If you’re reading this on my blog, this is page one of 176. 

That’s a lot of writing. I mean, at least half of it, maybe even two-thirds, is pictures, mostly of tits. But they’re nice tits. (You’ve got nice tits. Yeah, you know who you are. You know I noticed them. I’m not saying things aren’t what they are, but you totally kinda wanted me to notice. It’s cool.)

That’s like, a lot of writing. There’s easily room for a few thousand words on every one of those pages… I don’t even like to think about it, the mass of pseudo-literature I produce. And I’ve only been here a few months, or like a year or something. 

I kept a livejournal, a couple of them, for almost a decade. You have no idea how much text that is. Fuck, and that’s just the stuff I’ve published online. You cannot imagine how much text I’ve thrown away since I was 17 and first started seriously typing. I have thrown away more pages of text than any twelve people you know will write in their lifetime, aside from, y’know, serious writers, which I know a bunch of you are. I know a bunch of you are just like me in this. You produce. You cannot help it. I can’t.

If I try to stop writing… it’s worse than giving up sex and masturbation. It’s worse than giving up white sugar and coffee and weed. I climb the walls, and threaten suicide at passersby. Ha, I have given up writing, a few times in my life. It’s always a painful relief to see it go, and it’s always like a heart-ache healing, when it comes back.

I’m glad you’re reading me, I really am. I know this is kind of weird or gross or whatever, but like, my audience is as important to me when I’m writing, as my partner is when I’m fucking. I don’t know if that diminishes you, referring to you as “audience”, but it means something to me. I’m not always even sure what, but it means something.

Well, most things mean something. If you look at them long enough right. 

Do you ever wonder what to write about? I get so sick of… describing women brutalizing men, and drugs and cars and mutant powers… But it’s all I know. I feel like I want to capture something sometimes, like a moment or a person, but then I just blather out the same old shit in a different colored tongued, all the languages of a slurpee machine… 

She comes up to me, comes on to me, drunk as she can be, and giggling. Everything about her reminds me of why she left me, and why I left her. She left me, but I broke up with her. I broke up with her once she’d left the room, and she still blames me for that.

She’s waiting.
By the stairs.
And she’s waiting.
for me to come home.
Doors try to slam, but stay open.
She tries to close the conversation, but the topic remains open to debate. 

She’s a big fat soap-bubble, floating on my breath. 

She loves me until I leave bleed.

“I wish I believed in something,” she said, putting her blade to my belly and a bullet to my heart. 

I miss feeling like I know what I’m writing about, or for. I’m not sure what I’m trying to get out of any of this. It’s like dating a girl you never intend to fuck or murder. What’s the point? Is it all just for pleasant conversation and the wasting of time? What are we doing here together? Are we even together at all?

“I wish I knew somebody worth loving,” she said, cold steel entering my abdomen as hot lead punctured my blood-pump. 

I know lots of people worth loving, but I don’t know what to do with them. I don’t know how to keep them close without pushing them away. I don’t know how to appreciate a beautiful thing without fucking with it a little. I don’t know how to make people happy, least of all myself.

“I wish we had a few more wishes,” she said, gutting me and blasting apart the slightly-left-of-centre of my chest. 

I wish I had something inside me, like a heart or soul, that could me an indicator as to what comes next. Who am seducing, and how and why? What do I hope to get out of this? Another mouthful of flesh, or something that makes me feel a little more purposeful? How the fuck do I dig myself out of this hole, and whose hands am I going to use for a shovel?

She’s such a post-apocalyptic lover. She makes me think of building reduced to ruins, of ash falling from the sky. She makes me think of a sky turned black and torn about with angry bolts of lightning; fire in the dark clouds.

…………………

Our relationship is this dust that was a city. You slept through the exchange of war, you woke up and everything was just gone. You woke up and I was a glowing skeleton in the corner, all stacked up neatly and bleeding radiation in the dark.

You woke up and I was gone. 

A world of rotting corpses burned to slush; snow made of the remnants of soft skin, floating on the wind, lifted high into the upper atmosphere, and brought back down to earth as a rain of soft cells.

