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These days are rare. Days that are so full up you almost can't put them into words. If someone asked you tomorrow what you did, you wouldn't know what to say. When revelations come one after another. When you spend more hours than you had planned opening up with old friends. When you refresh old flames in a completely different manner. These days stick in your mind when you reminisce with your first kiss in a platonic way, even though you want it to be more. Is it okay to jeopardize best friendship to pursue a relationship? Can they coexist?
I had a moment today. I said one sentence that completely infuriated and crushed someone. It was one of the most powerful things I have felt in a long time. I felt so god-like, saying something I know I shouldn't say, but said anyway. Its like seeing a dead body, you know its cool, you know you want to stare, but you know you can't, you know you shouldn't. It's a wonderful thing when you can cast off societies shackles and truly say what's on your mind. It's a wonderful thing to ask, "So, is she good at eating pussy?"
The guide I hired is scaring me. He's a rough looking Middle Easterner, ratty beard, dark eyes, heavy brows. It all combines to form a rather frightening image, but I guess I will take what I can get. Its not like everyone in Bawiti is willing to just strike out into the Sahara, but that's where I need to go, so be it. The guide tells me his name is Shamer. He doesn't speak much English, but what he does know he seems to have gleaned from old reruns of I Love Lucy. It definitely makes for some interesting conversation.
"You want go to chocolate factory?" Shamer points to a squat sand colored building on the corner of the main thoroughfare of this small desert town. The sign above the door has the word ‘BAR' painted in blue, underneath that was some Arabic that I can only assume said the same thing. This was going to be a long interesting trip. I nod my head, and say, "Yes," trying to drive the point home. We begin walking the dusty half-block to the bar. On the door is a flyer. It's just a plain white piece of paper with black writing.
If it came right down to it, I doubt I would be able to have sex with someone I didn't love. I just spent the past hour telling someone I would, but I was thinking about it, and I don't think I could do it. I think that love IS an important part of sex, whether we want to think that or not. I know the adult film industry would go out of business if that statement were true, but as far as my personal body and emotions are concerned, sex needs love to happen. Love is essential for sex.
The flyer is only attached by a small piece of clear tape. I yank it down to get a closer look. "We know why you are here. Get out before we get you out." The words are written only in English, so I know that they mean my kind of people, Americans. I haven't seen many more Americans, but I guess if it warrants a sign we're becoming a problem. I crumple the sign and stuff it in my pocket. To hell with them if they think a stupid sign is going to keep me away from my life's work.
Drinking is always fun on a Friday night with good friends. Alcohol has long been held to be a wonderful conversation starter, as many right wing WASP wives can attest. Rarely are their little get togethers NOT lubricated with a hefty amount of Gin and Tonics or Rum and Cokes. Rarely are there ANY social events in our country not accompanied by a stiff drink in one form or another. Why is it that this one absurdly dangerous vice condoned and celebrated when another is banned and punishable by prison and discrimination? Why is Alcohol okay and Marijuana is illegal?
The hive hummed with activity. In the early morning the hive awoke, one mind, one body, one soul. The flurry of action began at dawn and didn't end until the moon was halfway across the night sky. The hive flew as one, moving about with no hesitation, only fluidity. Once set loose, the hive flew about from town to town, feasting on the works of men. The men would build through the night, knowing full well that the hive would be there the next day to consume them. One man built a statue to commemorate his own prowess, his work.
The statue was a towering sculpture of the man. It was full eighty stories tall and situated on an entire city block of real estate. The statue depicted a massive man holding a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other. It was carved from a single block of white granite. The man had to sense the weaknesses and creases in the rock, lest he ruin his masterpiece before it was finished. During the construction of the statue, the other men berated him for his folly; the hive would swarm around it and devour it in a night.
When I lived in the country the stars amazed me. I could walk out into my backyard and just look up into a sea of astral bliss. The stars would cloud the sky with their presence. While I was there, I didn't quite appreciate it. I mean, sure I was awestruck, but the true appreciation wasn't there. That awe was all but gone until tonight. I looked up as I got out of my car and I was confronted with a site I haven't seen in far too long. I saw the wondrous stars in the heart of downtown Columbus.
