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. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 33 "Señorita"

-- Like faces mirror to mirror, an image unimaginable a forged forsaken. Each face a reminder that you're fucking up, you're doing it wrong, a reminder that you arent making it and you wont. -- Too much to be done. Too many lives to save, too many lives to change (first of all yourself), too many things to keep up with, Sometimes I think I wasnt meant to survive, and you can find little piece from all the little things, the minutes, the minutes, everything adding up and everything amounting. And when you try, when you've almost got it, you're almost there, just there, a second away, it could be done and you'd be fine but the weight is too much, all the pieces that led up, all the tiny steps that push toward one singular event, that head down one ultimate direction you cant fight it, you cant do anything to it, you can win. It drags you down. You try to move quickly but your finger's shaking, you're shaking, and that slows you down. Atleast that's what you tell yourself. That's one excuse you try to pass. But then it all falls, as it was meant to fall. And you cant even cry, you can only scream out one loud FUCK, but you cant cry it's the one thing you need yet it wont let you, the tears wont let you cry, you wont let you cry. It was a mistake, plain and simple, a mistake, but one you made and one you'll have to deal with. -- Each face that appears, a reminder that you're doing it wrong, that you're never going to make it. -- And then there are the moments and the rest of the day where you tell yourself you're gonna change -- this is your gunman in the crowd, assassin, your defeated bugler, your thwarting robber -- only for it all to chant back, to return to the refrain. It's all apart of the process. Death is natural in the life cycle, cycle of life. To die feeds the life to come. It's only a coincidence that everything stays the same, that the lives all run together to form one face. One face (J) One face, dream dream, keep dreaming it allows thing to pass by unseen, unseen (I see), unseen (I see a single face) unseen (and see a thousand) unseen (possibilities) unseen. -- No peace in booze, only a buzz in the chest that screams cliche, no peace in being chained up, no one to chain. All I want to do is slip into a mask and sleep. -- It's difficult to become someone else, practically impossible. -- But Im everyone. Im everyone. Everyone and everything. -- This song reminds me of death. It reminds me of one specifically dead, but not their life, just that they are dead and that I am reminded of this fact, that is all Im reminded of when I hear this song. It has doesnt even have anything to do with them. Stars. I think of stars as well. -- Dont date writers, it wont end well. -- It's difficult to become someone else, practically impossible. You fall for your same old tricks. You fall for yourself. You only become you in different robes, with different hair. I want to become beyond. I want to become something beyond me. I want to become beyond me, besides myself. I want to become something beyond me, besides myself, behind I. I want to remove myself from me. I want to become new. I want I want I want, want want want. -- Im insane. Reference Evidence: Previous days. I guess I've except, I guess Im excepted. -- Never explain yourself, it comes of condescending. Allow for other everywhere in your life. Never preach. --

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 32 "A Sentimental Encounter"

R. stared at a statue of h'self. It has been put in the rain for too long; in parts the rebarb shows, coming up like arterial spray, flashing their rusty ugly heads among the smooth stone whose paint is slowly chipping away. 'What do you think?'. Curtly: 'Hm.' 'You should see mine,' said B. R. had. B. had blue hair today,  light creamy blue, the color you'd paint a baby boy's room. 'How much longer do we have to without seeming rude?' Yuppies, beatniks, hipsters, punks: they were all here. 'I'd say another...10 minutes?' R. didnt respond. Meet 'n' Greet. Ugh. 'I hate art.'; 'Then why are you friend with Marvello?'; 'I like artists,' someone put on a record, 'I hate art.' -- Do you find it Ironic, or Lazy? 'B. and Marvello are basically the same person.' I know. 'Try giving them more-different physical features, that might help a tad.' I dont know if I can they all look like J to me. 'Well that's your problem.' Yeah? 'They arent.' -- Repeating a symbol gives it meaning. Repeating a phase gives it power. Repeating an action, in text, gives it permanence. Repeating an action in life makes you insane.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 31 "Superstitious"

