THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 40 "Train"

Abscess abstain -- Never read a word, never crossed my eyes with the lines of the page, never see nothin' never heard nothin' never said nothin'. -- Sitting still is an impossible chore. His face is hot, specifically, a small square area on the upper part of his left check, just slightly under the bone. Yesterday it burned like acid. -- Dreadful, simply dread full. -- Most of yesterday is stacked with sleep and shame. -- Every gestures is forced. He moves as if it great pain or with monumental stain. Yet he shakes. -- Beg, Plead. -- What is it you want? What do you desire? -- Beg, plead, ask. Beg. Plead. Pleading, shame shot shoot blow out blow, blow out, plead. Beg. Begging. Ask. Just ask, Im sick of asking, sick of begging, sick of pleading. But I need to. -- He could do nothing but prevent it from happening, which was agony. There was no fixing it, there was no solution, only prevention. He had to keep it all up, no matter how much he wanted to shake, fall to the floor and writhe violently, and scream. No matter how much, he had to hold it in.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 39 "Desire"

Want wanton want wanton wont wont wanton want. --

The birdiy came by calling while you were sleeping. You couldnt hear its song. -- I miss having a dog. -- Stewart's -- It feels weird to have this character exist, at all. He's just a terrible combination of inspirations that makes me feel.....weird. -- been changing -- Every little notice, every buzz from the phone, sets it off. -- his daily schedules, the little routines. There's no logic to it. He's not even aware of it. Each morning he'd awake groggy, naked, and then showered. It shook him to now, he could actually be considered alive after the shower. --

The birdiy came by calling while you were sleeping. --

Now he wakes up groggy, naked, late and bolts out the door. -- Now he wakes up groggy, naked, late and he bolts out the door sans any sort of hygiene work. -- I miss summer days out with friends who I pined for. -- All the way around. All that around. The stuff that isnt it but around it. Those. Those. Those are the parts I cant stand. -- Stewart spends the day reeking, wishing he could wash away the built up filth but he's trapped at work. No one seems to notice, he thinks. -- I miss that feeling of attractive before the real meaning of attraction sunk in. --

-- I could tell the differences in the buzz. Based solely off the vibration I could tell what kind of notification I was receiving. FB up-date, E-mail, Apps need upgrade, text: I could differentiate them all. -- Maiesiophilia. -- Hate. -- I could even differentiate, based off buzz, who I got the text from. Which was useful in the way back. --

The birdiy came by calling while you were sleeping. -- It makes me sick. Yet it makes me happy. --

Disgust. -- The birdiy came by calling while you were sleeping. -- I miss certain people. I miss old days, ol' daze, oil haze, I miss. Ms.. miss. I. -- (Cut this Gertrude Stein shit.) -- Now, he showers when he gets home mid-way through the day or late in the afternoon. It feels amazing, it stops being an extension of the alarm clock. It's something pleasurable instead of a chore. -- This thing, this blog thing, has little to do with the original goals and I think I love it for that. --

But Stewart still wants to shower in the morning, he tells himself he will right as he falls asleep. --

It starts in the stomach. It twists, something I'll notice forever is the way it twists. Doesnt turn doesnt churn the from wall of my stomach twists when it starts. Always does. Then the lungs. I can feel the air I inhale. I can feel the empty space that fills up the lungs. It's not the comforting cotton that builds up in the lungs when you take a deep breathe, no. It feels like the void, the empty space, the vacant air that touches the outside of you sink and it's in my lungs. And then there's the buzz, the fuzzy warmth that spreads from my testicles. Pure attractive, pure want bursting out, spiking up like the hair on a porcupine when it readies to fight, like the back hairs of cat when it shivers. Even when Im groomed them smooth my balls send up that feeling of hair on end. Then I exhale, and it hurts, a little, in a some-one-biting-you-for-sex kind of way. Finally, I look at the phone. --

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 38 "Two Doors"

DON'T RESPOND...if...ya...y'know..... -- First time to trust a fart in days. -- No holds doors open, much anymore, for any one. They let the handle slid out of their grasps as those behind just barely reach the threshold. --  Two books, two pieces of toast, two cigarettes, two ??s, two two two, one bunk, -- No matter what Im horny. Horny horny -- Full disclosure: I am /so/ into demons/guys with horns. Deal with it. Accept me. -- two cigs smoked, one cig lost, -- Stop touching yourself -- Do go gently into the good night, fuckit, just fuckit. Die. Die. -- Why do some many people have some form of trauma from seeing a parent/relative naked? Is...Is that really a thing or something perpetuated by media? I've seen my dad naked lots of times and I turned out fine. -- DON'T RESPOND....unless....if...y'know..... -- 'Who is the audience?' Did you already ask that? '...Yes...?' FUCK. Already out of ideas. -- Purging purring motor murder motor mutter purring per pursueing, pursue, Purge, hot cars with hot babes, Kool Kars Kool Kids KUSTOM, custom cus tum cuz ton cos, cause, Hot cars with hot babes sitting on the hood. Hot guys in leather. Leather daddies, wannabes wanna be greasers, greasers, greasers covered in oil, motor oil, olive oil. That moment in 120 Days when Sade points out on such and such day they stop using Pomade with boys. Sex. Machines. Fuck machines, fuck all night. Knight. night. Customs caught up in old campers hidden away were the faire actors fuck at night. Where the car owners take whomever back with to fuck. Sex is everywhere and everything. I think Im obsessed. -- DON'T RESPOND. Well....um, i mean...if..y'know...but...huh...                 Well....

