An assortment of ramblings; some thoughtful, some thoughtless
I was trying to get something new posted to close out the year, and on a positive note, I *did* make some progress. Not enough, though; sorry, kids. Instead, I’ll simply wish you little fuck-ups a happy new year.
And may you get everything you so richly deserve.
I want to burn you to the ground and live in your ashes.
Replaced the light bulbs in the bathroom.
It’s now bright enough for me to notice that my beard is rapidly developing a big gray patch on my chin.
Fuck you, illumination.
Break her heart and make her cum.
Speak to her boldly, in her native tongue.
Shall it be a far-off meadow, beside a lonely shade tree, as your fingers claw your anguish into the dirt and your thin, choked cries of despair are met with the songs of disinterested birds? Would you be inclined to distantly, dispassionately observe the progress of a solitary ant across your forearm as I do things to your body that will cleave it from its senses? Do you want me to sweat atop you in the summer heat, and feel each drop of my effort burn as it drips from my brow into your wide, vacant eyes? Would you like to feel the brittle grass scratch your urgent, autonomous hips as they meet my ruthless rut with a vigor that would shame a better woman?
Is it suitable, do you think, that I kill your dignity there, upon the altar of earth?
We’re both disappointed in your body. We both hate your mother. We both wish you weren’t so fucking stupid. We both wonder how low you’ll sink for me, and if I’ll hold you under when you want to come up. We both know I’m sending you to hell, and we both know you deserve the flames.
Isn’t it delightful, knowing two people with so much in common can find each other in this crazy world?
I just responded to an email from *July*. Bear that in mind when waiting eternally for me to answer asks… it’s not you, it’s me.
I love it when you talk dirty to me.
Go ahead, baby: tell me it’s all your fault.
I routinely hear from girls who wish they lived near me, but none of them ever do. Today, I randomly stumbled across someone from the kinky side of Tumblr who actually *does* live practically on my doorstep… and I will never, ever tell her.
I doubt it would be particularly reassuring, knowing Bedtime Stories For Broken Girls could be standing behind you in line at Target.
I think it’s cute that so many of you are surprised and/or disappointed when I’m polite, pay you a compliment, or otherwise treat you like you’re a human being. It’s as if you’re nervously expecting to be attacked by a rampaging sex-ogre, but instead end up getting a pat on the head from Shrek. Your perplexity is adorable.
Silly, silly geese… you should know by now that I’m the sort of monster who doesn’t cross your threshold without an invitation.
