Random Acts of Awesome

It's so much easier to feel beautiful when you're alone. I wonder about that, sometimes. Of all the beautiful sex I've had, the best has been alone. Not the best orgasms, of course. The orgasms I give myself always feel a little flat. I can't feed on my own need, my own fulfillment. I only feel content, full, after I've lost myself in a lovers fruition. But beautiful... that only seems to happen in my own eyes. When I'm alone, I see the spill of my own hair across a pillow as I turn my face to the side, and it's art. I feel my own skin, silk. I pull my breasts out of confines of my bra, and the expanse of flesh doesn't feel ample, it feels right. Their size doesn't matter to me, only what they make me feel, and every inch of surface is waiting for my fingertips and nails. My hard little nipples aren't too big or too small. They're simply perfect points of sensation. I can touch them soft or rough, it doesn't matter. I do only what I wan...

Drama. And sex. But mostly drama. As I was lying in bed last night, with a single dramatic tear rolling down my cheek, and my heart not even close to breaking, I realized something. I realized it's time to have another talk with myself. So here we go. Self, It's me, the part of you that's pretty happy. Granted, it's the part of you that relies on its regular doses of sex and touch to stay sane, but fuck you. I'm happy. Sorry. I've been feeling slightly angst-y towards you lately, apparently. You're addicted to drama. You're addicted to the sensation that life has so much more depth than you've given it. You need to have something to fight against, to bang your head against, to make you FEEL something. I'm not saying you like feeling like shit. You don't, you hate it. But you know that other bitch we both hate, the one we never talk about? She kind of likes it. She's pretty sure we all deserve it. Shit. I had all these hel...

I never understood women and men who said they didn't have a voice. You always have a voice. You just have to choose to use it. And I thought that choice was always easy. Why WOULDN'T one choose to be heard? What ramifications could possibly be dark enough to make you lose your voice? When I was a child, I never shut up. No matter how much trouble it got me in. I was quiet, for the most part, but when I felt the injustice of my voice being stifled, I spoke up. I got grounded countless times, slapped in the face a few times, even got the belt a time or two, based on my inability to stop my voice. And even when I was being punished for it, I felt the respect it garnered. My parents would joke about my inability to allow them the last word if I thought I was right, but underneath their joking was the knowledge that they were raising a strong daughter. A woman who would stick up for herself. I felt their pride in that knowledge, and it strengthened my voice, regardless of the...

Interesting. Listening to your cruel bullshit, your rapey jokes based on your hyper alertness to the fact that women are listening to you, is making my sexuality feel gross. I'd been reading T.S. Eliot, rubbing my necklace against my lips, imagining a warm, slick dick in its place, coating my lips with salty cum. And your falsely deep voice, your pathetic juvenile mating calls disguised by the voice of a man, is making my pussy dry up. You're turning my sexuality into something to be used against me. With nothing but your voice, your stupid words. You don't even mean them. You're trying so hard to impress the woman next to you with your warped version of masculinity that you'd say anything. And she's laughing. The two of you are seriously harshing my sensual buzz, and I really want to grab you by the back of your head and smash your lips into the wood of the table in front of you. But that would make you interesting. And you don't deserve it. You are borin...

I was thinking today, while sitting on the bus and feeling trapped and desperate, that I've been living my fathers life for a long time. This sense of desperation to GET AWAY, to run somewhere that isn't here... it's followed me around since I was a child. And I remember seeing it in my father. I remember recognizing his frustration and rage for exactly what it was, a futile banging at the glass of his life. I think the first time I saw it clearly I was 12, and I had just watched him and my mother get into a fight. He slammed his way out the door, grabbing his car keys off the table, and she sat down and cried. Half of me sympathized with her, and I did my best to comfort her with a pat on the back. But the other half of me realized he was running away from so much more than a fight. And I empathized with him. I started to want to run away myself, though I didn't know what from. I didn't have the pressures he did, the 5 hungry children, the emotionally immature wif...

One of, if not the most, pernicious ideas keeping us from happiness in this day and age is the knowledge that we are broken. And if we are broken, you are broken too, for loving us. Also, the idea that who we are right now, in this moment, is who we will always be. I feel my brittle-ness so much more since I've started taking public transit again. It highlights how little strength I feel inside myself, when I am surrounded by strangers, forced to imagine myself inside their skin. My own skin cracks and crumbles at the thought of allowing another inside, at the knowledge that these broken, imperfect people can see me. Can analyze me to their hearts content. Because that's what I'm doing to them. The man sitting across from me, with the deep set eyes that speak of allergies and Elizabethan England, I wonder if he knows who his ancestors are. The woman playing with her thick curly hair right next to me, using it as a shield between me and her boyfriend, I wonder if she rea...

You can tell a lot about a place Observing its relationships with clouds. A village wears hers like a birthday shawl, A city wears hers like a shroud. The clouds above an empty plain Always seem rather sullen, As if there's not enough to see or do And they'd rather be above an ocean. Now the clouds above the ocean Have a playful, mysterious air Like a pregnant wife with a worried husband, She's got a secret she's unwilling to share. I wrapped myself in a veil of dreams And let the sun melt them into my skin, Leaving behind a slick layer of happy Drowning in memories Gasping for air Seduced by the deep Crawling for the surface Reveling in the journey Through the past. Walking along the edge Arms opened wide Fingers trailing sparks Through the midnight air Head thrown back in joyous exaltation Belly trembling with fear Not knowing the destination Breathlessly waiting for the fall.