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I'm not saying that the sum total of me lately is sex. But... if that's the way the cookie crumbles.

My name is Morgue. Or, at least, that's what I'm answering to at the moment. It varies. I like writing, though I haven't done as much as I wish I'd done. I love poetry especially. I spend more and more time quoting spoken word poetry in my head than I do much else, lately.

Like the other night, lying in his bed, I was caught between "head butts on a motel bed our bashful maid made badly; we only had ice cubes to snack on, but i would've bitten the label off your apple if you'd let me..." and "...because this lovemaking is no less perfect than the moon rising in you, and this lovemaking is the gospel music made by the rhythm of flesh and blood and flesh and blood, and this blood is the closest I will ever be to making love to your insides, sailing through your veins and arteries." Because there's nothing like thinking about spending the night in his bed, followed by thoughts and actions of period sex.

My sum total is not simply sex, the situations I get myself into notwithstanding. No... I am more. I'm a geek with a love affair with gadgets. I'm a shoe-holic, with an obsessive desire to buy lots of 4" heels. Including the last two pairs I bought which are completely impractical ankle boots (one red suede with cut outs and peep toe and pyramid studs... the other brown and furry) that are gonna be less than useless if there's actually snow or ice. I listen to the wind against windowpanes and hear symphonies in my head. Watch tv or read books and see my life in footnotes and along margins.

I make random notes in textbooks that may never relate to the story again (Song of Myself by Whitman turning into disco rejects of how "I'm every woman..."). Bad French grammar in Nietzche and a raised eyebrow about how I could totally write better porn than the Marquis de Sade.

I create so much drama in my life that I can barely see straight, just so I don't go to bed feeling tired and alone. I miss my friends. I miss affection and touch. So I reach out to men who are easy to take from and rub up against them for a moment or two. Satisfy the way my skin hunger translates to my brain's need for attention and affection and lie back in bed at night thinking

"I bet I could come up with a good journal post for this...."

Oh. Crap.

Nov. 29th, 2010 12:38 am
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Hey anyone who reads this journal. Sorry about that whole... LJ Idol bail I pulled. I forgot my dates so much, and didn't get my head in the game. I had an idea for Week 2 that just... didn't work out right. Then I completely blanked and didn't remember to write anything for the next two topics. Life has a strange way of getting in the way right when you need it not to.

November must just be my Fail Month. November is my birthday, so I tell myself that 24 was the Year of Living Dangerously; 25 must be the Year to Be Drunk, Always. Baudelaire wants me to embrace my inner lush. That was going well for me... until old drama returned. Until I found myself in old habits again. Until, like this weekend, I found myself in someone else's bed after a really, really good time, wondering whether now would be a good time to put my pants back on and if anyone can smell his cigarettes on me when I get to where I was supposed to be all along.

November is NaNoWriMo, so I write... precisely 1100 words of a novel that I've been kicking around in my head all year. The premise is good, I think -- everyone needs a Western from time to time. Faery getting involved is just bonus. I have it all sorted in my head. I just can't bring myself to focus enough to write it. Life getting in the way, as I said before. So even all the prompting communities that I have stored up (mini_nanowrimo, brigits_flame, origfic_bingo, etc), I only have a little bit written, and almost nothing to show for it.

And even for the holidays I don't celebrate, for the days at work where everyone's disappeared to say goodbye to a guy that I don't really think I met... I'm still here, entryless and trying to figure out if anyone is really paying attention out there in the ether, or if I'm like a tree falling in the forest with no one to hear.

So much for the Year to Be Drunk, Always. Somehow, I seem to have traded my alcohol back for furtive touches and a lack of purpose, for secret relationships and a lack of sleep. I hear bad decisions offer up good stories later on, at least.
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"the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns"

sex was not what i expected. that's a silly thing to say, i'm sure. but when i look at my past in regards knowing about sex? yeah, it fits.

my mom's one of those people who HATES sex. )

* - names abbreviated because i have to stop talking about him eventually.
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it's been a year of living dangerously.

my life previously consisted of nothing but quiet. life at home with the parents. school, work, etc. a little travel. but nothing else, really.

then this year.... this year, there was the flumonia for january. the crazy D/s relationship in february. falling in love and getting too close to someone whose heart i broke and who broke mine in return. then.... a month of flirting insanely with dozens of wrong guys. falling back in love with someone i'd waited for years... only to have my heart shattered again because he was a coward. i lived dangerously, recklessly under my parents' radar.

i got myself into one bad situation after another. and through it all, i kept foolishly going along, believing that... someone out there actually loved me back and wanted me. that there was something good out there. so i gave up things precious to me and now i sit at the end of a year of living dangerously and all i have to show for it are long stares into the distance and a map of scars inside where i used to be whole.


it's a shame i'm so reckless with my heart.
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i'm going to go for this a second time! lj idol is pretty cool. i love all the writers.

i promise not to be a debbie downer at y'all. :)

So. Yes. This is my formal announcement of participation. go season 7!
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dear lover,

i know you said you'll message me later, but i haven't stopped crying long enough to be able to hold this conversation on the phone. and i need you to know everything before...

i'm not giving up without a fight, my love )
wellownedbkup: (let go)
lj idol, home game, week 19
open topic:

it was a sunday afternoon. afternoon delight. cut for talk about sex )
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week 18 home game

chloe

it's frightening and i'm not sure what it means...cut for... cryptic allusions to sex based things )
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i'm gonna put this in lj idol form later.

but i'm running it by here now in half thought format.

i know the secret that the caged bird doesn't tell. give a caged bird freedom, and it rushes headlong into danger. the caged bird needs structure and walls. it only behaves as if it wants free.

am having an emotional day today. very torn. on the one hand, i'd lost my goddamn mind and thank god i got my good sense back. on the other, i'm now ridiculously vulnerable because he actually did get in through my walls and i liked it... i wanted it. in retrospect, i was swept off my feet and fuck if i knew where i was going. i think it was actually more serious than i thought. in retrospect, i should have seen it happen. within an hour of talking, answering a question with 'yes' and he's like 'yes what' and i say 'yes sir.' 'good girl' i hear and that's it. from hypotheticals to actuals.

one. hour.

and the trouble with my mouth is that it knows all the right things to say, but has no intention of backing it up. saying "yes Sir. i can be a big girl. i want to be a good girl for you Sir. please, may i..." and meaning it without meaning it.


it makes me wonder if i'm more Nix-like than i actually thought. if life imitates fiction so easily. fuck if i know. what i know is i've spent today ridiculously adrift for no good goddamned reason. wanting to hear from him, and yet not. really not. like i could get forgiveness for not being good enough though it's not *that* that bothered me then. it was being treated like i treat my 3 yr old niece and a girlfriend at the same time. too confusing and strange and undefinably right and wrong at the same time. hand on my thigh and making my eyes roll back in my head with hot pleasure and fear. every. fucking. time. praise and disappointment tripping over each other on my actions.

i need to tell my friends that i'm not actually fucked up for good. i'm just a little lost today.
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lj idol, week 12 home game
sexual ethics

i couch my ideas about happiness in stories that my friends read. thinly veiled references to reality that skew just slightly to the left of what they know of me, what they remember. it's not all that hard to do, considering.

considering that, to all appearances, i'm the goody-two-shoes. home before curfew, never talk back, virginal whatever girl. i may skip out on homework, but i'm pretty reliable otherwise to be the voice of conscience.
considering that, what i read and write, both then and now... ridiculous porn. imagined up based on slash i read online, on romance novels i was given pert near daily, on porny youtube vids (or the equivalent).....

contradictions r us. or at least repression.

but where i found my balance, my happiness... it's my first RPG character. he's a college art student who happens to be in a menage a trois -- V shaped, what with his boyfriend not liking girls, and his girlfriend only liking him. it wasn't meant to happen at all, and he still hasn't told his boyfriend that he's seeing someone else simultaneously. but... there are moments.

like i wrote this snippet once where my boy was at a wedding. and it was beautiful and he sighed so deeply, wanting that kind of happiness. suddenly, he's enveloped from both sides, his boyfriend's head resting on top of his, and the soft curves of his girlfriend helping him to unbend and feel whole.
or when he can feel safe in the arms of his boyfriend one minute, where he doesn't have to be strong; but still be able to protect his girlfriend not long afterward, keep her safe from whatever would harm her.

*shrug* i don't even know. i think i just want to care for someone and to have someone care for me. to have two people in my life with that kind of unconditional love would be... there are moments when i think that no matter what my religious history is, no matter what societal hangups there are... there are times when i wish i could have that kind of peace. that kind of happiness. when i wish i was that brave.

when i wish i was able to be that greedy for love.
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lj idol, week 11 home game
run, don't walk

Nikki Patin-- Sweat

so i walk. no, run.

it's not me... but it may as well be. too scared to go to the gym because i'm afraid that everytime i go, someone's staring at me going "ugh. why's that fat girl here?" or that snide sense of pity where they feel the need to congratulate me on taking the initiative to come to the gym. fuck you. that kind of insincerity just...

it's like no one really gets how hard it was to even walk through the door that first day and get on a machine. it's not like i look like anyone else in the gym. pants drag up the inside of my thighs when they rub together til it looks like everything's wrinkled around my crotch. sweating like a man simply from getting on an elliptical machine and going for about 5 minutes at a steady rate. there's any number of girls who do the same and their pretty pretty ponytails swish side to side while they run, sweat not making them look like a drowned rat. scared to sit down on a bike here or rowing machine there because of the sweaty butt print or the roll of fat that rolls over into the curves of tee shirt and sweatpants.

so i say fuck the gym and the mirrors. i'll exercise at home. own more exercise tapes and dvds than the law allows. richard simmons. jillian michaels. biggest loser. dance tapes and pilates and anything that promises results. so i trade the revolted eyes of strangers for the pitying eyes of family, the only tv and dvd player we own right in the family room. hear the slap slap of flopping fat and be more embarrassed because i can't exercise quietly and drown out the sounds of everyone around with headphones and talking to myself from time to time.

so i walk. head over to the track that loops from a mcdonalds to a taco bell around playing fields that i'll never be allowed to play on so long as i don't join a sport at my university. watch myself walk in circles to and away from the easy answers. watch cars drive by and scenery change little bit by little bit... and pray that walking turns into running turns into me with a swishy ponytail on an elliptical machine, not afraid of mirrors or pitying eyes.
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lj idol, week 16 home game
breaking the fast


my breakfast looks more like a collection of snacks than an actual meal. a pack of peanuts, a cut up apple. some string cheese and some prepackaged lunchmeat that claimes to be chicken, but mayn't be. there's yogurt there too, like it would make this all work together.

that's the trouble with trying to lose weight. spending time trying to gather things that taste good while still coming in on rationed calories? eating something healthy (light yogurt, light string cheese, peanuts instead of chips...), eating single serve portions (one pack of this, one pack of that) when all i can think of is how good a hash brown (or three) would taste with a steak and egg bagel on a morning where mcdonald's is across the street. which... every morning is that kind of morning lately.

i've tried waking up earlier, but it's disgustingly exhausting to do so.
i've tried making breakfast the night before, but it's a little much in my parents' house to find food for both breakfast and lunch. gotta choose.
i've tried making insta-oatmeal or insta-cream-of-wheat at work... but we've been banned from the microwave.

so i pop open a pack of peanuts and hope that 6 points doesn't put me too far off my program. (six? SIX??) pull the string cheese apart into the tiniest strings so that it'll last longer that 30 seconds. hope that the yogurt doesn't turn my stomach and that eating all this so slowly will fool my stomach into believing that a collection of snacks will be enough to tide me over until i get off work, get out of class, and get to subway or somewhere that lunch won't be so empty.

