This is from 2003. An effort to keep things ticking over on the blog. In the throes - death throes?, I wish - of editing the manuscript to HS & HRS SEXXX GAMES, and as such I'm not writing any new content. I thought this was an interesting entry from the Angry Angry Young Lady diary; it's kind of witty and sardonic. No idea who I am talking about; I can't remember.
**************************
Sunday 17th of August
This week I will make a list and check it twice. I've got to
start making presents for the kids. At this rate it'll never get done. It's
late at night and I can't stop listening to sad songs. I'm meant to be jolly.
Well, no, they're actually self-deprecating sad songs, but I believe the point
has been made nonetheless. Now rub your hand against my bicep. Do it slowly, I
can't take too much excitement. A little jab at stimulation is all I need.
Stop! Enough! Continue talking! I retain the inalienable right to not exercise
my divine right to react. Now laugh at the bad joke I might have made. Maintain
eye contact. Keep the cross hairs locked. Break the shortest distance and direct
your jabbering talk box into my ear. Pupils, and iris, and shoals of white, and
deep skies of blue again. Wear that same black nightgown the next time we
inexplicably meet. Smile, part your red lips and show me the rows of white
teeth. No need to apologise for me not drinking. I'm not saying sorry for dead
scars and red mounds of puffed-up skin rubbing up against the loaded space
in between us. Hell, I'm not saying anything. I nearly forgot that. It feels
like there is an invisible wire attached to my head, a wire which runs up into
a hole in the ceiling. Somebody is holding the end of this wire and pulling it savagely every couple of seconds. Sorry, what was that? I'm battling to
concentrate, what with the horrific jolts to my brain. Spear your right index
finger into palm of my left hand. Now touch my bicep again. And again. And
agai- stop!
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment