Who are you?

I wonder what brings people to this site. I surely don't have enough interested friends who would stop by, so I am assuming that my occasional visitors are brought here by accident.

Leave a comment.

I'd like to know what you were really looking for when you stumbled upon this place.

It's funny, because I told my aunt that I used this place as a dumping ground for my private thoughts. "Isn't that doing the opposite of what you want? I mean, everyone can see it." I chuckled. She clearly is not wise in the ways of the internet. There is a certain amount of anonymity that protects places such as these. The hovels that house the hearts of those who wish to hide from the world, from reality.

Complaining

I want to get out of here. I don’t mean out of college, out of Longview, or even out of Texas. I want to get out of me. I don’t want to be someone else either. I don’t want to be. For most, this sounds like some crazy admission of an inclination towards suicide. Granted, I never would have considered it if I hadn’t been thrown from one shrink to another, all completely insistent that my goal in life is to end it. If I wanted to kill myself, I would have. It vexes me that someone would think me so incompetent as to stage a suicide equipped only with a pair of dull scissors. If I really wanted to kill myself, I wouldn’t have given the box cutter away to my friend. I would have used it on myself. If I were so demented as to be unable to guess where it might be best to cut, I could always utilize the amazing wealth of knowledge present on the internet.

They want me to be suicidal, they want me to be okay, they want me to be happy, they want me to get help. They all want a lot of things, and all of them involve me taking pills, not being able to sleep, spending hours on a shrinks couch and even more staring into the dark, praying for unconsciousness.

They all ask that I come to them when I'm struggling or when I'm in a dark place. How do you call your mother and tell her that sliding a blade across your wrist seems like a great idea at the moment. You know, for the sake of discovery and exploration. How well do you think a father would take it to hear you say that if you didn't wake up the next morning, it wouldn't be much of a shame. And of course, if you tell your friends that to live to be old seems like a nightmare, they don't take it lightly.

Because I'm sick, right? That means everything I say needs to be put up under a microscope and dissected until we get to whatever inner meaning they've decided they want to find. Then I get another physical, another shrink, another pill, another month of being stared at like I'm going to take down the whole world with me.

Hah. My life is too dreary at the moment. It's just pitiful to sit in the dark and try not to cry, for fear someone will find you and ask what's wrong. Sucks, eh?

I should just stick to fiction.

Purple Silk

Purple silk. The woman wore purple silk like skin and wielded it like a weapon. Her hips swayed to a beat that entranced any who allowed themselves to be caught up in the movement. With arms held above her head, fluidly winding and twisting while occasionally falling to caress some body part, she danced. Thin strings of jewelry shrouded the woman like a spider's web, silver threads catching the avid watcher's eye. Here and there the tingling of a bell announced the twitch of a hip, the flick of a wrist, or the gentle lifting and dipping of a delicate ankle. She was exquisite.

The man before her, spellbound by the vision of perfectly proportioned beauty, was inclined to agree. His eyes held the beginnings of a lusty haze as he stared, voraciously devouring the visual feast laid out before him. His breathing was still slow and easy, though any sudden movement by the gyrating female would inspire a momentary hitch in his respiration. His expression was a blend of wolf-like hunger and devoted appreciation. Yes, he knew her. Quite well, in fact. Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought she could or would do what he was witnessing, but he certainly wasn't complaining about the change of heart. The woman bent backward, slowly tipping her head back to the ground while simultaneously revealing a beautiful strip of toned, caramel brown skin. If that wasn't enough to break his train of thought, the wink of amethyst in her belly button was. He shifted, just slightly, in his seat and continued to watch.

His eyes were not the only one to appraise the dancing woman. Another's eyes followed the trail of thin, gauzy fabric that fluttered in the air, following the wrist to which it was attached. With every gesture, the cloth swayed and dipped, graceful and mesmerizing in its own right. It made the girl feel even more sick. In another room, behind a thick, one sided mirror, the dancer's less perfect doppelganger withered in the shadows. That's right. The two women were one and the same, and yet completely different.

