sunday doesn't count.

i'm out of my fucking MIND.

if i thought i was going insane 6 months ago, i'm here and i've set up a nice little umbrella to protect myself from the noonday sun of your harsh, generic, uninspired "clarity."

the female love of my motherfuckin' life, lisa robinson, just got back in touch. she reads minds. i swear. 

my uncle thought we were lesbian lovers but we only did things to ourselves in front of each other and we only used to dream of having sex with each other in our nighttime dreams. and we were so fucking sweeeet, we'd wake up next to each other cuddled up in a single bed and tell each other innocently, "i had another dream we were having sex."

and it was no big thing.

she was my sister, my mom, my best friend.

i wrote about her in "THE GIRL MUST DIE," but i mostly keep our stories to myself because she's so precious to me. yeah. supernatural and mystical. 

lisa's the kind of friend you bring with you through time and many lifetimes, if there is such a thing. 

anyhow, i'll continue on with the mindful mind fuck later on. i've gotta ruminate on energy. 

my favorite day, sunday, brought me a smile when i read my trashy gossipy indulgence, "parade magazine," in the sunday paper, and charlie sheen is coming back. i smiled when i saw he's working on a picture.

if producer, brad wyman, has anything to do with this sheen thang, things are gonna be just fine for those of us who prefer our movie stars a little more scary and hot for this new mad max future. 

no pretty baby boys with swept away hair and teeth that go "ding!". we need the sandy, sticky kisses of a man who can take his middle aged body to the edge of the cliff and claw his way back to america's fighting arms. and we find the stickiness is his own blood because he impaled himself and ran through the motherfucking airport with his heart on a stake to prove to you all that he loved you, someone, anyone.

it doesn't matter how big the words were that he used to tell you that he adored you.

you can read time in wind and tea leaves are your novels.

--

i'm not really evil. i only jerked off to the bestiality in the early days of porn because it wasn't like it was a cow getting raped on a pin ball machine. i don't like innocent victim stuff. to a cow, a human guy would be like a pinky, and many of us women have sometimes found it easier to just say yes, and so a cow may have to take one for the team, too.

the sweetest photo i saw was a farmer not far from the sound of music alps with his naked wife wearing nothing but work boots and cupping his balls while he fucked bessie.

i felt guilty for the arousal, but she was there. the "female gaze" could cup her man's balls and it was her "it's okay, erika" only up-nod i needed to go fuck no, 1997 and i'm going to fucking HELL fo' sho' now.

besides, i figure a life as livestock has got to suck. you escape and you're only re-captured and enslaved or eaten. 

maybe the cow will live a longer because the man is not quite so eager to eat a cow he's made love to with his wife. 

and i found other places where fluffy dog herding dogs were fucking their owners up the asses and i thought i would just about split my fucking MIND because i can't even imagine the process of planning and going through with such a fucking mythical monstrous thing and if you don't think i'm now free and glad that the feminists cancelled EVERYTHING i ever thought i wanted to live in a 2" obituary, i'm oh so verrrrry glad.

because when i can be whatever i want except a working fucking artist in a land of the eternally butt fucked, 1997 was a time of "what the fuck?" and since then the world has been taken over by people who fucking carry personal sizes of antibacterial spooge. 

anyhow i digress because i'm going insane like a man who just doesn't give a fuck. why do we EVER give a fuck? i'm not seeing the upside.

anyhow, mickey rourke in "the wrestler"-- it was the final hollytown stapling The American Meat Dog Man into submission, killing us all, and stapling the flag up his ass like lazy cubicle iwo jima soldiers who program things.

fucking "staple." 

of course such a movie would be greenlit today. the execs jerked off well before the :08 mark.

a fucking snuff film for a kind of man littering the fucking transcontinental train tracks like massacred buffalo.

i cry like that fucking non-indian guy from the 70s who's on a horse in full feathers looking at the american fucking white trash rolling through my own bedroom.

because it's time for sexuality to stop being so vague and safe. johnny depp and leonardo di caprio are the movie stars for the latent non-committal lesbians. sort of like men who fuck trannies at clubs because time off from tedious heterosexuality and fucking a dude with a hairy ass would split their heads open.

talk about transcendence. have you ever seen one of those old 70s gay boy porn films? no wonder the church folks were worried everyone would turn gay. that shit is crazy mad HOT. two meat dogs raping each other on pin ball tables without even saying "hello."