The man prepared for his final night with the statue. He stood at the right foot and gazed up at the massivity of his creation and the awesome power that it conveyed. He was confident that the hive would pass by it in the morning. Surely they would be equally affected by the presence of such a masterwork, thus were the thoughts of the man as he stood at the foot of his statue that final night. With a last look and a loving caress, he turned and walked to his humble home 100 yards away. Would it stand tomorrow?
Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction. Music Addiction.
The pain in my mouth is bothering me to no end. I guess it's a confidence thing. When you know you have it, you are on. When you know you don't have it, you don't perform up to your potential. I guess that's true of most physical attributes. My hair is kinda poofy right now, so I am totally off my game, well, off of what little game I have. I just think to myself, this girl across from me is just staring at my poofy hair and my leprotic mouth and thinking about how gross and skeevy I am.
The urge to go back to my roots is almost overwhelming. A sharp tug on my gaming muscles was felt today as my roommate came home from a magic closed deck tourney. Man, I just wanted to bust out my cards, play some magic, maybe bust out my dice and play some D&D…god, it felt beautiful. Then I remembered that I sold my magic cards four years ago because I lost interest, and I left my D&D stuff at home because A-I have no one to play with, and B-because they switched to 3rd edition, which I do not understand.
My face was so close to the pillow that I could see the threads. I could make out the outline of a darker spot at the edge of my vision. I assumed it was a grease spot from too much use and not enough washing, it certainly wasn't any sort of feminine (or masculine) fluid. I tried not to think about the things that the spot wasn't, but it was tough. I moved to the city nine months ago, and I didn't even have any prospects. The ladies down on Ludlow Street were tempting, but I hadn't fallen that far…yet.
The end was in sight for Drake. If he squinted just so to the right he could just make it out. It was a hazy combination of sun and relaxation. Only that much farther and he would be there. The fat lady was doing vocal warm ups in preparation for the moment that Drake crossed that line and passed through to the next stage. After this, only four more stages until he was done. Four more stages until freedom. He had been running this race for as long as he could remember. In the beginning it was almost too easy.
The music was touching her in places she had never been touched. It was like a blind person seeing for the first time, a deaf person hearing for the first time. It was a moment of revelation. She finally found out what had been missing all of her short life. She had gone sixteen years without knowing the beauty of music, and here it was in all its aural glory. The sound penetrated her chest and brought her closer to orgasm, she was so close now, she could almost taste it. In fact, she could taste it, on her fingers.
Ah the first drunken submission, nothing like popping a cherry. Philosophical and personal discussions are most profitable whi;e intoxicated. My roommate's business school friends had nothing but contempt for the lowly english major. I don't blame them, here I am, someone who was disturbed in his reading by a band of rogue alcoholics, eager to find a refrigerator. Later that tonight, I connected wonderfully with my philosophy minor rooomate. Although he usually gives me great advice, I usually like more useful tips. If it weren't for English majors, these people wouldn't know how to organize their thoughts into coherent sentences.
The pain showed in his eyes as he slid the needle in. It was his first time, but he didn't want Hoight and Frank to know that. He claimed that he did it all the time and that he could handle it himself. Granted, he let them cook it up and he let them fill the hit, but he bound his arm–just above the elbow, just below the armpit–and he took the syringe in his shaky right hand. He clenched his teeth and sucked in a breath as the needle pierced the epidermis and slid into his vein.
She was quietly crying in the dim light of her bedroom. I could see her faint silhouette from where I stood in the doorway. I didn't mean to hurt her so much, but it had to be done. If I hadn't ended it, it would have gone on indefinitely, without becoming anything more than it was now. I got into this whole thing too young, and now that I'm older, I think it's for the best to get out of it while I still can. Jeez, you'd think I just stabbed her in the chest, which, I guess I did.
The punch popped my head back; all I could smell was the hard iron of the platelets flooding my nasal cavity. My sinuses backed up with the overflow, and began leaking down the back of my throat. I instinctively lunged forward, heaving my guts onto the pavement. My sickness was a dark red, mixed with chunks of cheese stick and margarita. Tears of effort were leaking out of my eyes as I retched again, emptying my stomach of even bile. The acidic liquid burned the back of my uvula before it dribbled onto the parking lot of Eagle's Gentlemen's Club.