i'm just so frikkin hungry.
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lj idol, week 13 home game
i don't care about apathy: what i 'should' care about, but don't.

the confucian ideal is to respect your elders. there's a level of respect in the language, actions and treatment of elders in many asian cultures. and while that occasionally slips, it's still... it's still there.

and i? i've had it. i'm fed up. i cannot and do not care anymore.

my grandmother is in her 70s. she's just.... she spends half her time swearing that she's on her last leg and about to die. all stories are switched around so that she's the victim, or she's the hero. she hasn't been out of the house except on the rare occasion for almost two months, maybe more.

i made her join weight watchers with me about 3 weeks ago. why? because she's got arthritis in her leg and is on 8 blood pressure pills and her doctor told her that she'd need to lose weight to get off of a few of the pills and to lessen her arthritis pain. so, yeah. she needs to lose about 100 pounds to get to what her BMI says is the right weight, but she could be ok if she just lost 50. so, yeah. that was the thing. she's been getting angry at the weigh ins because it's not exactly the same at the place as it is at our house. she doesn't follow any of the recommended program (measuring servings, tracking items and points, adding activity), and says she's doing it because i need the help.

she acts like everything i've done lately is either not enough or an attack against her. i haven't done anything for myself for so long that i don't even have an idea of what i'm doing when i graduate in 3 months. THREE MONTHS. that's just... i've been caring for my sick mother for 5 years, trying to graduate college, and holding myself back so that i don't hurt anyone's feelings or screw anything up.

everything's so messed up that i don't care anymore. i'm so tired that i don't care that my voice is raised or that my tone is disrespectful. i don't care that she's 50 years my senior or that she's 'more knowledgeable' or whatever. i ought to, but i don't anymore.

i've given up too much to care about whether i'm hurting one old woman's feelings by doing precisely what i'm supposed to be doing.
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free topic: rosebud



she's pressed to a pillar on the other side of a silver painted tree, his face thrown in light and shadow from the string of led christmas lights strung therein. she's sure that she should be at least a little upset with her position, close enough to him to feel his heat dispel the lasting chill of the outdoors. there are people out there who would be scandalized by the way his arm is proprietorially caging her in and how she's enjoying every second of being pressed against the wall by him.

if she were any kind of brave, she'd rest a hand on his side, just to hold him that much tighter to herself.

as it is, she's hardly even looking at his face, though she can see his lips curving into a smug smile from where she's staring at that notch in his collarbone that's been teasing her from his open collar all night. she doesn't stop herself from reaching up to rub a fingertip in the hollow of his throat, unsurprised to see him flush and stand back a moment. there's going from a handshake to a hug in the course of a night, but any more would be something altogether different.

he holds out a single white rosebud, stem cut short like it had been his boutonniere before he'd shrugged out of his jacket to get down to work. she doesn't take it straight away, running her fingertips along the tip of an opening petal.

"i'm not very brave, chad," she says softly, a non-sequitur if anything.

"it doesn't have to mean any more than it does, sophie." he turns her palm up and places the flower gently in her hand. "you looked pretty tonight."

when he steps away, she's colder than she's been since the beginning of the night.
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free topic: unwrapping



he's, in all honesty, hard at work, sophie realizes. and then feels like slamming her head against the table where she's seated and watching him trawl for empty plates and trash left from the dinner and cake of the reception. she'd forgotten his uncle was a caterer, forgotten that chad understood proper dress for events. she'd been so caught up in...

in watching the notch at the base of his throat where his blue and white collar was unbuttoned casually. in trying to keep her hands busy and not thinking about how her fingertips itched to trace the line of his collarbone and to pluck his buttons loose one by one. in keeping her mind at least partly on the topics talked about among her new friends at the table. she was proud that she'd mostly achieved it, not so wrapped up in being aware of his presence that it overrode her ability to talk to new people. she was fully capable of ignoring the way his long, blunt fingers moved so efficiently across the table, straightening and clearing it until it was like no one had been sitting there at all.