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 37 "Visitation Rights"

My recent pubes shaving really turned my junk into something worth looking at. Which is great. Anything to make my deflated balloon cock look better is always great. (The image of a dead relative flickered in my mind as I wrote that). -- The person decides the personal. -- Look, a mission statement. 'Look, more fucking stupid dialogue bullshit.' -- Holy fuck was today a nothing. Nothing, at all, was gained today except the discovery of an online personality whose blog was once great and now seem kinda shitty. (Maybe they were having an off day too) (and No, no link for you I-Hope-You're-Actually-There-or-Else-My-Life-Seems-Wasted-&-All-That-Money-Spent-on-Cheap-Cheeseburgers-That-Are-Stuff-with-the-Drugs-That-Fuel-Me-Was-for-Naught Audience. No link for you.) -- I have neck problems from the porn I watch. -- Never write about a mother. Never write about a father. Only ever write as a son. Only ever write as a daughter. -- Bor has tattoos on his leg so he never wears shorts, -- Sometimes when I touch myself I feel a prickly fuzz run up my arm -- no matter the weather -- turns out my fingers just got too close to the electrodes. -- which both his colleges and students mock. One day Bor did arrive in shorts, he gave no explanation. But he did have to (repeatedly) explain the ink throughout the day. Which distracted from the questions about the shorts. Something that he appreciated. -- 'This literally seems to have fuck-all t'do with the short story it's supposedly based around.' So? 'Well, I mean-. . . . . ' -- Woooows, and When'd you get those'es and Can I take a pictures (which to this day makes no fucking since) berated Bor for hours. Why didnt you tell us you have tattoos? How could I possible have done that? None of you ever asked or anything, Bor said. (No need to be so snippy, some students said). Bor's tone edged sharper and sharper. Why get tattoos if you arent gonna show 'em off? I didn't get them for other people to see. I didn't get them for y'all. -- 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 36 "Picnic"

Gettin' some serious The Girl Next Door vibes off this one. -- Blonde bound bold bolt bounding bound found lost tossed off love love blonde-black, black-blonde. -- It's gibberish, really. Gibberish. 'It sells' So? 'That must mean it's great.' Or that people are fucking morons. 'Who cares? They buy it. They love it. What does it matter in quality and content if it's something they connect with?' Cuz fuck'em. -- Waiting waiting waiting.. . . . .jesus, I have shit to do tomorrow (sortof) what's taking him? -- Tim's Vermeer, The Night Porter, -- waiting waiting, aw fuck need to _____________. -- Belle de Jour tomorrow. -- Fanfiction is the only place to find true love anymore. The decimals and the pixels that make up the blind code of language, of text, that's the only place left to find anything of worth. Online. It's all online. All of life is online. -- waiting waiting buffer buffer bumper buffer buffering waiting wait waiting. .. . . . I wonder what he does when I dont show up? What does he do on the nights Im not conjured? I should probably know, or atleast think about it. What does he do when I tell him to fuckoff? What does he do when I dont appear? Does he finger himself? Does he shower? Does he yank it? Does he shove that little lube bottle up that temperamental ass? What does he do after I leave, after a bad show? What, what, wot, wat waht hwat, what waht what? Good god. -- Good God. -- The flicks were fine. -- I've done so much in here. Written a shit load of things. Written porn, written romance, written horrors. Almost cried in here a few times. Watched The Color of Love in here. There's a lot of me in the coffee shop, a lot of past in this place for me. I wonder if that'll ever matter? -- Running away. Run away. Way. Return. Retrieved. Unnoticed. Sneak snuck, never tell never tell this is the secret never to tell never to tell tell tell --  waiting waiting waiting, Ok, fuck it. He's taking too too long. Im going to sleep. Fuck him. Im going to sleep.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 35 "August Evening"

She sat by the door waiting. He's late, she thought. Or did she start getting ready too early? It's so difficult to keep track of time. -- Look'd a head: Desire seems weird. -- It's only been over for 8 hours but the weekend seems a millennium away. It's always been like that. A week ago is a month ago, a month ago is six months ago, a year ago is a decade. -- She's been told she's good at it. By a few in fact. It's a compliment, she supposes, but not something she feels the need to brag about. Something to keep to yer self, she thought. In fact she never told anyone about it, as if it were one of her secrets. Often, when she sat alone, usually in the semi-dark, thinking about her secrets and who knew them, it would come up as if it belonged. As if it was meant to be with all those other things. The things she would tell no-one or very very few. -- Yesterday was a daze, nothing came of it. It was recovery. Recovery from the day before and the day before and the day before and all the mistakes after that day after that day and after that day. Could have got laid. Is that something to be sad about? This celibacy has begun to sting less and feel more and more appropriate. Fuck sex, I just want cuddles. -- She's till sitting by the door, waiting. He's most definitely late, most definitely most definitely.  

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 34 "Face"

Legs enlaced like crochet, a finger dipped in. Inflated balloons, facial reconstruction based around the concept of ego destruction, unleashed id to thaw through the bean stock soup feeding the marchers on their way to the Sorbonne. -- Lips like licorice. -- Day-dreams kill. -- Im sad, gotta listen to Black Metal. -- I casually sitting around fantasizing about my open wrists and surviving. Watching tv which deep death blood draining down my hands. -- I see a qt with his qt gf, they exchange dating niceties, even kiss before depart. I've got no chance. Still. I keep staring at his ass, and day dreaming. -- The corpses of pages past lie about the floor. Cum has drenched some of the brittle old paper and now turns yellow -- Yellow. -- and among the tore-out-bits are more tore-out-bits. The fan spins and the everything goes flying. On the one working tv left int he building plays the movie version of Fahrenheit 451. Below: smashed chairs, some condoms full of blood, a pentagram of shit on the wall, a tv with the screen busted in, a sink on fire, the ceiling fan barely hanging on by a chord. And a corpse, a knife in its gut, wrists slit so deep you can see the bone from across the room. And piss. Lots and lots of drying, yellow piss.