You were so close, but those others, they were even closer to you, and they squeezed me out of the room. I probably should’ve held on a bit tighter, but I decided to just let you go. 

I’m not supposed to be alive. True story.

If I was a natural animal, with a natural animal birth, I’d have been stillborn. My physical setup would not have allowed me to leave the womb breathing. I’d have looked up into the sky, seeing nothing, and I’d have turned blue, and died.

I’d be dead another seventeen years later, if I were just an animal in the wild, when my appendix burst. I’d have gripped my belly in pain, and fallen to the ground, and died in agony, and that would be that. 

And I here I sit. Older and older still. Trapped inside a body which was designed, by nature, to fail. I wasn’t meant to be here, I wasn’t meant to survive. 

Yet here I sit. 

We killed off my first child, because it wasn’t time yet. Another life designed to exist, turned aside by progress and capability. 

Existence is a slippery sort of path that way. 

Making love to her is like taking a knife in the ribs from a stranger, on a cold, cold night. I don’t know why it makes it worse to be hurt on a cold night, but it certainly just does.

You can see the steam rising up from the blood. You can see the edges of the blood starting to crystallize. You can feel the aching frozen bitterness spreading out from the injury, all those severed nerves crying out in the dark.

Making love to her makes me want to hurt somebody; her other lovers mainly. I can feel their throats in my hands. I can see their feet below my boot-heels. I can hear that satisfying sound their little bones make when they start to break. 

I want to shatter something you love. I want to break some irreplaceable. I want you to understand that I’m not coming home with you. I’m not meeting your parents or spending holidays with you, or any of that shit. I’m just “a face in the crowd”, another anonymous spec of so little.

I kill myself for a living, dulling my senses with experience. 
I slip her into me, right between the ribs.
She’s a perfect little bit of agony, sized to tear me apart.  

I take on new lovers just to have new topics to write about.

I like the colour of her skin, the cut of her hair, I like the uncomfortable way she has of watching me, like she doesn’t like to catch herself looking but likes to look anyway. I like the push and pull of attraction and denial and confusion. 

I just want to bite her lip a little. Get enough of a taste to feel like I’d sampled something of what it was. 

I like her ink, her writing, the glyphs under her skin. I like the potential for… at best, heart-felt intrigue, at worst, simple masturbation. We coax sexual sentiments out of each other, or at least we clearly we want to. (Being an adult seems so stupid sometimes, like tall children with better vocabularies and no restraints.) I like what she might look like, what she might be like, have been like, or what she just wants to be like, with me.

I just want to get up close, and see how she breathes. 

I’ve got miles of self-improvement to go however, before I might sleep. 
And hell, it seems like I just woke up.

Looking over roles, costumes, characters, attributes, affiliations, types.

Who do I want to be when I grow up look up at myself?

I throw on a few different articles; bits of writing about sex, and violence, and bright colours and loud noises and lewd jokes and dirty looks and bites and cuddles and bad-ideas-for-good-peoples.

You know the look.

Who can I be to you? How would you like to see me?

Strong? Silent? Mouthy? Cute? Deplorable? Amoral? Vicious? Nurturing?

I try on a dozen different shirts, all the same size and colour and cut. I look at my face in a thousand different mirrors – some of the mirrors look back, and I call those ones “lovers”. We spend time, gazing at me gazing at me. We call those “love affairs”.

I’m seeing what I can mean, to me, to you… Who I can be mean to, through you. Some people like me a little mean, I’m certain of it. Some people would like me to shut the hell up a little more, but… we’ll see how all that goes as well.

Trying on different me’s, different meme’s, different uses. Us’s. 

I was going to send you this note expressing my affection towards you.

 ………

 You’re like a billion breeds of terrible monster, all stuffed into a pair of sexy socks. You should be isolated and poked with a stick for my amusement. You should have to sit and hold my hand while I think of terrible things to say very quietly to you.

 ………………

 But I want you to find it here, and know that I wrote it for you. 

She dances like a song I’d like to fuck. She tears clichés into confetti with her teeth, with ever original phrase that slips from between the translucent covering of saliva and pheromones that coat her lips.

