THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: The Last Day (44) "The Stadium"

know what it is that you dont know. and know you'll know it. -- Run, stand still, run again, go nowhere go everywhere all places are the same, since all places are places. -- 'You'll change, it's inevitable.' I know. 'How you ending it?' -- From a Review: It's shit, no one survives (spoilers), or....or maybe they do? Fuck if I know, it's shit, that's all you need to know. -- I guess, we'll never know.: from another. -- 'So, how?' -- with Silence, I think.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 43 "Secret Observations on the Goat-Girl"

Scribble all the thoughts you have in a journal -- Where did all the people go? -- otherwise it'll all be lost -- 80-90 percent chance Jamie's dead. Deadsies. -- sadly, no one can read the thoughts written out -- El. doesnt mourn anything, atleast today. Today shes out shopping in Rococo, the Pecan Flavored City. -- on the wall you painted -- So many come to Rococo, few rarely leave, and if they do, they always come back. -- behind your hole-in-the-head corpse -- I have, and always will be worthless. -- No amount of New Wave beats will shake the shadow from your root. Yer fucked, accept it, move on, deal. -- She's looking for a gift, this was the best place to look for it. There's so much to find in the dark corner's of Rococian stores. Antique malls that smell of old dissipating cologne and dead grandparents. She took a big whiff when she walked in. It gave her the slightest head rush. -- 'Oh it's beautiful! Beautiful!' -- Nothing says happy birthday like a dead 70-y/o's jewelry hocked by her great-grandkids. -- Jesus. Jesus. ...Jesus...... -- Up stairs, 'This place has an up-stairs?', 'I know, right!', it's cozy. Mostly furniture, an old couch, bunch of chairs, a quite nice poker table. There was a window laced with spider web cracks. It over looked the street. El. took a look (nothing in the attic-up-stairs appealed to her shopping list). There was hobo down there, or a man who just looked like a hobo (you can never tell here), sitting on the curb drinking....something. He had a huge puff of hair coated in dirt, grim, sweat, filth; a leather shirt that was baggy, his pants were dark with stain. He was looking across the street as he drank, staring at the park. His hands were callus, or so she thought. They seem like why should be. I wonder what his face looks like, she thought. She wanted him to turn around, too look up at her, and smile. She wanted to see his round face, to see those sharp eyes hidden in the hollows of his head, that broad flat nose, that toothy smile. She wanted nothing more to catch a glance at the man's beautiful face. 'Ooo! El look! They have some old books,' called Mel. El ignored her. She rushed down stairs, 'I'll be right back,' 'K!,' and out the door. But the man was gone. Gone. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 24 "The Assignation"

Self-Titles always confuse things. -- 'Just keep your clothes on,' -- HP5 is on. It's just there. -- he said, Jamie obliged, of course. Nice place, he thought. The Man, the New One, the Suit, spent more money on his clothes than his place, Jamie noted. The apartment was huge. It looked like the apartment set from American Psycho. -- the Antechoice . . . yet, it is everything. It is all that is and was and will and wont and knowledge power art scheme death sex money, it's everything. . . .the forever pipe that feeds up the goulash of being-alive in the ultimate non-life simulacra. -- Jamie keeps his hands behind his back, holding one in the other. He's recently discovered the comfort it could bring, to hold yourself. He couldnt sit down. -- There are two possible explanations for the twitch, both of them unlikely. -- We exist in the machine, we are the machine, we are the matrices of the machine, the cogs the bolts the construction the power. -- It feels like an October morning. Everything's blue. I suspect there'll be cartoons on the tv in the other room. -- 'You can sit down,' the Suit said. 