Picture Perfect

It has been recently brought to my attention, that my "writing" has become a form of entertainment for a few selected people... a truly fascinating revelation, indeed. Apparently, what I have been doing here isn't actually writing or an expressive art form at all... the proper terminology is called "blog whining". In truth, I have no real problems whatsoever and any "abuse" I suffered as a child is typical childhood dilemma. It was also reassuring to find out, that any of my adult life experiences are merely poorly written fiction... now I will finally be able to rest with ease at night. Thank God! I can't believe I was so easily diluted and such a fucking whiner... well, enough of that funny business. Of course, even though all of this enlightenment has been so rewarding, it does come with a down side. So tragic indeed. You see, the sad part is... I will never truly know what pain, rejection or suffering REALLY is, not ever. To truly suffer in this world and and be taken serious as a writer, I have to change my entire life and circumstances. First off, I need to start a Tumblr page. The next step would to become a well experienced, self taught, highly intellectual 15yr old girl. I need to have rich parents that buy me everything... high-end laptops, digital cameras, a brand new car and a summer and winter vacation home, where I can escape life and refresh when things become too demanding. I'll need to find a boyfriend to lose my virginity to, so that I will be instantly installed with definitive and absolute knowledge of love and relationships. Finally, I will have to stop writing entirely about anything serious. Instead, I need to re-post pictures taken from other people and add intelligent commentary like, LOL, <3 and H8. OMG! I can't W8 (see I'm already learning, tee-hee).

Thank you, sincerely, from the bottom of my <3. Oh, one more thing... Fuck you, you mindless, soulless, fucking piece of dried up, dog shit clone. Honestly, I find this amusing more than anything else and incredibly refreshing... it's nice to have my theories validated about how worthless and increasingly daft the people in this world truly are. For me to be lectured by a child about "life experiences" and "real trauma" is knee-slapping, fucking hilarious. Children are growing up in a society where they can sue their parents for spanking them... while I grew up in a time where parents tied their children to a fucking tree and beat the shit out of them and we thanked them for it. A time where the children of today get "grounded" for a day or two from their iPod... while I was locked in a basement and forced to memorize entire chapters of the Bible to save my eternal soul from rotting in a pit of fire till the end of time. Here is the proof, my friends... we have officially become slaves to our freedom and mentored by our ignorance. I weep for the generation of children to come. What a truly fitting end to my fabulously, shit-filled day. Thank you.

T.O.D. - Unparallel Vector

Living in a fantasy is preferred reading for one's mind... safety, security, certainty, all the elements aligned in a time that reflects Utopia. Fantasies are safe and warm, but remarkably difficult to maintain... when the glass shatters, all of those tiny slivers bury deep, cutting you ten times over. It becomes more difficult than the situation you were trying to escape in many ways... so desperately running to the greener pasture. Worlds unwind and the walls crumble to ash... left wallowing in the muck and mire of shattered glass and viscera. It will never come to fruition... Maynard stated it best, "Life feeds on life- This is necessary...". The time has come to remove the slivers and lick my wounds... how many times is this now for you?

Below is another T.O.D. entry. I will give you a little preemptive insight forehand this time around. The title suggests this is written about the Holocaust... that couldn't be more wrong. I have no desire to get into such debates at this current time, but that most certainly isn't the subject matter. Dive into the rabbit hole and have a glass of tea, Alice... we have cakes and biscuits aplenty.


"Auschwitz"


Frosted dreams gone away,
Left here to die.
Sometimes I wonder whether this is real,
Or fantasy...
A hand once cold, warm from the sting of fire-
It's only my ashes...
Falling on your forehead.


-(An excerpt from T.O.D.)

Pulling Hairs, Pushing Stairs

More than anything, I want the words "I love you" to be uttered from my mouth... even though the translation is foreign, the yearning is deeply rooted within. The driving compulsion to repeatedly stab you, is whispered sweetly in my ears... even though, it would never be deep enough. I long to hold you close within my arms... till the convulsions have ended and your lips have turned a cold, dull blue. If I had but one question to ask... it would begin with the word, why. Why must you seek pleasure in harming me? Perhaps it is the chase... like a playground taunting. The bullies stalking, inside they're talking... for this school bell has long since been tolled. The need to love and to be loved, has reaped the rotten fruit of hate... a line too thin for sight.

