i’m fucking insane, just by the way I am slowly getting there
I decided my presumption that crazy motherfuckers get more love, and the right kind, too isn’t too good to be true.
I have decided to play someone that I am not. Crazy jealous bonkers nutball fuckin zoink brain that won’t let anyone talk to girls if they are with me. The quote “if you’re with me, then you’re with me and I don’t want anybody else” seems a bit lax don’t you think?
I have also decided that people who change their clocks back to summer time and pretend they have somewhere to go can also suck my fucking ass.
All is not well in deanna land and I am feeling slightly taken for granted in my personal and work environments. But, oh well. FUck them.
I have also come to terms with the fact or idea that maybe I don’t know where it’s going all the time. I always had no issues, nor lack of confidence when it came to confidence in the sack. I have usually shown evidence of being a ball of sexual energy compressed into the body that is mine with men generally coming back for more, but hey. Recent evidence may or may not show that sometimes, the kind of lover you are may or may not always jive with the kind of lover they are. I like power. I don’t like to give it up, or give in when I want to enjoy it…so when they try and take it I somehow maneuver a groove that enables me to be jacked into ecstasy, even if it just involves jacking off…Who doesn’t like to touch themselves and jerk themselves off after having cum the first time, I ask you? Not I. I dig all involvements of sexual exploration. Mouths, tongues. But touch is universally the key to getting me happy, or frisky, be it as it may. All in all that popular saying among idiots “I’ve had no complaints”, hasn’t ever been disproven, but hey. I’m human. Who doesn’t make mistakes? There is always the hope of a rematch. or a time to get to know each other through getting to “know” each other then, right?
also on my mind. issues of spontaneity. I have written about the summer of ’91 in retrospective poetic terms, but never directly. Why isn’t anyone more spontaneous? Imagine my happiness if any of the skaters from that summer ever spontaneously dropped by my window after that summer to fucking be a little different. I am rarely surprised, and certainly never jerked from my wheel of disappointment. So yea, this is an open invitation for any of my friends to rock my world and show up at Uncle Joe’s, 154 1st street Jersey City, NJ or call my fuckin ass since those that matter have it all under control..no one is cool enough to do so, though. I like notes and letters and all methods of correspondance, be it a phone call or e-mail or whatever.
I need to sing, too. I have a mega hard screaming voice that most I love in Canada have heard, and some ’round here. I rule the female screamers award, because I sound just that evil. But my singing voice is a bit like little miss lisa germano combined with Liz Phair. If I don’t get into the studio soon, I will surely cry. Music makes the small moments that have only a distant memory’s signifigance just that much more special.
lite brite
dreams of pencil shavings
looking like on my window sill
backwards ways explored through the moments in sound
my summers, filled with the pixies, sarah M, the Cure, X, and bow wow wow
..were enunciated with Peter Gabriel’s “mercy street”
rain piling down
and driving
the escapism
the musing
I wish too much to want to little
words and phrases repeating themselves like a broken record
you’re so cool, you’re so cool, you’re so cool
but now I am not so
just living and surviving on the sun
the coffee running through my veins
and the love,
gone stale as each new one walks out the door
barely a hasty kiss
leaving the stale smell of smoke on my lips
I know everyone is sick of my webcam. But my dog is cuter than me, don’t ya think?
