Saturday, August 16, 2014

Pussy Kamagong is Dead

**I solemnly swear that I am not fucking with you, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, when I confess to writing this in 2/17/2011. I am not making that up. I was scrolling through my vomitorium today, 06/03/2014, when I chanced upon this unsightly mess of boo-hoo bullshit. I remember moving on from Five-Years J when I wrote this, and I present it to you now, just now, for your consideration. 

I love you more than an orgasm, really I do, but haha, your consideration does not make a difference, my Dearly Beloved. It really doesn't. This happened during one of those moments we all had at one stupid point or another, when you are wobbling drunk with self pity, when you are at your ugliest vulnerable, when you... oh fuck, to hell with that. To begin with, I hardly knew 
the man I fell in love with. But in the end, I knew him well, far too well, for he was the spastic mongoloid motherfucker who broke my heart. 

"He was the spastic mongoloid motherfucker who broke my heart." That shit will look golden in my vomitorium. And that pretty much explains why The Award of Best Dramatic Whatever in a Blog Post Role goes to what squeamish blech you will be reading now. 


It used to be that I write nice. I used to write laughter, and I used to write inspiration, and I used to write agreements, and I used to write goodness. I used to write love, and I used to write sunshine, and I used to write the full moon in its most radiant glory. I used to write friendship, and I used to write laughter, and I used to write applause, and I used to write admiration. I used to write love, and I used to write those blessed ejaculations, and I used to write the saving grace that we all needed at the most opportune time. But that writing has weakened, and that has, by and by, succumbed to a stroke, and it has lost its inspiration with all those tears I shed.  

I am suddenly at a loss for words, my words, the kind of words that I collect and employ with such darling endearment. That, however, didn't stop me from going back to the one release that, like masturbation, addresses my very specific urges. 

I still write. But I suppose I write different now, and my words paint a flowerless picture. I now write cold fire, and my words burn with a frozen heat that is both lifeless and consuming. I now write toxicity, and every stroke of my pen is laced with enough poison to secretly kill a dear, dear friend. I now write tears, and my written ideas are barren of smiles and good hope. I now write betrayal, and I detail its consequences with terrifying enthusiasm. I now write that heavy feeling of a heart that needs to cry, but can't, because it is severely dehydrated. 

That is assuming that I can still write. Two of my last posts are re-posts. And now I give you this excuse for murder.  

I used to think that I have cried enough. But crying never tolerated this residual hurt, and so it grew tired of me and resigned from its office. I can't cry again if I tried, and believe me I did because I had plenty of amazing chances, but I was betrayed by that saving grace. I think I have moved on, but I haven't crawled enough, so I'm still a mere feet away from the hurt that I was trying to get away from.  

I was just making that up. You can say that I am fucking with you, my darling punk reader. I have indeed moved on, to a dead certainty, but something changed in me. I write, no, I stab that deathly white emptiness with an unbridled lack of passion. I cannot assume to call it spiritless, because it is now possessed of this daring influence that has yielded to such unpleasant persuasions. I choke that pen, that knife, with murderous intent, and my stabbing is both livid and dead at the same time. 

This kind of writing killed my Pussy Kamagong. 


(Rapid burial in earth is recommended for this sort of self-defeating, unappreciated pile of drama. Fuck, I should be well beyond this shallow drivel at my age, really.)


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