Ridges rigor rises rose rose rise arise arose a rose. Differ to differences differences differ, block block out, remove move away so no one may find bind find, blind you you blind you are blind bind bound. Intrinsically you you instrumentally are you, you are you you are. There are only I me my's and you yours theirs they them, No escape. Escape not, escape knot release. Monogamy monogamous must, bust, lust. -- Hospitals. My mind rotates around them, right now. Mostly because of this, but from something else as well. They seem like an unreal place. No one would build a monument to disease and death, would they? I say that because I've never really been trapped inside one. Never locked inside, never caged, there at least. So they're something other, something not, something not real true truth-bound allowed. I dont even know where the hospital is, in this town or any other. I have no idea where the one I was born in is located, except for the city name. -- How much do I reveal? How much do I uncover? -- Most of this has nothing to do with what began, both for this day and the. . . .experiment? this project? I can see it's end coming and it makes me question everything I've done since the beginning. -- Only one day lost, and it's never coming back. There will never be a day 15 seen by anyone. Day 24 is coming, it's a whole new beast and it needs time to grow in it petri dish. -- Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Fucking, oh god who cares. -- El. does something, Stew, Stewie and Stewart do something -- Have they ever met? Do the the 3-Stews know of each other, do they interact? Hm. -- My days have been dull, so not much to art about here. -- You can always tell when I've read the story at the end of the day instead of the beginning, or at least I can. -- I smoked my last two cigs today. -- Blah blah diary blog blah. Boooooooooooo. -- Writing rite wrote right rights riting wrought. Rot. Rot. Colors seem to me something worth knowing, atleast their theory. (The opposite of Yellow is Purple, not Green. Green is a byproduct of Yellow + Blue so they're related not opposites). Who cares? Good point. Stop talking. Never. You dont have anything to say, not anything at all, nothin'. Like that'll stop me. It should. Since when does having nothing to say prevent anything from being said? -- 'e's spillt somemore on the carpet. Fuck! It was that damn cup, 'e thought as the penance of cleaning took h' attention. The cup in question was tilted, at a slant to mimic a ship's smoke stake. And when 'e held it, subconsciously, 'e titled until the top resembled a regular cup, which gives the coffee extra ease to escape. 'e loved it tho, loved it so. That's why it's still around, in spite of the shit it pulls.  

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 30 "Adulteress"

Retrospective action retrograde. -- Hypnotic repetition, spike spike lull spike, the pattern of removing and replacing the pattern, cycle recycle (Are you next to nothing?). -- Tie me up, tie me down. -- A desire to go get what you want, a desire to have what you want give to you. -- Stewie feels. . . .odd . . He's never really been anything other than vanilla, but now when he reads in the paper (who the fuck still reads those) of some something getting kidnapped, tied to a post, tied up gagged, taken taken away taken to someplace and . . . .he get's hard, insanely hard, his nuts tight in their sack, he cant see straight he cant keep his hand away. Madness. Madness Madness. -- 'Show dont tell' Fuck off 'What Im just trying to help' Im just trying to get this shit done. Donesnt matter. 'Does matter, you want something good out there dont you?' Yeah, but . . . 'No but. Do it.' -- Scream. -- Scream fear shame guilt guilt scream, return to the gave return to the womb return return return -- 'Quote something.' What? 'Quote something! Bring up the past, take a line from one of the past DA and work in.' Naw. 'What, it'll work! "Retrospective action retrograde," repeating what you've said; It'll create an intertextual context. Self-referential.'  Pfft fuck that. -- Ya like that Stewie? Ya like those three fingers deep inside you? Stewie's stopped using as much lube when yankin it. The friction burns but he cant help but find that fact hot. He's daydreaming of tied up women, of being tied up by men. . . .by Jamie. . . . .god. He came. Hot, like molten lead, and just as heavy. -- Commit adultery. It's so in right now.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 29 "Stroke"