'Im fine.' -- The story was slow to day -- They go to a cabin to fuck --  It's hot. It's cold. It's much too. -- Jamie is locked in a cage. Something buzzes in his ass. He's been there....hours? Atleast. This guy (should)(better) pay well. The cheeks are sore. -- They were not the same red as they had been from so far away. But still...drawn in. -- Jamie's world stops churning in his head, he throws up. From somewhere beyond the room he hears people talking. The Suit's brought some guys over. -- Their color was no different than the polka-dots of chick-pox. But their thorns were still sharp. -- They come in, do the do, and leave, treating him like shit. He loves it. He's hard even after they leave him, still worked up in the dungeon. He can leave at any point they say. Are they going to kill me? he rubs his arm, scratches his head, there's a twitch in his eye. He's still hard. Still ready. Come-on....,do it. -- Or loneliness. Or sadness. Or loss. Or perceived loss. -- The Suit comes down, 'Finish yourself off.' 'What? no more?' Jamie speaks too loudly. The place echoes. 'Finish yourself off.' The Suit is sitting in a chair. Jamie makes a move toward him, 'I could-' 'DID I FUCKING TELL YOU TO TOUCH ME? I SAID FINISH YOURSELF OFF.' Jamie pouted, hiding his apprehension behind his cutes. -- Or lingering. Or gripping cope. Or an idea that consumes you like a disease like dis-ease like misease. -- Jamie wraps a hand around his shaft, and he regrets it. Like holding dog shit in your hands with a plastic bag in the way, he thinks. He runs his tongue on the bottom of his teeth, exposing them in a frown. They feel funny. 'Move.' Jamie did not. 'Move,' the Suit hissed. Jamie started to move his hand up and down. He covered his mouth with his other hand. It smells like his own ass. -- (Link) (Links) (Unlike) (Link). -- I dissolve in coffee, stir -- After a bit: '..some lube...' creeps out of his nausea curved lips. 'Spit on it.' 'I'd rather-' 'Spit. On it.' Jamie did. It only made things worse. -- there's the fuzz of movement, the blur -- From where he sits the Suit spits, trying to help a slut out. It landed on Jamie's face. -- Stewart wakes up alone. The bed, two sizes too big, is still warm where he had left his lover. Smacking his lips, he finds a tab bit of mango flavored lube hidden in the back, tucked between the gum and the check. What if someone ate that stuff, like as an actually snack? he thought. The room's too bright. The blinds are down, but the curtains are none existent. The sun seems eager to ruin Stewart's sleep. What is today? He looks at his phone (no messages): Tuesday. Hm. Stewart listens, waiting for something. He looks around the room, little is disturbed. Where is he? His phone dings. Cecil: Be there in an hour. 'O yeah,' Stewart says aloud. He hops in the shower, taking extra care. The hot water doesnt wake up his bones, but the coffee does. As he stands next to the counter sipping: Guess he's gone, he thinks. He gets the house ready for Cecile. -- (graveyard?) (park?) (underpass?); black dress -- Jamie's cum spurts on the floor and then the nausea hits him. The Suit stands up. Standing over Jamie, the Suit swirls his big toe around in the still-hot pool. Lifting the foot: 'Clean it off.' Jamie does. The Suit pisses of Jamie and ties him up. Close pins, electric shock, some light ball torture: it's all so typical. The Suit shits on Jamie and cums in the latter's face. Guess we're done. -- Censorship. Synchronize. -- There's no real point to this, any of this, Cecile says. Stewart hates watching movies with him sober. Where's Jamie? he thinks. -- Jamie clamors onto a bus, the directional map, explaining its course, looks like Arabic to him. -- Cecile's in tight khakis. And a shirt that's nice and normal fitting, but the tightness of the pants gave it the appearance of being too big. Stewart suppresses the urge to sign aloud. What are we even watching. Where the hell is Jamie? -- Such dreadful boredom. They can tell you dont give a shit, they can tell you have no idea what you're fucking doing. -- No one will be able to fix my horniness my hunger because it extends from somewhere outside by cock but still with me. Sex isnt what I want. Sex is just something I feel like I understand. -- At least he's cute, Stewart thinks. He puts a hand on Cecile's thigh. Bu this mind is on Jamie and his mind is on the other, and knowing Cecile, he was probably thinking about anything other than Stewart. Cecile's only here for Jamie. Why am I here? Stewart thinks. Seriously. Seriously, what are they watching? Doesnt matter, all that matters is Cecile hates it and Stewart couldnt give a damn. They stare at the screen, the hand unmoving and the only contact. It sat there. -- like slowly unstuck syrup. -- Coming down on a vacant bus really fucks with ya. -- All day walkin' like there was nothing flashing behind --  They're making out to fill up the ennui. -- Am I pretty now? -- Cecile's pants are fucking terrible. The texture of khakis are detestable. -- Am I a writer now? -- Seriously, am I writer now? -- (Cut this Gertrude Stein shit), -- Stewart's got Cecile's cock in his mouth (he's still watching the movie. Stewart didnt care. He just wanted Jamie to come in, and to get pissed off. Fuck that little prick, Leaving me here with this fucker.) -- Look all Im saying is -- 'Are you getting off at some point?' -- The fucking khakis go flying across the room. 