just start blowing him already for fraks sake.

Ok, gross.

Ok really, I'm about to let go of some inside info here. Bear with me. All right, here goes.

I have a camera, which takes videos, you know, like every other camera out there. It also takes pictures, 'cause you know, it's a camera. Lately, it took a liking to taking nude pictures,
and film. Of my girlfriend, and yours truly. Come on, everyone does it. I bet even Oprah does it. Frak me if Simon Cowell hasn't done it. Point is, it's not really a big deal. Got over it already? Yeah. Good.

So all these moving pictures and stills, they go to my trusty macbook, of course. And since my girlfriend's semi-dumb-ass computer can't see me on the uni network, she asks me to transfer everything into her usb stick. Of course she wants a copy. So there it goes, file transfer completed into a folder on the frakkin homepage of the thumbdrive. And she calls the folder 'tiger.'

Mind you, tiger has months of data in it. Months.

Then we go to London and act gayer than gay we made G-A-Y just a little straighter, except I apparently semi-passed out on a chair and still managed to give the cabbie directions to the hostel, which was on a pub. On a pub, bitch. But that's for another day. There's another camera, with a really funny person in it. It's a cylon camera. And it took pictures, of us of course. And the pictures go into a folder. Guess where? On the damn thumbdrive. And the folder is called 'snogging.'

So...tiger and snogging live their happy lives in this thumbdrive. Everything's fine. Life is good in the real world and in the 8gig volume of the thumbdrive. Stuff gets added, maybe, but stuff never got deleted. Then they get lost. tiger and snogging. They get lost in the woods, in the real world. In a room full of computers, and people who aren't my girlfriend. My girlfriend leaves them in this scary world full of people who might be deviant enough to peruse other people's lost thumbdrives...

So there. If I ever make it to TheChive, or Xtube, or Tube8, or the gods know where...please tell me. My girlfriend and I are pretty hot...nymphlike, the type Humbert Humbert would fall for. I can see your boner right now, and you're gay. Slap it down ho.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Cliché abandonment at a bus stop

"Walk with me," she says
The dulling floorboards vibrate
Crests and troughs phase in and out
A doorknob turns halfway through
The neighbor forgot his car keys again

The synchrony continues to the stairs
Cloth polishes the potholed banister
The same doorknob turns, closes, locks
The polishing hand leaps from a cliff
And lands in a safe pocket

Only to be penetrated by water
Aliquots preserved in hexagons
Crushed by boots and paws and tires
Disrupted crystals breaking down
Into black, as if stains are a punishment

This isn't the city that never sleeps
Today is Sunday, sleepday
Spend time with family day, what day?
Today is Sunday, flyday, leaveday
Play that song from Armageddon day

Tread marks on paper, washed out
With more crystal hexagons turning into ink
Letters don't write themselves, usually
And if they do, the ink bottle tips
To mock the effort and hide its existence.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Grapes of wrath

So last Wednesday, someone threw a grape at my girlfriend...'cause we were acting like a couple.

Seriously, a grape.

Fortunately, I didn't know they threw a grape at her, or else the idiots would've gotten something more along the lines of Kit Porter vs A Prolife Women's Heatlh Clinic. Arson! Arson!

Really, a grape + 'LESBIANS!'

Nah. Pulling a Kit Porter on them wouldn't have been worth it. I like to think that the boy had wet dreams of lesbians that same night.

In other news, there is a blue jet trail across my window. I shouldn't be indoors. Oh but you know...I'll just stock up on golden Florida sunshine over the summer. However, it is a nice 5 C outside, pretty warm. In other news, it'll be around 12 C in Tallahassee about 5 hours from now. Also, I should've called my mother.