that's your "carrie" style telepathy used for GOOD in the world.

anyhow,

you need extremes so that your middle isn't some fucking "facebook" movie.

so grown men: george clooney.

the rest are kids playing dress up in period movie fedoras.

anyhow george clooney is the angelic liberal sweet guy.

you need another opposite.
(this all seems so pretentious like a jungian animussy thing)

you can't really imagine george clooney buggering a bus boy and not feel like averting your eyes politely because he's all swellegant like rock hudson.

you need a devil.

someone to make sex scary again.

a devil you can jerk off to because it'd just be sooooo beautifully wrong for him to be getting head from the guy who fixed his pick up truck. 

men with pick up trucks are hot. and with motorcycles. if they have both, that's better than them getting head from the boss' son in his mechanics' blues. 

if they have a dog that they don't have sex with, that's even hotter.

when i used to think i was supposed to hook up and get married because my mom said that would keep me from being alone too long and weird. anyhow, i used to fucking FEAR that i'd wake up to some creepy surprise that i couldn't handle because i had a brittle life as a trophy wife.

yeah. us artists with oil paint on our skirts (i wore peasant skirts even when welding), we used to talk like we had the OPTION of being trophy wives and painting all day.

that shit went out toute suite when i met the actual trophy wife in sweden and heard about how she had a foursome for her husband and had such good sex with the woman, it was all she could do to pull herself away. but she had to because it's part of the game where he's such a fucking stud.

and this is the shit she's saying out loud with that sad, faraway fucked up look on her swedish upperclass socialist face.

and again, i didn't want to grow old like that.

anyhow, as you can see, i'm beyond jerking off to charlie sheen myself. that's for the world. i prefer to jerk off to the few secrets i have in any given moment. that's the only thing that i've got left all to myself, and even they're not that private anymore. 

6:42 mark is fine even beyond the light bruising of life and the sunset of a stapling.

when lisa writes me, i smile because i've also been thinking of her all the time.

i never had to explain or apologize to lisa. only for going down on her boyfriend. years later when i confessed after she asked again about the only shame i had between us, she kindly answered, "you were only 12. he was 27 or 28. he should've known better."

when i was young, i used to always feel obligated. and i'd just given him another full body nude massage. we soooo had the shoe on the wrong fucking foot.

now i won't even swallow just anyone anymore. it was either "it can happen anytime" or "let me save up for the stress of not choking in an elegant way while a cock rams in and out of my mouth" and it changes what kind of fuck buddy i am.

snakefucker's different. i really would drink his fluids. i'd put them in the fridge for later like a nursing baby.

anyhow, back to lisa. we were the same. lisa just wanted me to say the truth. it almost didn't matter what it was, because the fact that i could finally tell her everything, meant we were solid all across time and lifetimes. we'd make it past anything.

i love lisa so much.

i'm realizing that i wrote "the girl must die" thinking i was already dead and re-born.

ha.

i'd barely begun to even DIE. of course my death would be like the black knights non-death scene.

it's been an interesting death.

i think i've still been dying until now.

i smile because i thought the voices in my head had finally failed me, turned against me and rendered me insane.

no.

my vision for my future is still too small for what i'm currently going through.

i have no words. no black outlines to give you.

if i did, it'd mean nothing.

you have to pay. you have to give everything and yourself up.

you have to trust. 

you have to hold your arms behind your back and let life tie them tight into pretty little sailor knots, click your heels three times and wish yourself anywhere but home.

this is so hot. all of it. every terrifying what the fuck moment.
i feel like a teenager on the run again.
my silly little hummel figurine middle class ideals behind me, and my crusty trashy chin-out life is before me.

and it can go either way.

that's how i feel again.

for the first time in a long ass time...

it can go either way.

i'm finally excited with sharp teeth. and lisa wrote. i feel like i'm back, y'all.

that's like the dinner bell to a pit bull.

before? my almost fifty years before now were just pussy stuff. 

full slice of pie indeed. i finally tasted laura pasik's superhero sweat at the gym tonight. she thought it was wrong. but it is i who can now fly for 48 hours, and i'm gonna continue with the alchemy class and learn how to go out of this world this way.

i have no fucking idea what's happening to me.

but the art guys like jonathan barofsky get to jerk off with their own snot, write meaningless numbers on reams of paper, and not get institutionalized.

i get to jerk off with my own snot now, too.

find your own cashmere. 

x