She smiles at me in ways that remind me why I like to fall in love, what I get out of it, what I enjoy about every single scrap of the process. She smiles at me, and I imagine her naked. It doesn’t take much imagination.

I don’t want to break you; I mean, I do, but I want to keep you as well. I want to nurse your broken heart back into shape, and set it loose to kill again. But I am what I want you to devour. It goes past desire. It delves into deeper pools of deeper wants.

You’re just a fraction of what I want, but it’s a fraction that gets caught in my teeth.

It tastes like you’re bleeding across my tongue. 

I’ve always said that loving you is like writing loud pop songs, or being kicked in the face. I’ve always said things that I thought might amuse you, or turn you on a little. 

I’m always on stage whenever you’re around. I’m playing a role, I’m doing this elaborate tableau, I’m trying like a magician to guide you around the room with misdirection and subterfuge. I have this way I want you to see me, and it’s not for me, it’s for you.

Fuck, it’s all, for you, isn’t it? I can see that, when I get back down my knees. I can hear that tone in your voice that tells me exactly where I belong. Do what I must because I’ve been put where I am. This is that place, these were those times. We talked about this in advance. I slipped the key into an envelope, and mailed it to sometime next week. I’ll just be there, chained to that spot on the floor, until you need me to be otherwise.

I stretch out my throat to fit your teeth around it, yours and hers too. I can’t seem to be satisfied by anything else, than being dragged down and torn into bloody screaming pieces on the floor. I want you and her to chew me up and spit me out. I want to be nothing but pain and other people’s saliva. I want feel all that good stuff rot.

Loving you is like being in love with having my stomach pulled out and dropped in my hands. Loving you is simply charmingly simplistic, like a bullet to the back of the head.

 I pulled on a magical suit of armour, the kind that’s loaded with mechanized-guns and deadly lasers and the sort of technology that makes your brand-new computer look like some Neolithic stone.

 All around me the dumbest of our species are separating into breeding pairs and teaching their young to squeal. Louder and louder they get, like they know the fires I’m starting are attracted to noise. Sound-Directed-Combustibles, just looking for a place to happen.

 Me, I’m too much passion and too much dry desert sand caught in the tires. I got blood stuck between my teeth, a big bead of her blood pressing up against me like a big bug belly set to burst on impact.

 She smiles at me, which is my cue to start pulling triggers. We go off like hunter-killer-drones, bio-mechanical animals built to take the world until she’s all clouds and ruins. 

She sees me from a distance, and I laugh like I’m snorting shards of glass up through my nose. She sees me, and I’m smoke, in her eyes. I’m a mirage. I’m a bit of magic, caught in your eye like a spark, and then gone again.

 I feel the weight of her concerns come down upon me. I feel her crushing me, crushing on me… I feel her thoughts prickling my mind. She swarms into view, and I’m still just smoke in her eyes.

 She breathes me in and out. I drift a little closer, and she sees through me.

 I’m all kinds of up inside my head. I’m a signal looped backwards, regarding itself in retrospect. 

“But I have this thing for sexy young women,” I went on. “They’re my kryptonite and my rasion d’etre all in one.” 

He stares at my like I’m way more annoying than I think I am. “You think,” he says, and he taps his shoe real slow on the floor. 

“You don’t want to kill me,” I assured him. “I’d make a huge mess on your floor.”

“Some things,” he said slowly, looking me up and down like I a horse he’d bought while intoxicated on cheap hooch, “are worth some things.”

“Anyway,” I continued, which is the same thing as having went on, “this whole thing, with me, with women, I don’t know what it is. I’m just trying to get a handle on it. I don’t want to own them, not all of them, I don’t want to keep them, don’t even need to fuck them.” 

“Then what?”

“Well, there’s a bunch of things in there I didn’t say,” I said, wondering how well he’d catch my drift. “There’s a bunch of things I do want, they’re just not so distinct.”

“Then how will you know when you’ve got them?”

I smile grimly. “A warm sense of satisfaction, that will linger across my lips.”