Mass Effect

It runs hot... dry and blistered. Ushering the metal cocoons into it's heaving throat... freshly spawned locusts, learning to feast. Soulless... mindless in and out. Clutching at their chests, searching... the patent is missing. Dim the lights and bathe in the silence... awake. Can you hear the humming... coming quickly from within me? Can you feel it... the vibrations resonating in my bones? Five to One, Baby... One in Five. No one here gets out alive. Must. Cut. It. Out. Minority is deeper than the flesh... it's the missing ingredient, the lubrication. What can not be duplicated or grown in a laboratory... plastic priests and electric irises. Morning eats it's children. Evening exhales noxious trails. Night weeps rivers of acidic tears. Run, Lennie, run... there are no rabbits to be found here.

Targeted Message

It is within us... that fragment, that piece of Creation and all that is and forever shall be. Gifted to the star children and those that choose no longer to slumber... our birthright and privilege. Inside our soul, the light and love radiant to the frequencies and vibrations of the ascended masters... our brothers and sisters rejoice. Sending forth peace and comfort to those in need... wrapping them in the crystal white light of protection and the violet light of unconditional love. Balance restores in accordance to will... the dark has no place us amongst us here. So be it... it is done.

T.O.D. - Voy Perdiendo, Perdiendo

It's been awhile since the last T.O.D. entry... some may be grateful for small favors. The past few days have been relentless... my feet are swollen from the repetitive dancing with skeletons. Sleep has eluded me as well... not that I dream of sugar plum fairies in the first place. Usually I'm stirred three times a night with infectious nightmares... memories and thoughts nibbling at the curdled brain tissue. I wanted to come here tonight and write about things weighing heavy on me as of late, tell some adventurous tale of yesterday or perhaps finally speak of Serah Weaver... later developments taxed my ability to follow through. My mother needed some suckling and my sister needed some blood... my breasts and veins have gone dry. Time has hemorrhaged and the choir has remained quiet, preparing their aria and verdict. So tonight's entry will be another selected piece from T.O.D... boo, hiss, boo. As a form of compensation, it will require no dissection... tapestries are unfolded and the edges are in place. Those of you that have been following along have figured out by now, that every thing I say has a message, purpose or target... those gingerbread men are crafty and refuse the feast without chase. It is a bit graphic and perhaps offensive... to no one's surprise, I am certain.


"The Offering"

I had a baby-
And slit its throat.
It shook and jiggled-
Like a slaughtered goat.

It was not of joy-
But a service of mine.
An offer and payment-
To Satan the divine.

It lay there fresh-
On my alter of stone.
Now I must clean it-
Pulling flesh from bone.

I boiled its fat-
For a warm tasty drink.
Inhaling the aroma-
As it boiled up pink.

I ripped out its heart-
Squeezed it bone dry.
Ate out its liver-
And smoked its left eye.

I saved all the blood-
As instructed to do.
Anointed my forehead-
And savored some too.

Its red-stained bone lay-
Other ingredients in place.
For now it is the hour-
To see my Master's face.

He blessed me His servant-
Bestowing power in my hand.
No longer of fleshy earth-
But His immortal I stand.

-(An excerpt from T.O.D.)

Friendly Fire

Long ago, in my first "adult" life, I was a father figure to three young children... titles earned not by service, but rather by situational placement. I wasn't an adult, but I pretended to be... living with a woman nine years older than me and three children, playing house. The youngest child was 4 yrs old when I came into his life... it was a shared custody arrangement, so I only saw him on selected days. Anyway, for some reason, this kid troubled me greatly... perhaps it was the constant dramatic encores of his father or the fact I couldn't treat him like the other children. I began to hate this innocent child with the fiercest of passions. I isolated him socially... openly treating him differently with stricter displays of affection than the other children received. I would tease, belittle and called him "Jarhead"... I thought he was mirror image of his violent father, only knowing and thinking what he was instructed. When the kids would misbehave I would physically punish them... in the same fashion that my father disciplined me. I wasn't able to physically discipline this child or his father would press charges against me... although it was appropriate for his own father to act in such a manner. I devised a way to punish him mentally instead... it seems my inner ire wasn't satisfied with the destruction I'd already inflicted upon him. I would torture this poor child for hours on end with meaningless experiments created from within. If I was aware of a certain fear of his, in a time of discipline I would exploit that fear to my advantage... the psychological damage I caused this poor, sweet boy are unimaginable. I can still hear his screams of terror in the dark... forever etched in my mind and tattooed upon my soul. How could I have ever hurt something as pure as a child? I'm not proud of these moments in the least... these memories haunt me. I wasn't a good man nor father... I was a monster, thrashing wildly and destroying any trace of innocence as often as possible. Today is Father's Day... a day to honor the fathers that actually raised their children and protected them from harm. A day to honor their service, sacrifice and unconditional love. Today, on this special day, he wrote to me... wishing me a Happy Father's Day. After all of these years, webbed in those memories... this day, of all days, was the first time I've talked to him since we parted ways long ago. The choir has grown quiet and I am left alone to decipher these vibrations... like shrapnel ripping through my organs, as the bile feasts upon me from the inside out. God... I fucking hate this holiday.