she was possibly more distracted than she imagined.

she moved to the dance floor, forgetting him in the swirl of music and laughter of her friends. forgetting herself and worries for a time. it isn't even until he's whispering in her ear that he wants to talk to her that she even realizes he's stopped working and is standing beside her.
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free topic (freaky friday)


he's without his suit jacket. the thought itself means very little and everything, she guesses. it's been so long since she's actually seen him in a suit, she doesn't know why she noticed at all, except for how odd it is to see him almost casual in this sea of Sunday Best and semi-formal dress. how he looks like it's another Friday at work and not a celebration.

he smiles at her across the three tables that separate them, the dance floor where the bride and groom are lost in each other's arms for the first time that night. and all it takes is the one smile, the acknowledgment that she's there, and she's blushing and smiling back a moment before averting her eyes. she doesn't know how to flirt, doesn't have a handle on being something more than a friend to anyone yet. she can hear him laugh and imagines that she can hear the soft padding of his shoes across the hard floor to her side.

she almost has a hand out to shake his in greeting until he takes her into a hug. it's not what she's used to from him, too used to shy handshakes and coyly saying "hey chadley," just to hear him growl about the silly name. her hands are instantly at his back, returning the hug with pressure right beneath his shoulder blades. she's shocked at the heat of him, the softness that gives way to firm muscle.

he lets her go after a minute, smile still firmly in place. "hey sophie."

she blinks, feeling thrown. "hi chad."
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free topic (winter wonderland)


the wind cuts through the leather jacket she's wearing, reminding her exactly why dress slacks and a sundress do not make a proper winter party outfit, and underlining the uselessness of leather in blocking cold weather. as it is, she is only glad that her heels won't have to make a trek through snow and ice to get to the reception. she misses the actual winter weather she remembers from her childhood, misses days of snow drifts and hot chocolate and sleeping in. misses it, but is thankful all the same for not having to face it just to get to the party.

she holds tight to the jacket as she finally gets into the building, a slow smile cracking across her frozen cheeks as she sees the room alight with white fairy lights and the tables soft with candlelight. it looks like christmas ought to: white and soft at the edges, bare trees colored silver and strewn about with lights. her fingers drift across the backs of chairs and edges of tablecloth as she makes her way towards the front of the room. she can't bring herself to speak, let alone disturb anyone else in the room.

she almost feels alone, ears tuning out all but the soft music playing from the speakers and the vaguest notions of the sea of people who part around her to allow her through. she's looking skyward to the the sparkling crystal chandeliers like icicles from the ceiling. it's idealized, this evening among tables like piles of snow and lights so soft. she shrugs out of her coat only at the last possible second, reading her name on the place card just as the announcement is made of the entry of the bride and groom.

she shivers and breaks her gaze away from the decorations, consciously stopping herself from marveling at the decorations, when she finally sees him.
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one day, when i'm pretty, i'll walk around my house in a tank and a pair of boxer shorts because i'll be comfortable in my skin.

tl;dr )

i've got a long way to go on my journey toward fat acceptance, clearly. but one day. one day, i'll put something on and finally think that i look pretty. and soon, i'll be happy to be in my own skin because i won't give a shit what everyone else thinks. kthxbai, haters.

and one day, i'll be exactly like Rives' poem--Gorgeous:

Gorgeous, transcribed )
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it's a fact. i? am a horrible friend.

i don't answer phone calls. i rarely answer text messages. i flake out on hanging out with people and it's very easy for me to avoid the people i call my friends. i don't think i've really been all that close to anyone in years...

except for maybe Pippin and Sobe*. the three of us went to the same high school, separated by about two years between me, pip and sobe. the two of them have possibly been the two who have put up with my shit the longest and still care about me.

