Blood Hungry

There’s a hole in my heart that longs for blood

I try to starve it

Unless it’s got a special hunger

And tonight it’s famished

It’s realized the baseness of humanity

The selfishness and the loneliness

No love

Not even lust

Not for me, anyway

People realize I’m not worth the effort

And they go away

But that’s life, as Frank said,

It’s all just life until you’re dead.

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Vodka & Sylvia Plath

Feeling quite broken tonight. And yet, conforming to the realization that I need to learn how to “be” a bit better. That doesn’t mean the vodka’s going anywhere, but the facts are the same. I can continue to slowly self-destruct or I can try and flip the script a little.

Spent a great deal of the evening bogged down in a Twitter thread that I accidentally exploited last night. I really have to stop interacting with people once I get past a certain level of alcohol. If I’m drunk enough, I’ll do anything you tell me to, even if I don’t really want to. I guess I like to think I can make somebody else happy when I’m not.

I’ve gotten to the point where I have absolutely no idea who I am. I sort of know what I like and don’t like, but who I am? Bitch please.

I actually just wrote that accidentally, but it brings to mind a quote by Sylvia Plath.

I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?

Slow Combustion

Tired feeling tonight. Always feel tired.

One man wants to marry me. One man is fucking me all wild. Online, I mean to say. God, I need to find a man to fuck me IRL. Don’t want a woman. Don’t do no good. Where the fuck is that hard cock I need? Hiding under the bed with the dustbunnies? Well, fuck. Don’t be so goddamn shy.

I am locked in a state of depression. Dark dreams assaulting me, reminding me what’s in store for me. Nothing but darkness and shadows.

I would love it if someone just threw me down on the floor and started kicking me. Kicking me in my stomach, in my ribs. The worse it hurt the better. I want to feel the bones break. I want to see the blood drip. I am never going to be okay, so I want to see the product of the darkness. The blood and the breakage. The utter destruction.

The man who wants to marry me is only a few hours away. No spice there. The spicy one is on the other side of the globe. We won’t even talk about the sad, angsty one who feels I don’t pay him enough attention. *Sigh.*

But, a funny thought. I started talking to nearby-guy thinking he’d just drive down and fuck me. That was the plan. Then he got all smushy. Ugh.

Now, this is what I’m saying. The people you want to fuck you want to be with you. And the people you want to be with just want to fuck you. There’s only one person I want at the moment, though it’s impossible. So I spread myself out like thinning butter on toast. Granted, it makes it hurt a little less. But I feel like I’m disappearing.

Peace out. Going to get another drink. I’m aiming for suicide by way of excessive alcohol intake. Wish me luck.

Halfway On My Way To Prostitution

So. Still got a lot of computer work left to do before I crash, but I feel the need to vent a little. Scream at the Internet a bit. I can already tell I’m going to drink too much tonight, am getting too close to my new limit and know I’ll need more. Will regret it tomorrow when I’m having stomach issues, but I’ll just take a few doses of Pepto Bismol and to hell with it. Got an appointment with the GI doctor next week, whatevs. Hopefully they can put me on some kind of steroid so I can drink more (though of course I won’t proffer that as an excuse).

Been doing good on my diet. Well, it’s less of a diet and more of a Chubby Person’s Anorexia. I don’t eat much, but somehow I don’t want it. Which is new. Lost 18 lbs in the past couple weeks, plan on keeping going until I get where I wanna be. At this rate it won’t take as long as I thought.

Very bad thoughts tonight. Listening to Rob Zombie and savoring them. Imagining myself bleeding. Wanna cut tonight, but I hate messes nowadays. If I cut I’ll have to wear sweatpants to bed so I don’t bloody the sheets and I prefer not to wear bottoms to bed.

Ah, well. I’ll figure it out later.

Do you ever wonder how one woman can keep alienating so many people? You try your best, then they flit away. The good thing is, I’m developing a harder skin. I have another drink and I shut my mind off. The truth is no one wants anyone. They want what’s convenient for them in that moment. I have always been odd in wanting to go a step farther, but that is why I drink alone in my chair.

Money’s been a little tight lately, partly because I spend a bit too much but I’m not going to stop. I’ll spend it all until it’s gone. I never finished college, had a mental breakdown, so I’ve been considering what I should look for in terms of work. Probably waitressing. I can’t think of anything else where you can get the tips, and there are lots of such jobs available in a city like mine. I used to think being around food all the time would bother me, but now that I am partially anorexic I think it would be OK. Unless I dropped the trays. LOL.

