An assortment of ramblings; some thoughtful, some thoughtless
I have learned that the single most dominant thing an old man can do to a young woman is force her to use email on a regular basis.
It’s like herding cats on to a frozen pond; if you can pull it off at all, you’re going to be treated to an incredible display of excitement and awkwardness.
Okay, sure, absolutely, I do want to yell at girls, to make them afraid or wet or both. But not when I want them to actually hear me.
That’s why I like the kind of girl I like. Because I don’t have to shout, make my face burn red, or put my fist through the wall next to her head. I can just sit her down, smile, and proceed to explain all the ways she’s failing me. Critique her performance as a person and as property. Sketch for her the broad strokes of my expectations, and stress the importance of creativity in her implementation of those goals. Make her understand that, yes, everything is her fault, but that just means she can make everything perfect if she tries hard enough.
Trying to speak to the broken little girl inside a grown-ass woman is often a challenge, but I assure you, we can do it using our inside voices.
And on Wednesday, we play Mad Libs with your darkest fears.
Jesus, Tumblr.
“Long Blockchain Corp.”
Fuck it. I’m formally announcing that this blog will be henceforth known as “Blockchain Stories for Broken Girls.” Please forward all investment funds to my Paypal account.
You ache for me without knowing me. My touch is a dream that keeps you awake. Your tongue has never tasted my name, and yet it sings to me in adoration. It feels like madness, this frightful longing that consumes you.
But bear something in mind. A girl leaving an offering of flowers at an ancient temple didn’t do so in hope of seeing the gods; she hoped to make the gods see her. She didn’t need proof the gods existed because she could feel them move within her. She didn’t need to behold the throne to know that she was ruled.
You are her daughter, and I am your sun.
You didn’t mean for it to happen; you’re not even sure *how* it happened. You didn’t offer, and I didn’t accept. But here we are.
It must be disturbing, realizing that someone accidentally owns you… owns you like a fragile, insignificant object that has fallen into the orbit of something far greater than itself, some sort of dark matter you’ve always suspected was there but you just couldn’t see. And now you don’t know if it’s going to pull you in and burn you up, or spin you off in some terrifying new direction. How thrilling and horrifying for you.
You should have been more careful while exploring the stars, little girl.
Come unto me, daughter of the Lord, that I may know you, and cast you down.
I want to use your body to mock your God; I long to wrench away His child and defile her upon His altar. I want to watch you dishonor your family and traditions for my amusement, and then return you once more to a life of pious lies. I want to see you kneel in my name, renounce your faith, and swear to worship only that which I have blessed.
I want nothing less than to deny you paradise; to damn you to hell. And if you’ll allow me, I’ll take even that away, leaving you adrift in a causeless, uncaused universe of endless, unfathomable, unfeeling complexity. Adrift and alone.
Alone except for me.
I don’t think I use the phrase “for my purposes” often enough.
“I know you’re not technically a whore, but you’re whore enough for my purposes.”
“You’re not much to look at, but you’ll do for my purposes.”
“Go ahead, close your eyes and cry into the pillow. You don’t need to be present for my purposes.”
Call me a hopeless romantic, but it feels good, making an inadequate girl feel sufficient.
There’s nothing more humiliating for a girl than losing her respect for a man.
No one wants to be the dumb bitch who didn’t see it coming.
You wring such grace from awkwardness; it’s like watching someone win a bar bet with Fate, day after day.
