Good Enough For Me

But appaarantly not for Bobby McGee.


Lasts post’s poem was hint enough.

I’m so far to the left of normal I don’t remember when I left it behind. My dearest sacrifice is of course sleep. Isn’t it interesting how creative sleep disturbance can be in manifesting?

Always a new twist on an old story. A few days where time and again I refuse to wake up, avoid being awake as much as possible. Next, three days on a total of three hours of assorted dozing, trying to get away with as little shut eye as possible.

Eyes burning temper flaring, I am so on edge. Tired but I don’t want to sleep and I don’t know why. Certainly not out of affection for the way the lack of sleep makes me feel.

Angry and resentful and so fucking sad. Me, junk food, Ms. Joplin and Ms. Stone.

I’m craving a book, a good piece of fiction that will hold me hostage. For some reason people’s recommendations keep falling flat. Something that will hold my increasingly fickle attention.

As usual my concentration is shot to hell. I can’t focus and my senses are feeling the strain of my deficiencies. At this point I’m not entirely certain that I am adhering to the rules of grammar and spelling.

Even my vocabulary seems to be cracking under the pressure. It feels like I’m experiencing some kind of aphasia, words that once came easily are dancing teasingly out of reach.

My feet were too dirty so I gave them a lavender soak with the works, bath salts and bath oils, essence and cream.

I think I’m going to bed now even though part of me doesn’t want to give in to reason.

I think Tarantino is only halfway a hack but I hate the arrogance of his pronouncing the Italian cinema dead. What a prick.

Mama Weer All Crazee Now

Or I am at least.

The following is not at all connected to Wet Works. Or possibly completely connected.

Disclaimer the First: I have much respect for human life, I do. In Real Life, I’m quite the pacifist. This is just too little sleep, too much caffeine, end of term jitters, and a well meaning and usually lovable friend who would not just shut the hell up even though I was not in the effin mood. Not a psycho, just like to play one on TV.

Disclaimer the Second: The following material is of a graphic and disturbing nature. If you've got any qualms about murder or torture in fiction you should give this a miss.


If I were to kill you, this is how I would do it. The room would be empty of furniture, stark clean lines, no color on the walls, no covering on the ground. Well lit center, edges in shadow so that you can wonder if there was an exit out there somewhere. I’d like to have you hung from your wrists, but it would be too much of a cliché. Instead I’d have you on a table, ankles and wrists bound tight, stretched out in a nod to the medieval. Black Sabbath’s Paranoid would be on constant repeat, to prevent things from getting too somber. No blindfold because that would rob me of the pleasure of your expressive face.

We would be alone, you and I, with no one around to hear you scream. And trust me, you will scream. You’ll resist at first, choke them down, but I’ll rip them from your throat until it bleeds, and then I’ll make you scream some more. See my plans for you are much bigger than a happy dagger slipped softly between your ribs. I’m going to take my time with you.

I’ll let you admire my large, shiny hunting knife; twist it this way and that in the bright lights, letting it glint cheerfully at you. It would rest briefly at your temple before traveling oh so slowly down your face. I’m going to use it to lightly trace your neck, sinews tight with fear, down down, collar bone, fluttering chest, heaving sides before stopping just below your navel.

Just as panic begins to set in, filling the room with the wet rattle of your breathing, I’ll pause. Frowning and feigning reluctance I’ll pull away and wait for the guarded hope to slip into your eyes before plunging in to the hilt. My grip will tighten on the handle before I pull up. I wonder how much resistance your body will put up as I split you open.

I’m not going to eviscerate you. Entrails are all good and well in theory, but the reality tends to be too messy. That said I don’t know how I’ll resist the lure of being elbow deep, and tinkering around with your blood warm insides. The liver is supposed to hold your body temperature for ages I've heard.

Will you beg? Will you cry? Cover everything in tears and sweat and snot and the stench of your fear? Will you be worth all the work, all the quiet preparation? I put in a lot of time and effort for you, you know.

“Shhhhhhh,” I’d whisper to you stroking your face with a maternal touch. I’d press my lips gently to the top of your head and lovingly smooth back your hair. I’d solemnly look into your terrified eyes before slashing your throat and stepping back to watch your life bleed away.

When the Going Gets Tough

The crazy gets going.

Weeks of being uncomplicatedly alright and then things get a little tangled up. I’m not convinced of borderline personalities, they seem like something they stick you with when there isn’t something wrong enough with you for them to want to figure you out. I just react badly to stressful situations.

Not So Standard Disclaimer: Let me explain something about myself. In the Real World I am a puppy; overly enthusiastic, eager to please, annoyingly cheerful and about as subtle as a pile of bricks. Blogging is many things, a catharsis, a place to interact with others without the pressure to be well adjusted, a place to expose the inner working of my mind. Here I can let my cynic out to play. That said, I would love to go for coffee Krispy, if only because your brain, and by extension you, roxxorz like a rocking thing.

Now, on to the crazy.


Hellfire merrily flickering away, flames licking at my toes. Layers of my soul crack and blacken and peel away. Is new skin revealed? Pure and unblemished and oh so sensitive to the nuances of morality? Quickly marked up with the dirty finger prints of my mind? Again and Again buried under the gray, there is no real cleansing to be had. Only false hope, itchiness, and a slight burning sensation… Do they sell antibiotics for that? Other that those wrapped in little metal jackets? Leaf after new leaf turned only to be sullied with the chicken scratch of my life. Vitriol; it bubbles up and bubbles over, corrosive and where it doesn’t eat away it stains everything with a murky hue. I scrub and scrub but the residue wont disappear so I paint over it to leave everything sparkling new and if only I could keep my Hands Off the white wouldn’t wear away to reveal the dirt beneath. Facades are all good and well for shooting the biopic but they’re a bitch to live in, especial'ly when things aren’t highly fictionalized.

Torn, worn, used and faded, my dysfunctions may no longer be in vogue, but they are my own. Scout’s honor and since I never sold the cookies let alone took the oath, that doesn’t necessarily have to be true. Preparation is for pussies any way. Dry baby, take it like a man until you’re raw and bleeding out the eyes. Isn’t that a symptom of reading something with this little talent? Talent can go eat my shoe anyway, I’d be happy with cohesiveness, or even a sense of coherence for heaven’s sake. Although it may be blasphemous to invoke it while you’re dipping you’re toes in hellfire before you take the plunge. Plunge.