The Erect Woman

Structure, structure, structure... every day is the same. It needs to be this way. I wake up, force myself out of bed, slide over to my desk and it begins... the marathon has started. All positions, please. The objective is to run as fast as I can, losing myself from the stresses that surround me... video games, the internet, DVD's. I'll keep running all day and all night... time is of no value here. When my body can run no longer, I'll swallow down a handful of pills and slide back into bed... when I awake, the next race begins. Seeing how I play a lot of video games, this generally means I am forced to interact with people a great deal of the time... this is highly problematic, at best. I am the puzzle pieces that a toddler has suckled upon... swollen and nibbled through, with no place to fit. Men make me very uncomfortable... we have nothing in common and the "fuck it or kill it" philosophy has no room in my life. I hate sports and competition. I don't drink or party... those days have done enough damage. So that leaves women as the other choice of socialization in video games. New problems arise. Although I function better with women... I have a penis, so that automatically means I want sex, right? This flaccid flesh disqualifies me from that avenue. I am a woman with a penis in the eyes of the cyber world... the erect woman. My mother told me long ago, repeatedly my entire childhood, how disgusting, fat, ugly, stupid and worthless I am... it is second nature now, so there is no need to flatter me with such words. I know all of these things... so, I'm not going to private message you for sex or throw myself upon you in such a manner. I haven't been intimate with anyone in quite a long time and I have no interest in that kind of adventure... I just want to play a game with someone. Things are rarely simple, but eventually I will find someone that will want to play with me. Time passes on. As you spend time with people on a regular basis, "friendships" form. I use quotes around the word friendships because this concept continues to baffle me. Friends are suppose to care about each other and caring about each other means loving one another... see this tangled web? I have written about love several times, so this is nothing new... love is a fucking nightmare. In my mind, I can't tell the difference between the various types of love... the ability to feel and process these emotions are long gone. Vibrations are then translated as caring about someone... so naturally you share this epiphany. The friendship crumbles, as I violently choke it to death, in a bout of miscommunication... the cycle resets itself and begins anew. Moustached women with their petticoats and umbrellas mourn the setting sun. In times such as these, I wonder when I will find you... where have you gone, Serah Weaver?

A Child's Touch

Where has it gone... why does it leave? Innocence. A priceless shimmer in one's eyes... the smeared window that takes it's place. Gone. Forever. The laughter of a child, the glowing skin of a virgin, the fearless beating heart... all signs of innocence. A beaten child stares towards the earth, the first sexual experience dulls the skin and hollows out one's eyes and a broken heart dwells unmended in dismay. Is it just me and my perception... how deeply can one see into another? Perhaps we can't... maybe it's merely reflection. Either way, the result is the same... innocence is lost sooner or later and once gone, it shall never return. At that moment of departure, is it just a sensation... or can others watch it dissipate into the void? I lost my innocence long ago and taken others since... every moment scarred and every teardrop bleed. I saw it... they saw it. We all see it, but will we recognize the event and remember? Innocence. Far from a single experience... many times over can a new innocence be found and then lost. Some take without asking and some give without thinking. I wonder why so few value that precious innocence. To rip it from one's chest with no regard or apprehension... in essence is the same as casting it aside without merit. Not by deed, for the severity differs greatly... one heinous and the other foolish, but both measured by the lack of respect. Either for one's self or another. In an age where people flock blindly as lemmings, eager to shed their skin and innocence... who led this charge and why must we follow? We are but a series of moments and if those moments lose their meaning... then we lose ourselves. Ah, innocence. My sweet innocence... why have I forsaken you?

