so long for now.

"Because hope, to translate its definition out of the ornate moral philosophy of the day, isn’t a sense of entitlement that insists that good things will inevitably come one’s way. Rather, it’s the recognition that some good can be achieved no matter what the circumstances might be, combined with a sustained willingness to try." ---John Michael Greer

"Most Positivists are disturbingly pessimistic at heart, banishing any distress that dares disrupt their fragile fantasy of certainty. Anyone who cannot tolerate dissenting (read 'negative') views possesses little faith, hope, or confidence in a world beyond their control. They are hopeless and often quite embittered from it."--- Christophe (commenting on Arxhdruid Blog)

---

those quotes above were just snatched from a conversation james and i were having yesterday and i liked 'em.

i had to finish that last thought (all that i've been writing about lately) and now that i've bum rushed myself into answering it for myself, best i can, before the new year, i have to get back to "carrying water/chopping wood" of life and figuring out what i need to do next to take care of myself and be in this world.

i hope that you guys out there start putting a little more physical appreciation into receiving those blow jobs. you don't have to always talk, but just drape your body over our heads and stroke our backs and lovingly stroke our cheeks like the sweet, adorable, tiny cock suckers we are in the moment. yank our hair back into "i love you" and maybe give breaks from swallowing once in awhile and if you've got a superfreak at home you might notice the free time for more attention one way or another.

worrying about a fire hose down the back of your throat is like always expecting the bough to break and babies constantly falling. / everywhere.

besides, watching a man come can become it's own umpteenth wonder of the world and leave the great wall of china in the gutter where such walls belong.

 now i think swallowing is something reserved for someone special, or it's like putting wedding rings of everyone on all your fingers and toes. that's just me now.

but i never knew all this other stuff. and i've got a new appreciation for the power of the ejaculating man from below. wow.

and i love how after he's all big and aaaargh! and it's over, james cups his penis in one hand and his semen in his other hand so's not to make a mess on the rug, and he immediately seems adorably small, boyish, and polite as he shakes his head, opens his eyes, and says the sweetest and most appreciative, "thank you, ma'am" in that texas accent of his that only comes out when he's too tired to catch and cover it.

then he paddles over to the shower for a quick rinse off.

fuuuuck....

i just about do it all over again.

i've learned to emulate what i love.

and i want to be like james is with women, and only have the body of one man written on my own body. 

i'm tired of acting feral and mad and being everyone's ID, reaction, dark side. there's no money in letting the world come on my face.

and who put that idea into practice? who?

it breaks my heart that women will sit together on their knees at a pro gang bang for the facials. it breaks my heart that these boys think this is a great idea.

you make what you fuck.

and so i get it. how can we not hate ourselves?

the darkness isn't everything. we forget. it's only one side.

so i may sound like some weird puerto rican leprechaun whore thing, but i'm as lost as you are. i'm saying things that cause me to want to kick my own ass. "that's how it works?" how the fuck do i know how anything works? and what is "it"?

all stories meant to make us feel special. / and if so, fuck it. 

i'll be a shrugging queen who doesn't know shit. just don't check your cell phone around me. the moment i catch the glance, i'm out the window with other thoughts and i'm just looking for an opening to go back to being by myself or with james or the girls at the gym.

that's why i need to get offline so much. it takes a lot to think and be clear. 

it's time to see eyes and the women at the gym now. have conversations and laugh, and scream to sweaty zeppelin songs in pasik's class.

it's time to be small so i can be massive again, in another way.

(smile)

but jeffrey won't talk to me until i start working on another project, so i'm going to draw again and learn to animate my own tiny monster girl movies in my own tiny crusty view master way.

i'll post art here but right now i feel like settling back into the life i have here.

i really do thank you all for giving a fuck and writing and giving me the space to not have to write back.

i'm actually thinking of phasing out of email. all this writing about charlie sheen got me laughing at how he was like the last one on earth who'd not heard of twitter, and he's the only one actually LIVING life and spilling over and doing analog sweaty wild things.

the rest of us were watching from our cages with flashbacks of terror from our own prior attempts to say fuck you and race for the helicopter outta here.

and i laugh that twitter and everyone used him as an example for the new age. the new age where paying for publicity is over now that we all have access to the bullhorn. 

we all have access to the bullhorn.

and i laugh because now you've gotta have a promo budget at least four times what you needed before. fuck, sheen's million-some followers cost him his sanity, his prior career, and twitter's going around adding him to the egyptian revolution on their resume of accomplishments.

everything's just more promo bullshit for the IPO later.

and everyone retweets and facebooks this shit on forever just for the 10% coupon at the end of that god forsaken rainbow.

nothing makes fucking sense.

so i want to quit this fucking computer social life and see eyes again. i want to remember how people smell, taste, feel, think, look. 

i want to be small and human again. 

imperfect, confusing.

and i've no idea who i am now. but i'll handle both the tiger in me and the narcoleptic goat, in some way. 

i'm already doing better.

when i was at adrienne's christmas party, the biggest sweetheart in pain in the room (and the one that women were ignoring but with a little encouragement, he'd be one of the best fucks around and they'd suddenly see his swagger and complain about how there are no good men. he was passionate, telepathic, loving, generous, fat--which usually means a brutally ignored romantic/sensualist and can lend a nice "daddy" quality to his caretaking, and he could fucking dance and well, and long. need i say more? --anyhow, this guy was all that and more, and yet he's alone, lonely, and no one sees him. he knew i recognized him but to me it's a whore thing to be open to everyone's mind/heart. it's too intimate. i look away out of politeness).

anyhow, so this secret diamond found me in the room--and he was instantly naked and i fell in and his eyes weren't saying what his mouth was frantically saying. he was just spouting things to keep me there. 

and i started to panic because which fucking conversation are we supposed to have?

and i'm trying to steer him to what i see in his eyes and he's got so much pain and he's so lonely and hugely loving and he doesn't understand why the world works the way it is and he's in agony, and it's all so private and in public and i can't have this over-conversation for people while his eyes are screaming and yet he won't let me go. everything he says is to keep me there just TALKING---

and i said, "i can't have this conversation now because it's going nowhere and there's nothing i can do so i'm going to get up. james, you talk to him."

and he was stunned but james laughed and he was sweet.

then i fell asleep right there on the floor for 20 minutes like a narcoleptic goat.

and adrienne and margaret didn't make a thing about it.

a lot of times women get mad at me for not being more like a regular nice woman at a party.

they think i'm not aware and selfish. 

fuck, i give at the office at home everywhere.

anyhow, happy new year.

good luck with everything. it's gonna be a doozy out there. 

i'll be back with posting art as i do it.

but i can't be regular here.

and i can't answer emails and comments. 

pretend public erika is dead because she is. 

thank you for sharing your hearts. i can actually feel you there.

i can. i get a lot of love from people.

i feel it like sweaters, hugs, beat downs, kisses, and fucks.

it's what keeps me standing, to be honest.

thank you again.

x

all photos above are of rob trujillo from metallica. a centaur you'd have to be fucking insane to ever wanna conquer. best you can hope for is a yank at that ponytail--just hold tight, baby girl.