I have also been having other dark thoughts. I live in an urban cesspool, with downtown not much more than a 20-minute walk. And I look particularly good in my leggings nowadays. Have been considering walking up to State Street in the dark hours, seeing what I can give for some cash. It wouldn’t be difficult. I’ve seen 300-pound hookers up there. I’m a catch compared to them. Pretty face, slightly imperfect body. But most guys don’t give a fuck. They just want a hole to pound. And last time I checked, I’ve got two. (More if you’re counting differently.)

I used to be such a good girl. I used to be so angelic. A fat little fucking angel. Now I am a demon on my way to super good looks. I welcome the change. If I didn’t have these familial obligations tying me down, I’d slip on a tighter top right now and drive half-drunk up to a parking lot on State Street. This time of night I’d find a few clients. And not any fucking $5 book promotion clients. If you ain’t got the cash, baby boy, fuck off.

I may slip out in the middle of the night to give it a try. Will get bitched at if the dog falls off the bed, but still considering it. Would be worth the cash.

Wouldn’t it?

Don’t answer that. I’ll let you know. :000000

CM’s Crazy Chronicles #1

So, a strange fact to start off. My left nipple keeps buzzing. Just that one, not the right one. I was rolling them in my fingers this morning imagining someone in particular, and I started to notice the buzzing this afternoon. At first I thought it was just the way I was walking. But it’s coming more often now, buzzing in a really weird way, like my phone when it’s on vibrate. That’s the exact sensation. As if a vibrating phone was pressed against my nipple.

Just the left one. Super weird.

ANYWAY, this is the first of my Crazy Chronicles. I have been feeling super psycho lately, and I think writing a bit of it down might help. Just a brief warning, if you have sensitive sensibilities or aren’t fond of explicit material, stop reading. If you like that sort of thing, well hell, knock yourself out.

They diagnosed me as bipolar, but I think I’m just insane. I’m thinking maybe multiple personality disorder. Let’s call it SYBIL RETURNS. You know Sybil, right? Sally Field did a damn fine job with that one. Whoa – my nipple just buzzed again. This is so weird. ANYWAY, back to it.

I was mega high yesterday, but today I’m mega low. I’ve been in a black hole all day with dark shadows swirling over me. Tears loaded behind my eyes, but they never fell. I think they’re going to let loose later on after a few more drinks.

And yet, there was one strange thought that consoled me somehow. I hurt so bad on the inside, I wanted to hurt on the outside, too. I thought of cutting myself again, but razors just don’t do the trick. It hardly even hurts when you do it, especially when you’re drunk. Which I always am at night. It hurts like a motherfucker over the next few days, but that’s not really a good kind of hurt. It’s just a pain in the ass.

So, as to what I imagined. I wanted someone to tie me to a concrete pole in the middle of some basement. I’d be completely naked, my hands bound so tight, my knees chafing against the concrete underneath me. The lighting is dim. Standing behind me is a shapely woman in a black bra, black panties and a black ski mask. I’d told her earlier I don’t want to see her face. I don’t want to know anything about her. I just want her to hurt me.

She’s holding a huge black whip, made of leather and so cruel-looking. She’s a dom and I want her to hurt me.

“Whip me,” I say loudly.

She doesn’t hesitate for even the briefest moment. She cracks the whip for show, then draws it back to do its work on me. I hear the crack, the first lick is like fire on my skin. I feel the blood drip down. Ooooohhhh this is what I wanted so bad. The outside hurt is matching the inside hurt, it’s pushing my haze away. The haze I’m always in. The nondescript haze that reminds me my life is meaningless. But isn’t everyone’s?

“Again!” I scream.

I hear the crack. Feel the fire. This dom seems to know what I want, she doesn’t stop. She just keeps pulling the whip back, striking it against my naked flesh. There’s so much blood, I can see it dripping down onto the grey concrete. I’m sinking down against the pole, only half-conscious, my mind almost entirely clouded by this intense pain. But I welcome it. It’s making the inside pain go away.

I’m like Jesus of Nazareth, I’m like Robert Powell being whipped by the Pharisees. Only difference was, He was pure. I am so dirty and disgusting.

I sink down to the concrete, unable to remain upright any longer. Miss Black-Clad Dom throws down the whip, walking briskly towards me in her ridiculously high heels. I’m down on the floor, but my hands are up on the pole, bound so tightly. The raw cuts will leave permanent scars.

“Want me to fuck you?” Miss Black-Clad Dom inquires. “You paid for it, after all.”

“Get the fuck away from me,” I whisper, my cheek lying in a pool of my own blood down on the concrete. “I just wanted you to destroy me.”

“Did I succeed?” she asks, a smile in her stupid voice.

“Yeah,” I mumble, sinking back down into the blood. “You did.”