Strings Attached

These lapses in time seem to be persisting... the paddle collects moss as I drift with the tides. I have the thoughts and ink, but it's the motion that's lacking... these past days have been exhausting. As the sun began setting on this day, I finally scrapped myself out of the webs and starting stepping forward once more. Events are plentiful in this melancholy life... interesting how time ceases to stand still with you. Over the past year, I have been working at getting my weight down to a reasonable amount... I've never been model thin or the like. Quite the opposite. After I was rescued from a third death, I began to put on more and more weight... soon I was up to 250+ pounds. The extra weight started to finish the job and soon formed hands to hammer in the nails... the damage done by the drugs, chemicals and alcohol was slowly repairing itself and we couldn't have that, could we? About two years ago, I was diagnosed with diabetes... I had to make yet another choice to live or die. So I started eating better... now the efforts have finally paid off, to an extent. I've lost over 60 pounds. This has been an interesting event... not for some feeling of accomplishment or pride. For the first time in my life, I can see my veins in my hands, arms and legs... that's what I've found so interesting. Delicate. I find myself looking at them often... losing myself in the trails of blood buried beneath the flesh. Like ripples in the water... my fingers wiggle and the tendons and muscles dance. If anything, I am easily amused. Strings that won't easily become stretched or frayed... I have become a new instrument to be played. The music never stops. The choir sings. Rejoice. Perhaps these strings will last much longer than before... I step on stage and take my place. Ready for the movement and direction... we sway. We sway. It never stops.

A Place Called Home

The telephone rings... the rhythmic memories come flooding back with each shrill. It's not like most days... your cackle and sighs of yesterday, wrenching my stomach as the acid burns my throat. It's a reminder, under the guise of friendly, that tomorrow is my father's day of birth. Your contempt is clear and your memories askew... those darkened days still peek from under your skirt. I wonder how life must be, in a world that tailors the events of time to your liking... the best fit possible, no remorse or redemption needed. You remind me of the beatings and the hardships, but the blame is cast solely upon him... I remember a different story. Your crooked teeth gnashed in ire, with a smile of disdain, as he followed your every howl... the thrashings wouldn't cease until you were fattened on fear and quenched by blood. He was the instrument of destruction and the moppet of circumstance... you always stood front stage conducting the symphony of madness, pulling those strings tighter as the flesh ripped. Many times, has he come to me over the years, broken with guilt and sorrow for his deeds... but you, to this very day, deny any knowledge or involvement. Are the skies clear and blue... birds chirping as the creatures of the forest romp in delight? Perhaps I should book passage on the next marshmallow ferry... I could bring you a pound of flesh and a vial of tears in exchange for a moment of hospitality. As for tomorrow, I will heed your call... we will laugh and we will cry. I have an empty room down the hall... a similar chair faces the window, like the one before. I have saved it for you, Mother... no vengeance required, only memories are needed here.