Today's a good day for death. Not that Im dying, or rather, dying quickly. There's just been a lot of permutations of death in this day, thus far. Near death in the story. Actually death in a different short story I am forced to read which was written by a classmate. The death of literature and good taste brought on by the latter of those stories. The inevitable second death when people praise that rancid shit. And, yet again, when it more than likely becomes published in some format, gets famous, makes money. When that day comes it too will be a good day for death. All the suicides by those with taste will see to that. Dying in the literature, winter's dead, the sun is dying, ozone trees copper, someone somewhere, an animal's probably being run over right now. A stabbing here, a stabbing there, a stabbing in a another other text, both literal and figurative. Im seeing death everywhere. Hell, why not. Why not embrace the on slot of death symbols? It's everywhere, unavoidable so why not have death on the mind. Why not? Why not. -- Jamie's in the city of Rococo, crying. He found his way there from Houston, where the streets are paved with assholes and the buildings out of cocks and pussies. Dont worry, most cities are, every city is. Austin, Topeka, Portland, San Fran, New York, any city you can name it as orgy of fuck and fucks not given. Except Rococo. And maybe Baltimore. Maybe. Jamie wandered in the city of smears like everyone else, with tears in their eyes. A throat parched of something that cant be drank. The street lights vigil to his dreary shuffle, he'd found the place that'd be his tomb. The city never lets go, not matter how long, far.The darkness has flashing behind the buildings, down the alleys, in the abandoned hotel rooms. It felt like home. He missed his pup, missed his home, he thinks. Jamie cant be sure. What was home? Where was it? Who how were what will when went where was wont will not may may not, Jamie's mind churned up any word that could stand on its own as a question to knock them down without an answer. The loud scream of a car horn clipped his arm. he didnt really care. The pain felt nice in his arm, felt agonizing nice. Jamie found himself looking over a river, on a high bridge. The water was black. He stared to cry when he noticed. My arm's broken, he thought, shit. He got over the rails as best he could. There was the slightest edge, the lip of a precipice. Below: the water. The wind howled. The cars screeched. Rococo moaned. Jamie stared down at the water for a long time then turned his eyes up, tears leaking out like a busted levee. Distantly he heard.
The moon was waxing gibbous. The stars were twinkling, indifferent to him, to us, only concerned with their own burning. Jamie stared at the horizon, at the river stretching back for-what-seemed-ever. Jamie listened to the wind whipping around his ears.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 28 "Party"

Everyone hates me. I can smell it. It's in their eyes, clues hidden in the lies slipping out of their lips. -- From Jamie's Blog: I found a bottle of wisky in the bathroom. Empty. It wasn't mine. -- Piss piss 'em off piss piss, piss in the bottle piss the next guy off, get pissed get pissed. Piss in the bottle, piss the next guy off. -- Stew Stewie Stewart -- This is a no kudgement zone -- Stew Stewie Stewart -- Yeah faggot, no judgement. -- From Jamie's Blog: I wonder if [Stewie] is as kinky as [Stewart]? Or is [the latter] as vanilla extract as [Stew]? -- Piss on, piss off, get pissed, piss, piss in the bottle, pissin' in the bottle, pissin somebody off -- An empty bottle of wisky, he sucks so hard on its dry tit he hits his teeth. All gone and nowhere to go. He needed to pee. No one around to wetten, how annoying. -- Ibwonder if he is as kinky as him? Or is he as vanilla extract as him?

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 27 "Shelter"

Speeding trough town, crossing the lines drawn on the tiny tiny google earth, street view. -- The air is stale down here. -- Rot. -- Rot. With a german accent. -- Set down the rows and rows and rows and make the lines out of cement tarmac asphalt so it can never never nver never change like immutable words of ancient plays marching under the banner of cannon. -- 'Speed Hump' the sign says. -- Trapped in the earth, a coffin a tomb, an idea that we can never survive. -- They, those in the story, are in a nuclear war bunker. -- A moment's hesistation in the engine when you hit the gas, taking a breathe before the scream. -- The bumps the needle left. -- Speed: the additude. -- Nodding off between your girlfriend's legs. Feeling the kick in the back of your legs, while she's on top of you. -- Limp ambition, devastated motivation, a loss of the naivety need to try and change the world. -- Rise/Fall/Ascend/Bend/Descend. -- Rot. -- Rot. -- Red Rot Rot. -- I watched a movie today, where the world ended. At the end, but it was ending the whole time, slow slow slow, and one of them almost shot up some H. Saw some other snorting, dont see that too much now a days. -- Rot. -- Rot. -- Rot.  

