Mrs. Dalloway's Coffee Break

How can one communicate experience one may talk about it for however long Not the same fire becoming water or woman a demon transmogrification emotions one makes them disappear a disappearing cloak the mouth a line Vertebrae after vertebrae staring at nothing eating these nine inch nails joyless drunkard Or maybe I was laughing Munchausen by proxy with horror in my colorless eyes hope like the flicker of pink light in the eye right before it bursts But my eyes are fine What I have is this torrential regret or no regrets at all just a sec while I calibrate  punitive damages you know no regrets but my misdemeanors became this enormous planet of involuntary twitching performance anxiety but I don’t suffer from either see 02:37 03:11 04:54 I'm looking for Mr. Goodbar I become the kid with the  comic book tattoo brain I feel no pain I have everything to gain from these shit odds Since when you became a betting man? I search for validation youth Happiness I had some youth once and I know

  You know what I’d love to be doing right about now? Get deliciously drunk with Vitae and talk about boys and makeup, and it would be summer and we would empty at least two bottles of sparkling wine and rearrange the entire world by talking, because if anyone could make it happen it would be us, and watch Mermaids and Desperately Seeking Susan, and finally pass out on the porch. Go wild dancing with friends, dressed up to the nines and stay out all hours. Bed a nubile young person, preferably with brown curly hair and glasses. Just for fun, just because I’d love to know what it felt like right now, time or history or whether it’s wrong be damned. Those of you in the know, and dear observant constant readers, are perfectly well aware of my perversities concerning the bespectacled intellectual types with a headful of unruly curls. Mr. Chalamet, the Jaws -era Mr. Spielberg, the Evil Dead: Dead by Dawn -era Mr. Raimi, for instance (all names mentioned in similar circumstances here i

Dolorem ipsum  I can't think of anything really hurtful to say. Oh, wait, what's this? A blogsite? Dormant since 2020? Score. Yes, people, it has been brought to my attention that, unfortunately, passages from my writings on this blogsite, and some short passages from my Hidden Treasures Project, have been used without my knowledge, or permission.  In an attempt to extort emotional response from third parties, and to bring forth feelings of sadness, sorrow, jealousy, and desperation, stuff from my old posts have been copied and pasted and sent as messages.  To put it plainly, my words have been used to try and cause pain and fuck up lives. What I have created here have been attempted to pass off as someone else’s words. Very specific excerpts of works published on this site have been laboriously isolated from context and then forwarded to at least one third party with the idea of trying to cause bad feelings, to brainwash others into seeing their tormentor as a godlike figure w

  Last night, I had a dream about Markus. This is a very extraordinary happenstance, since I have never before dreamed about him, at all. This isn’t unusual for me in the least. I seldom, if ever, have had any dreams about my boyfriends during the time I was with them. I don’t know what that’s about. No sex dreams, not any kind of dreams, even though with Markus I went through an extraordinarily long period of new relationship lust, and as a unit we have proceeded to go through an even longer tunnel of extremely aggressive fighting. We yell, we throw things, we slam doors. We break things, we know exactly which button to push and hit exactly where it hurts. Once, Markus ripped both his notebook, and his expensive pen, to shreds, because he was just so mad at me. I have slammed a door so vivaciously it almost came off its hinges. I, in a fit of gargantuan rage, upended the kitchen table to make a point, and took devilish delight hearing the roaring crash when it came down on the hard

  As fate would have it, I am currently living the somewhat harsh realism of a cancer patient’s loved one. It has been a very long time since I even considered writing anything here. Since the last time, I have issued eight booklets of erotic short stories, one of which was actually based on a short story I wrote on this site, and a poetry book, all of them in print form only. It felt like the next natural step for me, something I really wanted to do, to be part of the writing community at last, with something tangible. I participated in an art exhibit with the erotica series and wrote a new piece for the event. Anyone can tell you, except huge writers who make a de facto realistic living from their books perhaps, that the come down is steep and plummeting after the show is over. The books aren’t selling too well. The exhibit succeeded in raising interest in my body and image, not in what I was actually trying to do. Which I guess is fair. I have used my image and my body and m