'My phone was in those.' O, for the love of fucking Ra, thought Stewart. His thighs are hairless, Stewart notices. I guess that's....nice. -- The bus rattled. 'You sit next to a window, you better look out it melancholic,' rang in Jamie's ear. I miss him, he mumbled. 'What? What'd you say?' The woman in the seat across from his. Eyes wide: 'What?' 'Oh, I thought you had said something.' She looked familiar. -- Checking out cute boys in -- 'Where the fuck is Jamie?' Stewart was pissed, pissed the fuck off. Cecile's lips were sealed, his eyes were unfocused. Practically comatose. He was a terrible lover. 'Shouldn't we up to your room, or something. . . ' he'd said, but Jamie wanted to stay, stay right there, where Jamie could walk in and see. See him slam up and down into the fucktoy he'd shown so much interest in all those times before, at Felicie's party, at Mark's party, at that fucking god awful orgy, all those times and he wasn't even here. Stewart was there, and he hated this prick. Why couldnt Jamie be? -- She looked like his mother, he thought. There was a stirring in his gut. From -- a small town where one probably shouldnt check out the cute boys. -- something. Jamie needed something....to do? eat? fuck? -- crushing, crushing all around, -- Cecile's cock was alright. It was slightly thicker at the top, which Stewart enjoyed. The former's hands ran along his open thighs. The latter's face grew redder and redder. The movie was still on. -- Jamie wanted to say something to her. He stared out the window trying to think of what exactly. He wanted to say something worth saying, something that should be said. Not small talk or idle chatter bullshit. Something she'd remember.-- this place has no place, this place is far from every place, this place this. -- was nothing. Nothing. She was nothing nothing nothing, but this one kept thinking of her. 'e couldn't stop thinking about her. -- There must be something. -- I cant cum under this conditions, Stewart thought. The wider-at-the-top pole up his ass began to feel uncomfortable. He flopped off. 'Im done.' 'What?' 'I said Im done.' 'What the fuck, Im so close.' 'Then finish yourself off,' he shouted from the kitchen, looking in the fridge.' 'At lest suck me off.' 'Dont fucking beg, its disgusting.' 'Oh for fuck's sake.' Cecile stormed about and stomped. A hissy fit? Just because I wont get you off? What a fucking baby. -- On one hand: they're something I always try to hit up, and I enjoy them, to a degree. On the other: -- She got off. He stayed on. Where am I? he thought. -- No Day 15 -- Asses are nice up here. -- Stewart had stopped putting up a fight, he just let it happen. The sad thing is: it felt great. Hella lot better than before. He still screamed tho. The intent unclear. -- They must put something in the water. -- Fuck this story. It's going nowhere. 'Oh come-on, it's doing fine.' Like hell. 'Yer always so critical.' Says you. Can we just fuck already? 'No.' Come-on. 'No, not in the mood. Finish the story and then maybe.' I hate writing this thing. I've fucked it to the point of no return. No one reads this anymore. 'So?'.....Good point. I guess I'll finish it. 'You need to.' Yeah. 'You've almost made it through the book. Plus, think of all you could gain from this!' Nothing. 'Nothing?' -- Nothing. That's what he felt like. Like apart of the chair, apart of the bus. There werent stops for him to get off, just stops from others to pile on or take away. Jamie felt as mechanical as the bus. -- Cum is good for the skin apparently. He never put much weight into that supposed fact. -- When taking a shit becomes homicidal childbirth. -- It felt terrible, not the sex that felt great (now). It felt terrible that Stewart was now enjoying it. Im disgusting, he thought, as eight spurts shot in his load. -- Im fucked, Im gone, I cant even cry, everything's crushing down, I can feel it in my chest -- He finally got off, but he still had absolutely no idea where he was. So he walked. Just, walked. Aimless. -- 'You like that, huh.' 