War as a movie. Live coverage of all the action via satellite. Is it okay for us sitting in our bedrooms at 3 am to watch these horrificly violent scenes of real warfare? Should we be watching from our barcaloungers while "our" troops are in the desert eating sand for breakfast? I don't know what I should be doing, but I sure as hell know what I am doing. I am sitting here, devouring this footage as if that's all it was, footage. Its not real, it's a movie, it's a TV show. Those soldiers aren't dying, they're just actors.
"Hey honey, you lookin' for a date?" That's my line. I say it at least thirty times a night. Twenty-eight of those thirty times, I get a "yeah;" we go back to the hotel room I have for the night. I know the front desk guy, so he gives me a deal. Of course, he doesn't do it for free; I give him a freebie when I come in every night. Sometimes we go back to the manager's office and we scrump on the desk. Other times he only has time for a BJ, so I polish it and leave.
The wasteland is closing in on me. I seem to have only one option to escape: through the tainted arms of a former lover. I know I should stay away from her, but I also know it's impossible to detach myself. We have too much shared history, too many shared emotions wrapped up in this beast. I try to embrace the wastes, but again and again, I reach for her arms, and again and again, I strive for the pure bliss of the desert. There's no pain in the wasteland, no feelings to be hurt, no excuse for missing someone.
The dingo ate my baby. I left her alone for 20 minutes, and when I came back all I could find was a playskool logo and a binky. My wife told me to be careful around those things, but I didn't think the rumors were true. Who would have guessed that a DOG would eat a child…well, I guess it was more of a dog-wolf hybrid, but still. I was raised with dogs. I got my first puppy when I was two, and nothing ever happened to me. My daughter should have known by now not to provoke an animal.
The TV is broken again. The room's been silent for the past twenty minutes, and everyone's started to stare at each other. I notice that Sue's right eye is a little lazy, and that Leon's arms are way bigger than I thought. I guess all that weight training is starting to pay off for him. My eyes slide up to the ceiling, to the large ugly cracks crisscrossing the off-white paint. "So…Umm… How bout that thing …" Leon tries to start up the conversation, but lord knows we're so out of practice by now, it's only an exercise in futility.
Oh yeah she's going away. He can't believe its actually happening. The night was just ending, and here she was leaving him before his eyes. He just needed her undressed, and then he would take of the rest. He said he loved her and she tried in vain to look impressed. After the breakup she insisted that she had to get out of town. He chased her all the way down to the station, but she was determined. He called to her, "Have you got just a minute to spare?" But she was already gone. Oh yeah she's going away.
My heart tells me what to do. This morning it told me to shoot my mum and my dad. So I picked up my pistol and shot them both in the forehead before I had my cereal. I used a silencer of course; my heart told me to buy that last week, just in case I ever needed one. I ate my cereal when my heart chimed in again. It told me that I needed to go into my bedroom and take care of business. I walked to my room and with two quick shots I finished what I started.
The whole show I was pumping my head with the beat and feeling the bass hit my legs, but when The Flood came on, I went into convulsions. I didn't expect it. When the first beat hit I closed my eyes and let go. My body was acting on its own and I let the music take me places I've never gone before. The rising guitar and powerful voice of the band took me there, and held me for longer than I had thought possible. My body was in limbo, moving on its own, the band taking me with them.
Visibility is next to nothing. The fumes are so thick that you can barely see through your visor. The gas mask on your face is the only thing keeping you alive in this thick cloud of bacillus anthracis. You are glad for your protective suit, but still, you wish you weren't actually in this situation. You wish the war hadn't escalated to this level, but it has. Now there's no choice but to adjust. You fire off a few quick rounds in the general direction of the attack. Your CO yells into your comlink, reprimanding you for your foolish action.
The pain of the morning explodes in my eyes. It's a light party on my retinas as my pupils rapidly dilate wider and wider, then instantly contract tighter and tighter. I blink rapidly, vainly trying to regulate their fluctuations. My head is thumping with the rhythmic beating of my heart. A dull ache is spreading from my chest up to my shoulders, and I don't know what it is. My neck is stiff and my arms don't want to bend. My tongue tastes like a combination of sand and rat ass. I definitely shouldn't have had so much to drink.
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