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Lu
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Sweet, adorable girl. With her hair in black ribbons, and her pale dress kept neat, she is the epitome of loveliness and morality. Parents tell their children to aspire to be more like her. But temptation beckons from under the pelt of a rabbit, calling her to travel down to a land she knows far too well, a place that will ruffle her hair and tear her clothes.
Make stew and hat? Or, let it be a pet?
She stands observably peaceful, never wavering from the confines of her perfectly groomed exterior. She stands still, and stays quiet. Her mind screams under the pressure of maintaining silence, yearning to release, enduring motionless for the chance to fall down that hole.
Push her down. Throw her down. Bloody her knees…. Make her look through.
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Sometimes you hear things that catch you off-guard in their profoundness. For instance, today I was at an appointment with my new GP, and he said, following a conversation on Wii boxing, “it’s amazing how many women settle for just a piece of a man, because they’d rather have that piece than have nothing at all–but of course you would never do this, I can tell”. I mean, we did not touch on the subject of my relationship, or whether or not I even had a special someone…It just came out of nowhere. So it got me thinking about that Pearl Jam song, and how many women give up on looking for their better man, and settle with what they can get or already have, even if it is completely unfulfilling. The fear of loneliness is prolific. Most of the relationships I come into contact with are miserable ones, yet they survive on the basis of fear. But, how can you let go of something to reach for something that may not exist? It’s the ultimate leap of faith…Faith in yourself. On the other side, there are people who always see the grass as greener on the other-side of the relation-hill. These people are also afraid, but it’s not loneliness that plagues them, instead, it’s the fear of being trapped. It’s difficult to say one is worse than the other. But in any relationship, isn’t it required that some sort of internal compromise is necessary? And at what point do the stipulations surrounding that compromise become too demanding, and cause you to part ways or live unhappily? Love is ultimately a depressing topic.
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For some reason I've ended up with this strange pathology of being more sexually relaxed in an environment that plays out like Alfred Hitchcock in latex, listening to erotic hardcore, while wearing nipple-clamps. Actually strike that, I know exactly why I'm like this: too many strobe-light, candle-wax infused nights playing with my stuffed animals; I became accustomed to it. I'm a firm believer that sex is, at the very least, 65% psychological. The physical act of sex is in fact always a mind-fuck, rather you think it is or not. And for me, the harder the music, and more conducive I find the light, the better the outcome. I'm not downplaying the importance of the physiology of sex, but I am saying it's more complicating than just rattling some nerve endings.
I hate saying that I'm a sucker for "mood-lighting", but really, I am. Not complete darkness, but changed light, or limited light. I love shadows, and light playing off the body. Office-grade florescent doesn't do it. Red light, black light, candle-light: Zero to one-hundred. I'll play in the light, but it's not the same...I'm not the same. It's as if the shadows offer me refuge to let go and be more relaxed; or, given the situation, provide an atmosphere more friendly to suspension of disbelief, allowing me to play in my screwed up little head.
So lighting aside, I will bounce back to the topic of sex being mostly psychological. I need subtle mind-fuckedry in my bed. I'm no porcelain doll, and it would be a shame to treat me as such. *sigh* (edit out)
There are different types of personas when it comes to sex: Those who want to make love, and those who want to fuck. I think, to an extent, we all blur the borders at times, but at the heart of the matter you can split us into two groups. And from those groups, you can separate us into two smaller groups: Those who want to be ravaged, and those who ravage. Once again, we are probably all guilty of occasionally blurring the lines... So I think, and pardon my late-night rambling, that it is important that we sync up with a compatible partner based on these groupings. A Lover and a Fucker is not a good combination, as one is craving long-walks-on-the-beach-romance, and the other is typically craving romance of a harder nature. Further, a Ravager and a Ravager would not work, and putting two Ravagees together could only lead to soft-core Skinamax at the best.
TBC
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The situation is awful, but it has only been made worse by hesitation, cutbacks, and lack of action on the behalf of the government. People may not want to talk about how and why the situation got as bad as it did, but something needs to be said, because like it or not, people did not receive the help that they rightly deserved. A lot of people are saying it's out of place to talk about politics surrounding Katrina when so many people are suffering, but that's a circular and illogical argument when politics is the very mechanism that could have saved so many lives in New Orleans. If you want to get angry at something or someone, don't get all huffy puffy at the people discussing the problems and politics of this situation, rather, get pissed off that the problems existed in the first place. People are not bringing politics up to distract attention away from the magnitude of heartbreaking stories or to stop people from donating their efforts to the hurricane victims, they're discussing politics because we shouldn't ignore the people who have died pointlessly, because people need to be held responsible.
On a side note, this situation reminds me of the movie The River's Edge.
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My first shift behind the bar:
Great money? Yes.
Drunk, horny men? Yes.
People that stayed an hour past close talking to me? Yes.
I've worked four double-shifts in a row, and today I worked 13 hours on the clock; it seems like my $2.13 an hour isn't enough, even with tips. All I want to do is convince my feet to stop their excessive cramping so I can actually fall asleep so I'll be well rested for my double shift tomorrow. Life is fun.
Wishlist a.o.n.:
Full Body Massage
Feather Pillow
$1000 in Chipolte gift certificates
Superpowers
A line of Special K
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Qcon is almost here, I'm sooo excited! Ms. Qcon is going to be my bitch 
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I had an intersting childhood, to say the least. I started taking private skating lessons at age 3, and a few months later I began a ten year spree of success and isolation that would ultimately become a great source of pride and sadness for me.
At the age of 8, I had already qualified for the national circuit. By 12, I was ranked 12th in the nation in two separate categories, and by 13, my childhood had passed me by. During my ten year skating "career" I basically lived in a skating rink. From 4pm, directly after school, until 9pm, 5 days a week; and, 10am until 2pm followed by 5pm until 7pm on the weekends.
My skating coach became a pseudo father for my real dad who was always working his ass off to support the family. My mom was really the only person I had to keep me company, with the exception of a couple other skaters equally occupied with perfection, and equally pushed by their parents to either put their heart into the sport, or walk out the door.
Hell, the first time I ever went trick or treating was when I was twelve; that's because every holiday, with the exception of Xmas, was spent in a motel room at some skating (or swimming) competition.
Ironically, for all the energy and years abandoning normal childhood experiences, I was forced to quit by my parents. You see, I was premature and always a tiny little thing, which helps with sports like gymnastics and skating. However, I started growing into my genes (I'm 5'10)and couldn't keep winning in the manner I had in the past. Therefore, my parents decided that they were spending too much money on me to have a "hobby", where as before it was alright to spend the money because it was a "sport". It's not the idea of money that bothers me. Afterall, in order to compete I sacrificed other things. For instance, I went school clothes shopping at Goodwill. But these decisions were always phrased "you can continue skating or we can go school clothes shopping at a real store"--it was a continuous test of dedication. Don't get me wrong, I am greatful for everything I receive, but when your childhood surrounds putting your whole being into a sport, and then to have all of your dedication torn from you because, out of no fault of your own, you lose that gift--it's heart breaking, and makes a young kid feel like their entire life until that point was for squat. My parents pushed for skating, and because I excelled they pushed it even harder, but the moment I lost that sense of near perfection, they tore it away.
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