One danced and undulated with the practiced ease of an athlete, the other was slow and lumpy, confined to the thick chains embedded in the wall behind her. One commanded attention with every breath she took, the other was invisible to even the most astute observer, not that anyone wanted to look at her anyway. In vain, she had spent the last hour trying to push those thoughts from her mind, but every playful giggle and flirty touch the two people before her exchanged brought an acidic bile to the top of her throat and burned in the pit of her stomach.

He had been her friend. More than that, for he had long since gone above and beyond the call of duty for any mere friend. They had shared everything, or as close as two people could come to it, so when she awoke to see the imposter clinging to his arm it nearly broke her. Sure, confusion had come first. Why was she in this room, locked to a wall with chains so thick she had no hope of escape? Who was that woman? Why were they so close? It hadn't taken more than a minute to realize they were on a date, and not much longer than that to see that her friend was enjoying himself. She didn't mind that, but something was still wrong. It wasn't until she caught a snippet of the conversation that she realized who her friend believed the woman to be. From there, her insecurities had done their work thoroughly. Every doubt, every vice, every issue with self image she had ever had was pulled to the surface when faced with the harsh reality of the woman her friend deserved. A woman she could never be.

Turning her head to the side, she clenched her eyes shut, trying to ignore the scene before her. The woman had been taking small, but deliberate steps forward, inching closer and closer to her prey. The smaller the distance, the smoother and more sensuous her movement became. Her dance spoke for itself, and it spoke thunderously.

The man's eyes flickered, checking to see if he was reading the signals correctly. She seemed so completely different, so unhindered and completely out of character. Again, to say he detested the changes would be a straight lie, but sharp and completely unforeseen transformation did raise a few alarms. Gentle hands caressing his face, running through his hair, then sliding up and down the woman's side silenced the alarms promptly. His thoughts shattered and scattered throughout his brain and, with her so close now, he did not care enough to collect them.

That seething bile bubbled in her stomach again. A whole slew of feelings she knew far too well assaulted her on far greater levels. Some part was jealousy, and she knew it. She could never be so bold or so beautiful. She'd never have the courage, or the assets to pull off such a feat. This feeling...was quite like being kicked in the stomach, including the subsequent gasping for air and tearing in the eyes. A small voice, growing steadily louder whispered everything she'd ever hated about herself into her ear. Again and again, she was measured, the slim beauty as her ruler, and endlessly, she was found wanting.

Her breath quickened with the weight of her failures just as the proximity of the warm, voluptuous body quickened his. They were only inches apart, her hand had stilled at the back of his neck and her gyrating had slowed to a barely imperceptible movement centimeters away from his body. The girl in the room was only inches from unconsciousness. Her breaths were too short, too shallow, too useless to keep her awake.

Soft, thick, moist lips make contact with the man's just as the world went dark and the girl in chains hit the floor.

Can't Breathe

The woman gasped, her face scrunching in surprised confusion as her breathing slowly deteriorated.

"Exquisite, isn't it?" The voice preceded a slender man dressed comfortably in black slacks and a red turtleneck. He nonchalantly rolled up one sleeve, then the other, all the while ignoring her strangled breaths, before approaching the woman on the bed.

"No no. Please. Don't get up on my account." He lifted a booted foot, placed it gently on her side, then shoved her off the bed. She hit the floor before she could move to brace herself, eliciting a sharp, barking cough from her lungs. The woman attempted to stand and face the strange man and though her limbs were slow to respond, she managed to pull herself up with the help of the nearest chair.

"What do you want?" She rasped. The man was now sitting casually on the bed, one leg folded over the other, and focused on picking some dirt from beneath a nail.

"Don't worry about that, my dear. I shall have what I want in a few minutes time."

A buzzing began in her head, no doubt a result of her shallow breathing. Repeatedly she tried to fix it, but her lungs could not sustain the air and her condition only worsened. Attempting to get away, she stumbled past him and towards the door. Her progress halted when a fit of violent coughing brought her to the ground. Darkness tickled the edge of her vision and the first fingers of real fear began to clutch at her heart. What did he want? Why her? Trembling lips parted to form the beginning of a question, but a weak breath was all that escaped.

He threw an unaffected glance her way, then leaned back on the bed to wait for her to finish.

"Don't look at me like that. You know what you've done."