New Cure, Same Story

I have remained silent over the past few days... processing my thoughts and biding my time. My tongue and the inside of my mouth are raw and swollen with frustration... it is time to speak out. I was watching television the other day, which I don't normally do because I prefer to watch DVD's, and a commercial came on... the cure for AIDS. I am sure you've all seen this commercial or heard about it in the news... it's something many have long awaited. Here's the catch... it's a commercial asking for you to donate money to help fund the testing of this cure. Interesting. Have you EVER seen someone asking for money to test their new diabetes drug, various vaccines or anything related to the pharmaceutical realm? I know I haven't... not ever. Now they have a cure for AIDS, a disease that has affected the lives of millions of innocent women and children across the globe, and they NEED money to fund it's testing... that's an all time low for America and it's constant exploiting of the people of this nation. We've all heard the stories of AIDS and how it came into being. At first it was said to have originated from people having sex with monkeys in Africa and then the radical religious extremists said it was an act of judgment by God to all the wicked sinners and homosexuals. I am sure the theories and lies range from one extreme to the next... but what about the truth? Lots of people, including myself, believe the AIDS virus was designed and deployed by the corrupt governments of the world to further the nefarious efforts of the NWO. If indeed they are the ones responsible, then reason would stand that they already have an effective cure and vaccine. Either way, whether you believe this theory or another, do you really believe that the pharmaceutical companies need money for anything? It is well known that illness is a huge money maker for this country... just take Cancer as an example. In America, hundreds of thousands of people, at a minimum, die of Cancer every year... how much money did those people pay up before they died? Think about it. America stands by their statement... there is NO cure for Cancer. Really? That's interesting. I seem to remember a doctor in Europe that has cured tens of thousands of terminal Cancer patients by neutralizing their bodies acidity level with a mixture of baking soda and maple syrup. No, I am not kidding people... this is not a joke, look it up. People that suffer from Cancer have highly acidic levels of pH in their bodies, this is a proven fact... seems to me, fixing that imbalance would be of importance. If they won't give up their Cancer money maker, why would they give up their AIDS money maker? More money, of course! Let's charge everyone in America for this cure... they've got to get their monies worth after all. Millions of people's lives have been forever changed by this illness, of course they're going to donate money to see it stop the suffering... why wouldn't they? I'll tell you why I won't... because they're a bunch of fucking liars! Give your money here, give your money there... do you really think your money is going where you think it is? No fucking way! It's going into their pockets. America is not a country... it's a business. The Corporation of The United States of America. For all we know, this is yet another way to hurt more people... to further the population control. Maybe it's another step towards the NWO, by injecting us with microscopic tracking devices? "Okay, now you've gone too far... microscopic tracking devices?"... I'm sure some of you are thinking this. What? You don't think we have that type of technology? If you really believe that, then perhaps you are the ones that are highly delusional, not me. If by now, you haven't figured out how sick and corrupt our government is... open your web browser and search "Project Paperclip". It is admitted, proven in court, how low our government has gone to achieve their agenda. In all fairness, I'll side with you for a moment. Maybe, just maybe, I am completely full of shit and delusionally paranoid. Fine, I'll give you that. But then, in exchange, just ask yourself again my first question. When was the last time you've seen a commercial, dangling a cure in your face, asking you for a donation to fund it's testing?

Not The Only One

The day was like any other day... the sun rose and set as scheduled, but the lives entwined were forever changed. In the park sat a young girl, alone on a bruised, wooden bench... the tender age of seventeen, weeping in silence. A man wandered by and noticed her obvious distress... twice her age and understanding. He sat down beside her, offering comfort and compassion... with pure heart and mind he tried to ease her pain and suffering. Shocked that he had even noticed her, she looked into his eyes and saw his intentions were true... the familiar eyes of lust were absent from this man. She opened herself unto him, bearing her soul and her sorrow. He asked her why she cried so silently, yet with such inner fire... the sounds ripping from within her chest could deafen the ears of millions. She told him, with head lowered down, that she was a sinner... she had been tainted by her mother's boyfriend. For many nights, since she was the age of eight years old, he would come into her room and objectify her and subject her to his carnal delights... she was powerless to stop him as he grunted away her innocence with sweaty teeth. She couldn't bear the thought of going home, wondering if tonight was the night he would creep through her doorway. See began weeping so heavily, that she had lost her breath and could no longer speak. As she cried there, holding her legs into her chest, she felt a tear drop splash against her sunken head... it was from the man, his heart now breaking. She looked up at him in confusion, wondering if her story had moved this stranger into tears. She reached over and touched his arm and quietly spoke to him... the words, "I am sorry", echoed from her mouth. The man turned his eyes toward hers and replied, "It is not you, but I, that should speak such words.". She blinked, for she had never seen this man before... why would he hold any sorrow for her? He lowered his head and told her something very similar... another tale of the same design, many years ago in time. He told her that he used to have a step-daughter, whom he loved very much. So much in fact, that those feelings became tainted and muddled. One night, as he lay there holding her in his arms, he took advantage of her and fondled her body in a manner not fitting for a father and daughter. He took it further and within a matter of days he had spent three nights laying with her in her bed... the sweat, blood and tears clinging to the knotted sheets. The young girl was shocked by this confession, but more so by his reaction. The man had crumbled to the earth as he finished his story, with tears choking in his throat he cried out, "God, I am so sorry... please forgive me.". In between his gasps, he said those nights had haunted him for the past ten years... revisiting him daily and each time his heart shattered with the memory. He had tried to silence the terror by taking his own life... a scar traced his forearm, from his wrist to his elbow. He wanted to forget, he wanted to be forgiven... he wanted to deserve redemption. The young girl took his arm into her hands and raised it to her lips... kissing his scar lightly. He looked up at her, through his heavy tears, with confusion. She looked into his eyes smiling lightly and simply said... "I'm not the only one?".