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 26 "The Bystander"

Too many hours. Too many hours. Too, too many -- She's got something itching in her, it crawls up her back. Discreetly, she tries to get at it. When at home she take a hairbrush to it, for it's gone too close to the center of her back, on the valley of the spine, where she cant reach. -- Jamie finds some asscme, this bothers him. It's too young to pop, to young to take out of this world. Apparently. He hopes that no one will notice tonight. -- Too many hours spent sleeping -- Bobbi stares at himself in the mirror. Looking at his face: nothing. His eyes are too blue, so bright. As he stares he expects them to move without his doing. -- She cant get it to stay away. It always come back. -- A thousand faces. Why even describe a character? Over time, their image will alter deform shift as the reader's mind forgets what it was you said about their skin, its color texture freckles, about the way their hair falls. Over time the character becomes a projection of whomever the character reminds them of. Or who they want the character to be more like. -- A woman in her 50s stops a robbery. It enlivens her thereafter. And she daydreams of taking things into her own hands. -- The inch isnt even there and she scratches. Almost religiously. Her nails scrap across the flesh where nothing is irritating it. She's reminded of lovers' caresses when she does, specifically those fucking bastards who destroy her, did that to her, took what they did. Left her, like this. She drew blood, once, from her scratching. -- They can tell, they can see it, they can hear it, they can smell it. No dont be silly, they dont notice it, it isnt that noticeable. They know. -- Bobbi's hand runs over his genitals. And she winces grimace makes-a-face, he leaves, leaving on the fan but not the light. Getting dress in the dark, he hums a song from his past, distant, like a hymn you only sing when you've got no songs left in your repertoire. -- They knew, they notice, they whisper of it. -- She'll stop her scratching when the itching's gone. -- 'Im going to look good tonight,' Bobbi mumbles in the near-dark. -- Too many hours. Too many hours sleeping. Too many hours working. Too many hours spent on what should only have taken a few. Too many hours. Too, too many hours. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 25 "Fin de Siècle"

Sitting some place private. -- Creaking -- Sitting in a public stall, in a public restroom, images from Brite's Exquisite Corpse float up. -- People can hear you, people can see you -- Not too sure if it's just my queer eye, but I think, at the end, the niece is trans, in the text. -- even in a stall sound carries, people can look thru the crack between the door and frame work that holds it up. The nasty things you and your lover do in the stale can be viewed by anyone if they try hard enough. -- There's a dire urge not to over-exaggerate, but that seems nearly impossible when your life appears as your own personal melodrama. -- Horror films grace the back of my mind. -- Pauline Réage, Oates, Anaïs Nin, inter porn, fan fiction. A lot of my female influences wrote/writs porn, does that make me a bad feminist or a great one? -- At the end of the day, the mania. -- The yellow pollen has faded, dissipated. Now there's only the tiniest mention of yellow. Like it's been weeks since mustard gas sucked-face with any available surface, not days. -- Fin de Siècle -- How many beetles have I accidentally stepped on? How many spiders have I swallowed in my sleep? How many stings have I avoided simply by wearing jeans, or stepping in a certain direction? How many deaths have I unwittingly avoided? How much have I benefited from what I dont know? -- Once, a misstep, probably, a misunderstanding about what it was that was done, a misunderstanding of what we were, a misunderstanding. -- Jamie's back from the dead, they call 'im Lazarus in the local places. -- Jamie's eyes adjust to the light, or lack-of. He really wanted to swallow -- (Porn is art, porn is the vanguard, porn is the place from which all new things will spring) -- (Murder, Murder, justifiable murder) -- The restraints feel comfy -- (why matter, why try, why survive) -- he moves them about so their little chains clink, rattling in the dark. 'Quit,' said the dark. He smiled, did it again, 'Stop.' The floor is cool under his bare feet -- (make sure to lick your fingers before twisting the nipple) -- (art is the ultimate turn on, ergo art is at the heart of all art, whether or not the intent of the pornographer. Raising the limp cock to stand, the Eiffel to the body Paris, is to create, and creation is the purest form of art) -- Waxing philosophical?' said the dark, 'dirty whore, thinking you're fucking Proust, keep quiet.' Proust is nothing but a waste of shelf space, Jamie thought. He wanted to speak, wanted, atleast, to smile in his confines, but the gag worked all too well. -- Twice, a misstep, more-than-likely, a misunderstanding about what it was than should have been done. A misunderstanding, yup. just that, a misunderstanding, all on me, on my part. Always my fault. Well, looking back, atleast once, one time, it wasnt me. -- A dribble of spit leaked out of his mouth. Jamie rattled the chains again. Silence and then from the dark came the familiar sound of electricity running through Zeus' Cock, as they called it. And he smiled, as much as he could.