It was hard to think. Almost too hard for the words to slip through the cracks of her fractured mind and truly register. But his words found their target, and visions of her sins crowded her consciousness until she could maintain it no more.

A few more minutes passed and the man in red remained until silence had saturated the room once again. He stood, stretching his arms above his head, yawned, then wandered over to the body. He checked for any sign of life with efficiency borne of habit, then reached into his pocket to retrieve a slender, black phone.

"Hello. Yeah. Sanders. It's done. Good."

The click of the phone at the end of the call and a tired sigh were all that disturbed the room's atmosphere. The man stared absently at his watch for a moment, glanced at the dead woman once more and left.

Saying All The Wrong Things

I have found that it is easiest to say all the wrong things when it's so important that you say just the right thing. When you talk to someone you care about so much it hurts, and you have to tell them something hard all the words you use so casually in every day speech disappear and all you're left with is a rotten pile of...

I rest my case.

Things Not To Say To A Shrink

1. Murder is such a strong word, so let's call my recent activity serving as the escort across the beautiful river Styx.
2. Define "illegal".
3. How much trauma can someone take before they lose their mind?
4. Do I need to take all the pills, or will half of them do? It'd be such a waste for me to take them all.   Someone else might need them.
5. No no no. Let's talk about you.

As long as everyone else is okay...

There's something queer about the thought that a person contemplating suicide must consider the feelings of everyone else in the world before committing the act. I'm not advocating suicide, but just think about it.

You have to stay alive for other people around you. So, as long as you're alive, everyone else will be okay. Nevermind the fact that the experience of existence has become so painful that you want to end it. Forget the fact that every morning is waking up to a nightmare. As long as you're still alive, people don't need to feel guilty, or responsible or convicted for the way they did or did not treat you.

As long as you're still breathing, people can rest easy in the knowledge that they haven't done anything too bad. They don't have to think of how you're hurting. They don't have to think about how alone you must feel. They don't have to worry about your health, your life, your dreams or your nightmares because the ugly stain of death has yet to color their rose-tinted view of the world.

The people who would call you selfish for trying to end your suffering are the same ones who didn't want to talk about it while you were still alive. Your pain is uncomfortable for them, so they ignore it, ignore you. And when your death creates a stench they cannot ignore, they get mad and blame your for making them confront these things.

Because, when you're hurting so bad you can't think of any other way to cope, escape, or end your misery, the best thing to do is ignore all that and think about how others might feel. Doesn't strike me as all that logical. People who are in the hospital for serious wounds aren't advise to think about how other people might feel if they died, then expected to use that to get better without any help. No. There's a doctor and nurses talking to them, listening to them, trying to find and figure out the problem so they can remove it. There are medications, surgical operations, therapy sessions, support from family and loved ones and more. Any doctor who told a cancer patient to stop being selfish and think about the people around them would probably lose their job.

Don't kill yourself, they say. Consider my feelings, they plead. Think about all the people who love you, they quote.

None of those things are a real fething solution.

All right. I needed to rant. I'll try to stop here, but I make no promises.

Hold Your Breath

He watched her struggle with a queer sort of fascination as her plump little body writhed helplessly on the bed. She clawed uselessly at her throat, trying to loosen a noose that wasn't there. Of course, she didn't know that. The flash of a camera blinded and dazed her for a moment, and he couldn't help but smile at her pained and bewildered expression. Her eyes were unfocused, darting everywhere, flicking from one spot to another to the tempo of her weakening gasps.


Every pitiful sound she uttered sent an almost arousing shudder through her spectator. Succinylcholine had been an excellent choice, he thought. It was so simple, so sneaky, so perfect for the whore. It was a nifty little muscle relaxant he'd found in the internet. Made the muscles in the throat so relaxed and weak that the victim couldn't even breathe. Well, that's not what it was made for, of course. It was supposed to help with respiratory surgeries and the like, but its effect was too beautiful to pass up. And the sweet hallucinogen he'd added into the mix only made the experience more enticing. What better way to watch her die than to see her night gown creep up her body as she struggled to catch a breath? Every movement pulled the fabric higher, gradually exposing new and delicious patches of skin to her observer's eye. The long line of her legs, muscles taut with strain, seemed like the work of a master artist. 