“Adios, then,” she says, turning to leave. Her black heels clack-clack-clacking against the concrete.

I’m still tied up. There’s no one here to untie me. But I really don’t care.

I Am A Bad Girl (But I Don’t Mean to Be)

No, no, I really don’t mean to be bad. But I have been being bad lately – in almost all areas of life. I don’t think about God, I drink to excess, I can’t shake this extra 20 pounds and I am feeling FRUSTRATED. So today I went back on my diet, feeling OK on that score, though of course I’m still drinking and won’t quit for a bit yet.

I’ve been spending a little too much money, and I know it, but I can’t help it. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I’ve also started replying to the numerous DMs I get on Twitter from horny guys. I’m not quite sure why I’m doing that. I felt a little cruel tonight, because this one guy seemed pretty nice, and of course I had no interest in him. LESBIAN. DUH. Guess he forgot to check my profile!

Anyway, he wanted to talk on Skype, and I said no. But do you know, if I didn’t live in a house where people would be all up in my business, I probably would have done it? Not that it’s a big deal, I just feel like I’m being dishonest and unfair.

It’s hard to deal with loneliness, though. You have that one person whom you want more than anything, and they’re the sweetest, but they’re just not interested in you that way. So you go looking for attention elsewhere. If I could have, yeah, I would have Skyped with Jerry tonight. He’s not a bad-looking guy. Hell, I probably would have even taken my top off for him. Just as long as he said something nice to me.

In some ways, I feel like I’m growing stronger emotionally – but on the other hand, I feel like I’m spiraling downhill. My inhibitions are decreasing, and it’s hard to tell what’s right and what’s wrong. Maybe there’s no such thing as either one. I feel like I can take on the world, in a way, but at the same time I just want to curl up and have somebody hold me.

Does that make sense?

Red Lipstick

So, I’ve got this strange habit of writing blog posts and then deleting them. I feel like I say too much and then I cancel them. I talk way too much online, but in real life I say next to nothing. I sit next to my 86-year-old neighbor for half an hour in the car while I’m driving her to her doctor’s appointment, and I just say “Right,” and “Yep,” in response to all of her numerous inanities. Sometim es I say nothing at all, and she just goes right on yapping.

My brain is tired. How does your brain feel? Ah, whatevs. Not snorting any sugar tonight, just drinking the usual vodka. Maybe a little more wine if I get past ten mixed, though I know I’ll be numb in the morning.

So I thought of this lady I met in my mind at the bus stop (though I own a car and don’t take the bus) . . .

IT WAS A BRISK AFTERNOON IN LATE AUTUMN. I walked towards the Plexiglas cubicle that shielded those who waited for the bus from the rain, tugging my hood around my head and wishing I owned an umbrella. Fuck being poor. Fuck it all to hell.

I saw the middle-aged woman just sitting there, smoothing on lipstick in a handheld mirror. Her hair was short and curly, her pale face was firm and pert. Her red lipstick looked perfect under her dark eyes.

“May I sit next to you, ma’am?” I inquired, gesturing to the bench.

“It’s a free country,” she replied. A sly smile before she added, “Or so they say.”

I sat down next to her. She was an incredibly striking woman. She was tall, you could tell she was, even while she was sitting. Her clothes were impeccable and her makeup was perfect. I loved her red lipstick most of all. It looked very kissable.

But then, without warning, she drew a small silver flask from the pocket of her grey twill pants. She twisted off the top, then took a long swig.

“You can’t imagine how many times I have to refill this over the course of the day,” she said, smacking her lips and looking up at the grey, pouring sky.

“How many?” I inquired wonderingly.

“Six or seven,” she replied nonchalantly. “Maybe more.”

“What do you do during the day?” I asked.

“I’m a bookkeeper,” she answered. “For a charity. But let me tell you, young lady – charity is a very loose expression. It’s more of a business than anything else.”

I looked at her with narrowed eyes. “You can’t mean that,” I said quietly.

“Ah,” she said, looking at me with her deep, dark eyes. “Poor young girl. Do you still believe in innocence?”

I thought about it for a long moment, but finally realized that I didn’t know. So I didn’t answer.

A bus was coming – and it seemed like it was her bus.

“Wait,” I yelped as she rose to leave.

She looked back patiently.

“What are you doing later on?” I asked politely.

She gazed at me with an equal measure of politeness. “I’m too old and jaded for you, my dear,” she replied.

The bus pulled up alongside her and swung open its doors. She went up the steps with shapely legs shod in sensible black flats. I watched her as she went, marking her movements as she took a seat four rows back.

Much to my surprise, though, she looked back down at me. She blew me a kiss, then mouthed the words “Maybe later.”

At least – I think that’s what she said.