I don’t mean to make you feel badly about it.  This is a blog with some mediocre prose on it.  It isn’t important to anyone but myself and I didn’t start this with the idea that I’d get discovered by some bored literary agent.  I’m not doing this for myself.  That’s not in me.  I’m doing this because of that person in the future, someone I will never know, that person that will ask themselves, “What the hell is this?” when they come across my screaming mania.


Crazy is the answer and this is my particular flavor of insanity.  Don’t let anyone try to con you, either; there are far more than 31.


It’s freeing that nobody reads these things.  Write whatever the fuck you want and nobody cares.  Drop it like a boulder into the Pacific and blink and it’s gone.  This is a ventilation system so I can blow all the hot air I fucking feel like blowing, double entendre acknowledged and punted to the curb.  Open the doors and let the demon outside, let it stretch its ragged midnight wings, extend that pointed tail, polish off the horns and hooves, maybe go outside since we live in Georgia and grab a fucking fiddle because I know I can find a farm boy named Johnny and this time I will plant my hoofprints in his scrawny arse.


Lindsey Stirling’s “The Arena” and listen to the violin cry and weep along with it.


Yes, these are fragments.  My brain is fragmented right now and I’ll write it how I hear it in my head.  Park your ass and pay attention if you’ve actually come this far with me.  Listen to the violin, feel the world sway around you, the light swinging through the darkness gathered on the ceiling, feel the blood swim through you, the heart pushing it, listen to it come to terms with the music and then beat a staccato counterpoint.  Don’t hear it, fucking FEEL it, it’s inside you whether you will or no and it can move not just you but, if you use it correctly, you can shake the sky.  It’s in your heartbeat, your footsteps, the thrum of electricity through the grey squishy mass between your ears, the vibration is enough to stroke your soul.  Give yourself to it and move through the universe like a comet across heaven, slicing the sky with the lightning flash of your brilliance.  Reach for the moon and fold it into your palms, breathe chill misty breath upon it, and watch it turn into a rainbow sheened opal your hand.  Gather starlit diamonds and then throw them with abandon back across the canvas.  See it, damnit!


Someday, my children will want to know who I was, maybe.  I can only hope they don’t hate what they find and that they understand, at least a little.  When did my hopes shrink so small?  I don’t know.


There’s no one to talk to except my muses and my creations and neither take me very far.  This is funny because I am not lonely, not precisely.  The only times I have ever felt truly alone were those times when I was surrounded by lots of people.  There is a constraint there that always felt like a strait jacket two sizes too small.  I would feel it wrap around me and it would make me angry.  You can not be yourself there so you have a choice: be someone else or fade into the wallpaper.  I faded into the wallpaper for the first fifteen years of my life and it aggravated the hell out of me because it did not lessen the pain; so, for the rest of the time, I have chosen an appropriate role, grabbed the correct mask, slid into place and used it to take over the room.  It’s control without risk because no one ever sees what’s behind the mask.


What amazed me is that no one ever guessed how often the manic grin hid a bleeding crybaby.  My weakness is mine and I can show it in text but in person? HELL, NO AND FUCK YOU.  I’d shoot myself first.


I have become useless and unnecessary in my old age, irrelevant.  I flap my lips as much as I want, nobody actually listens to a damned thing I’m saying.  The questions I am asked most often are ones I answered previously.  Why am I bothering if you aren’t going to pay attention any damned way?  GAH!  Tear my fucking hair out over here and they’re all pissed off AT ME!  What should I do?  “Oh, I’m sorry that I have not quite managed to finish the wall between myself and the last four people on Earth that I even give a damned about.  I will get back to work on that immediately so that there will be no future instances of any of you being able to hurt my feelings.  I am sorry that I was human and that I needed you.  My mistake.”  Oh, yeah, that’d go over a fucking treat and they’d be even more pissed off at me but this is how it makes me feel!  I don’t know how to change it.  I only know of one way to stop it from happening again.  So, yay.  One last wall.


By the gawds, I’ll NOT build another one.  I just extend the wall all the way around myself and pretend I’m a little boy in the Tower of England.  Fuck.


DON’T YOU DARE PITY ME!  I will slap the taste out of your mouth!   THIS SHIT IS ON ME AND THIS IS WHERE I VENT IT!  Just fucking listen…. somebody… anybody?




Angry, I am always, always angry.  Like, pop a vessel in the forehead type of angry, where you can feel your blood heat up and start to bubble and your chest gets tight and your arms hurt because you keep making fists and you want, you need, you HAVE to hit something but there’s nothing you can hit that won’t make you feel ten fucking times worse.  I want to smash the keyboard, throw it through the wall, rip myself free from this body and rampage my way across the countryside.  This anger it burns, it’s bright and hot and molten and it flows like lead or lava within me and it hasn’t stirred, oh gawds, I’d thought it cooled off, I thought Pompeii was asleep, but NO!  I am beat my chest and chew my way through people levels of pissed.




This isn’t helping. I’m going to go lose my mind somewhere else.  *growling*



Tweet about this on TwitterShare on FacebookShare on Google+Share on LinkedInDigg thisShare on RedditEmail this to someone