Unable to restrain himself, he approached her on the bed. She had settled now as her body sank into unconsciousness. It wouldn't take long, but he wouldn't need a lot of time to enjoy her while she was still alive.  He only needed her breathing for the foreplay. 


Gently, he peeled the plastic glove off his hand and wiped it on the rough denim of his jeans. His excitement made his hands turn clammy and moist in the glove, and that was no way for them to be the first time she felt his touch. So he cleaned it briefly before placing his hand on her calf, which twitched gently beneath his fingers. His breath stuttered and his eyes fluttered closed as another rush of lust rippled through him, setting off that glorious humming in his mind. His attention returned to her and he began to slide his trembling hand farther up her leg, over her knee and onto her juicy thigh. With relish, he began to knead the warm flesh as his eyes scraped up her body, over her barely undulating chest and up to her face.

Her hands had fallen away from her neck, leaving her head in a halo of black-brown hair, spread from her earlier ministrations. Her eyes had closed when she fainted and the only sign of consciousness now was the occasional tremble of her barely parted lips. Thick, plump, purpling lips. That would be his prize, but to get there, he must traverse the many hills of her body.

A knife, pulled from a pocket, sliced through her thin gown like wind might cut through a clear sky. The whisper of cloth on metal only served to heighten the dramatic moment when her near nakedness was revealed to him after he'd thrown the ripped clothing open. He could feel the wetness of his hunger pooling in his mouth, and in other places, as he stared at her.

Immediately, his hands dove into the rolls that formed hills around her stomach. Some people did not understand why he preferred the plump ones. They were always so colorful during the chase. Some were insecure and so willing to trust anyone who showed interest. Others had learned to be strong, to be independent. They'd realized they didn't have the figure to get big breaks for being a woman, so they learned to be tough and rely on no one else. Those were the ones that required finesse, a challenge all too welcome. All that was necessary was persistence and a little attention to detail. Take the time to prove you're the white knight they hadn't dared to hope for, and suddenly they're more soft and vulnerable than they'd ever been.

But that wasn't all. Oh no. The best part comes when his hands sink into her flesh and are surrounded by its soft warmth. The skin, so smooth, slides under hard hands like silk until they reach the breasts, and bliss. That was another thing. The breasts were almost always better. Juicy and large, they sit like twin jewels on her chest, waiting for him to ravish them. And that he did. There was no need to rush now. She would be gone soon, if she wasn't already, but her body would remain warm for several hours to come. He was almost done anyway.

Straightening, he let his eyes rake over her body once more as he took slow, careful steps away from the body. She looked just as beautiful through the camera lens, so he took care to frame the scene so the light just barely poured over her nakedness. Again, his passion overwhelmed him and his body begged for his attentions. He could deny his urges no more, so he let the camera fall into the open bag on the floor, even as he began to loosen his belt. Hungry eyes could not tear themselves from the feast before them, the sight calling to his sensibilities like a siren song. The heady intoxication of the moment put him into a haze, robbing all thoughts else from his mind as soon as the door clicked shut.

The Ones You're With

You don't always have to love them. Trust me.

We play friendly, laugh and joke, then end the day by trading insults that cut too deep. Sometimes, I hate being here. They're all so funny and they're all so close. They're all so happy and they're all so smart.

So I'm sitting, silent, dumb, boring and miserable in the corner.

And I can see it. Blood spattered walls, arms cold and limp, eyes empty and dead. Skin ripped by the cold tongue of an angry blade, and me. Chest heaving, eyes wild, a crazed smile slanted across my lips. Reveling in the glory of my work.

I'll finish it later.

I Dislike Mirrors

Both real and "hypothetical" mirrors. I dislike them all. They are certainly innocent bystanders in all of their nefarious practices, yet the damage they wreak upon their victims can be devastating. The most frightening and awful part of mirrors is what they are used for. You look into the glass, and the objective reflection twists into a magnifying glass of personal imperfections. Everything you've ever hated about yourself, physical or otherwise, seems to glow with a fiery hatred to spite all that is good in your mind. That roll of fat, your slumping shoulders, your endlessly wagging tongue, hair that's not quite perfect, everything jumps out and tries to strangle you.