'Shut the fuck up.' 'What the fuck did you just say!?' 'I said fuck me again.' -- and a face and hair and a cock, obviously. -- It was a surprise, but Stewart went along. How the dildo stayed in, he wasnt too sure. I guess he's upset about the no-show too, Stewart thought. The bed was nice, Stewart loves his bed. No matter what. He must be squeezing hard to keep it in, Stewart let out a massive scream as Cecile violently thrust into him. I'll run out of lube at this rate. He still had cum in his hair. -- Yellow. -- He hardly ever used his toys anymore, he's been spoiled by the real thing for too long. -- He kept making eye contact with me. -- Half way thru sex the boy realize that that's what was being done to him. -- Which each passing glance of the lance, -- Sitting at the edge, high up on the second floor, looking down. -- 'So what happens to Jamie?' He shows up in a post few days after this one. 'Then what? That one ended about the same way.' I dont know. 'Kill him. That'll be a nice change of pace.' Maybe. 'Corpse-fucked?' Look I dont know. 'Well you have to know. You wrote it.' -- The urge is so tempting. -- I looked up the definition of Assignation; never knew it. And it's changed everything. I feel like I should have saved it for the end of this, that might have made things more interesting, but what's done's done. I mean, the fact that I did around the mid-way point, and debating whether to continue this at all, mid-way-ish thru, after fucking up the schedule and accidentally lying to my readers saying this shit would be out Tuesday(?) and it's dropping now, instead. Im sorry? No, not really. Look, here's what matters: Im going to finish this, going to see this all the way through, unlike so many other things. This thing has nothing to do with any of yall or anyone, the fact that it's being read is almost unimportant. This is for me, this is mine, this just to fuel my perfection, to glorify myself, once again. So. Deal with it.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 42 "Blue-Bearded Lover"

Death is cum, cumming is death. -- Fuck love: Loving the Fuck. It's hard to get by with love, at least movie love, so true love, the real love. It's really hard to move with the love around the neck. -- Any plans tonight? -- Who's Judith and who's Bluebeard? -- No. -- You're Judith, and Im Bluebeard. -- Good. -- Who's the third guy? -- Alcohol is love, Candy is love, Cigarettes are love -- He's not in the equation. -- Medication is love, over-medication is love, over-dose is love, -- The collar's too tight, I can barely breathe. -- Driving is love, car crashes are love, ozone death is love, green house gases are clingy obsessive love, global warming is love, the consummation of the earth's surface by the over-surfacing water is love. -- Is that my problem? -- Nuclear way is love, H-Bomb is love, World War I II III IV is love. -- Dont you just love the heart shaped lock? It's so dear. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 41 "The Others"

distant ships, all along the coastline. ocean liners out on the horizon like tiny knots in twine. -- fucking T.s. Elliot. Or was it Pound? who cares, fuck'em both. Dont even burn their books, martyrdom is too worthy. Let them sit on shelves untouched, withering, aging yellowing to dust. Until the pages crumble at the touch, and the all the pages fall from the binding -- Sometimes, I would hear it -- to the floor where they would splatter scatter flop to the ground, fanning out. -- down the hall, or form down the road. It was always so far away and I so far along some path a thought sent me down. I'd hear just the tailed end, the least syllable-and-a-half. Yet I knew it. You just know it. Know that someone called your name. -- He wrote a book of poems about cats, for fuck sake. And dont give me that "but they have double meanings" or "applications to real world things". Total bullshit. They're just fucking cat poems. Fucking hack. -- When you realize someone's already had your idea. -- The voice that called you it always airy, always very distant, as if it had traveled over many fields to reach you. It was always female for me. Always a woman. -- They dont come anymore. They've stopped. -- They dont come anymore.