My old friend! I’ve come to talk.

Sleep, like little slices of death
I don’t want the whole cake — way more than I could possibly handle —
But a larger serving to begin with might be nice.
The little friendly helper from the bottle
Pulls me gentle but firm
Insistent but kind
And as I close my eyes
Welcome the cold embrace
Of the darkness…
I finally find a hint of a smile.


I read the news today… oh, boy.

I slept really well, thanks to my new prescription for Ambien.

I woke up to deal with an almost instant flood of overwhelmed, just-fucking-can’t, anxiety and apathy and “goddamn, the world is full of shit.”

Almost all of my Facebook friends who post regularly are dealing with miserable, painful crap, there’s more killing and tragedy in the current news cycle, and even the few positive posts I’ve seen have been shit on by sarcastic, rude, asshole commenters.

If I didn’t have things I’m supposed to do this afternoon, I think I might just go to sleep again…

It’s really disappointing on the extremely rare occasions when there’s a chick who’s hot, and she’s maybe even into me… but she’s also super into religion. Or she smokes cigarettes non-stop. Or she insists that other women shouldn’t be allowed to choose what they do with their own bodies (i.e. “shaving your body hair and wearing lipstick is capitulating to the patriarchy and if you actually CARED you would change everything about yourself to suit my tastes instead!”) Or she buys into that whole trendy-in-the-bay deal (though certainly not exclusive to here) of “saving the world” through self-deprivation (which, near as I have ever been able to figure out the dogmatic religiosity of veganism, that’s what it keeps coming out as.)

Like, I really don’t expect to have every single thing in common with anyone in the world. I really don’t. And if I don’t have exactly the same tastes in music or books or movies or food or recreation as someone, no big deal! But in the same way that I wouldn’t try to date a gal who thinks that war is wonderful and we should be violently invading more countries; in the same way that I wouldn’t try to date a gal who thinks that trans* women aren’t really women, and fights to exclude some women from women’s spaces; and I wouldn’t expect to be criticized heavily for those choices — I wouldn’t think that it would be considered so gauche of me to have a few minimal standards in other areas to ensure that I’m not trying to spend time with someone who is okay with causing harm to me or to themselves.

And yet daring to say some of those things out loud — especially the one about avoiding relationships with those who have the luxury of circumstances to afford promoting self-deprivation as a positive force for good in the world — gets me dirty looks at a minimum, and often quite a rant from others about “tolerance” and “acceptance” and being “nicer” to people.

A sleepless poem, dreaming of better dreams.

Mommy, please fuck me to sleep; I am tired
But my brain keeps on running around and my
Body is telling me how much it needs you
Inside me, or anyone else that you’ve found
Who can hold me and pet me and call me “sweet girl”
While she shoves herself roughly and deeply inside
So that I get all worn out and sleepy for you
Even better if you fill me up with your cum
Leave me dripping and happy and kiss me goodnight
And my dreams will be sweet, and my morning so bright,
And I’ll know that you love me… your daughter, your slut.

Yesterday. Evening. Walking around a large thrift store near me. Browsing more to kill time than anything else. As I was looking through the wall of dresses, pulling out various fabrics and patterns that caught my eye: wave of overwhelming emotion. So much mixed into one moment. Lust. Vulnerability. Smallness. Need. Lost and hurting.

Filled with need, and I saw myself in my mind running to grab the hem of a dress and bury myself in fabric and legs and comfort, which was impossible since I haven’t been that short in a very long time. And when I was that small, I hadn’t been given the gifts of knowledge of sex, but that need was also there. Of course like any huge emotional wallop, there was scent-memory in there too, or if not memory at least an association and a visualisation (which is completely the wrong word, but whatever.) I don’t have words for the scent, because it’s a fragment like most other things.

I have been so horny and so frustrated and so alone lately, for the most part. And it hurts being alone. I have needs, I have desires, I have appetites, and those can’t be sated by my hands.


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