Sometimes the mirror isn't made of glass and silver. Sometimes its in a wayward comment, tucked into a funny tale. It strikes you first as humorous, then the truth of it slips from the darkness and catches you unaware, lodging itself firmly between your ribs. Sometimes, it rips further, deeper. Sometimes it simply festers, growing and growing, infecting the secret vestiges of your insecurities and letting loose a torrent of all those horrible things you feared were true about yourself.

Sometimes mirrors are frightening and painful for the lies they summon, sometimes for the truths. A friend accidentally reveals one of your greatest shortcomings, a personal flaw that you loathe beyond belief, and yet have been unable to conquer. Then it's all you can think about, and that disgust consumes you. Eating your smile and swallowing the laughter that should have followed their tale.

Then the monster comes out again and you're forced to wonder if, and how, should you kill it.

You're Beautiful

"You're beautiful," he said. A smile, soft and gentle remained on his face, an echo of the meaning behind his statement.

Were it not for their friendship, she might have spit in his face. Though she had vetoed the idea, bile rose in her throat to remind her of the flavor of his lie. A battle for a response took place in her mind while her face struggle to choose between disgust and the studied acceptance she'd trained herself to use for such cases. Friendship prompted her to lean towards honesty, though she could not bring herself to completely crush his fallacy, conjured in the image of kindness.

Some called it insecurity, she called it realism. Beauty had a definition, and she did not fit it. Even if she happened to catch someone's fancy on occasion, she had long since moved beyond needing to remind herself that someone more perfect would come for him soon. She was content to live as she was. Not quite huge, but  a larger, disfigured version of "normal." It wasn't just a personal decision that brought her to this conclusion. Her family, friends and even science had worked together to verify her self assessment.

Which is why her stomach rolled and prepared to vomit every time someone was audacious or pitying enough to speak the lie of beauty to her face. She did not intend to be a burden on anyone's conscience, though that is how she felt when she looked into their concerned eyes while they tried to console her. Consolation. Funny, and fitting. They offered consolation to one who could only be a consolation prize, at best. Or worse, when they thought they were being honest.

She didn't fault them for their confusion, they just didn't know better yet. Of course, any attempt to explain this to them was an insult. Experience had taught her not to get her hopes up every time some young buck came around professing undying love and sighing over imagined beauty. It was annoying, and hurt more every time, until she stopped taking them seriously. So she'd smile, say thank you and discard the compliment at her earliest convenience.

Until then, she'd put up the invisible guard, smile and respond with a "thank you."

Spreading the wealth

They tell you to talk to someone about it. They say that sharing your feelings can help you cope. They tell you to live in the moment, instead of being stuck in the past. They tell you what they thinks is wrong, why they think it's wrong, and exactly what they think you should do about it.

The problem is, sometimes it's all poxrot. Stop telling me what you read in your textbook, and listen to what I have to say to you.

Of course, such an action would go against standard shrink procedure. However, that's not the point at the moment.

Here's a question. Imagine Person Q is depressed, and is advised to start talking to people about it and sharing her or his feelings. So, Q goes to talk to friend W. Q shares struggles, fears, nightmares, everything. Now, Q is still depressed, and W is worried about Q. Seems to me as though we've just spread a bit of sadness, rather than doing anything to solve the problem.

Now, feeling worse for the pain, however minor or major, inflicted on a friend, Q ventures into the world of shrinks. After doling out a considerable sum of money, Q is stuffed into a small, staged, supposedly soothing room with someone who pretends to listen, though they've already diagnosed the patient before Q can finish the first story. Soon enough, a small slip of paper, dreadfully judgmental, even in its simplicity, sends Q in search of a pharmacist. Only the span of a few hours separates Q from a drug infected lifestyle. Of course, there was a brief schpiel about the general purpose of the drug, but Q has no idea how to tell the difference between a side effect and an intentional result. So, after every thought, feeling or action, Q must wonder, "was that the medicine, or me?"

Then it spirals downward and Q doesn't know the difference between "talking it out" and complaining. The depression that may or may not have been there in the first place has grown into a minor obsession.


Okay, I'm going to stop ranting. That's enough for tonight, I hope.