like, sobe? sobe tells me all about her classes and life across the river. she invited me to my first halloween party... which is the oddest thing in the world to say, and invited me to hang out with her and her friends at the local fireworks show... which i'd never done before. she puts up with me even though i don't always answer her instant messages.

and pip? pip and i had much the same wavelength for so long. we lived in much closer proximity than everyone else, and understood things about the city that others didn't. and, god. ok, so pip sees me when she can and we work out ways to hang out. and it keeps ending up like... once a year when we see each other. though i will say i've seen her three times in the past month and that has been the highlight of my life, really. and we made variable plans for the next couple of weeks. i'm more up on her life than i am on anyone else's (save sobe) from high school.

and, shit. both these girls know how hard it is for me to see anyone. i've got the family that's a cross between heaven and hell-- very loving, in that sit-together-for-dinner-everyday way, but also restrictive and unsupportive about EVERYTHING.** so nearly 100% of the time, i have to lie to my folks about where i'm going or who i'm seeing. and when i'm out, i'm always watching the clock, anxious and nearly walking right back out of the door as soon as i've entered. that halloween party? if i checked my phone for the time every 15 minutes, i wouldn't be surprised. i arranged to "accidentally" meet up with my pip at a karaoke bar when i was supposed to be with other people just because i missed her. even so, i could hardly sit still, continually watching the other folks i was with for indications that they'd tell my parents that i was with a HEATHEN***.

i'm constantly thanking god that i have these girls in my life, that they're as understanding as they are. i'm so chickenshit all the time-- i could probably have moved out by now and been ok and a better daughter than i'd ever thought to be... but i'm afraid to go out on my own without a couple thousand safety nets. i'd be very alone in the world without these two lifelines to an outside world. there's only so much a girl can do when her sphere of friends usually comes and goes with the tides of lust for her brother (not going into that. suffice it to say that these girls only know me and not my brother, and have been my friends for far longer than most as a result)...

so thank god, or whoever... thank life. i have a sobe and a pippin to love me.



* - names have been changed to protect the innocent.
** - i love my family. i wouldn't change them for the world. but i also know that they're imperfect and i would be a much better daughter if i didn't have an 11 pm curfew and didn't live at home. i have to work too hard to censor myself at home, so it's a necessity to get out as soon as possible, despite my love of them.
*** - a term courtesy of my religion vs. my friends. since they aren't JWs, they say that my parents see them as heathens. which... isn't far from the truth. my parents think that my friends are beneath me and would drag me down into the muck and mire of the world. i try my hardest not to talk about my gay/bisexual friends from school, for fear that i'll never have friends my own age. for what it's worth.
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moments of devastating beauty

He calls me beautiful when I remind him of home. Of days in the city and nights just outside a farm. He still calls it home, even though he’s been away longer than he ever was there. I know he wants to go back… but I don’t think he’d be able to fit in now, not with an American's perspective on life.

He calls me beautiful when I hear the lilting strains of some Irish or Scottish music. I pretend like I can Riverdance. The first time he saw me do it, I was in a skirt. He watched me, and with misty eyes, called me beautiful. He calls me beautiful when I dance. And he wonders how I ever learned to be so light on my feet when he sees me day in and day out. And Mom has to explain to him that I’ve always been light on my feet. From ballet school to now, you barely hear me if I’m running late for school. My sister, on the other hand… THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP. Every step is loud for her.

He calls me beautiful when I remind him of the Indian girls who wear dozens of silver bangles as a sign of their beauty. The jangle of bracelets when I'd move my arm reminds him of the girls he used to know. I haven’t worn them in a while… Perhaps I don’t feel beautiful enough. And, on Sundays, when I dress up, I ask him what he sees. He smiles softly and says… beautiful.

But he calls me beautiful when I make him feel at home. When I remind him of what he’s left behind. And he pulls me close and holds me tight, tears threatening in his eyes as he whispers that I’m beautiful.

He makes me feel loved when he says I’m beautiful. It’s nice to know someone thinks you are… even if it is your father.

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