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You, me, make love? *may trigger*

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Re: You, me, make love? *may trigger*

Postby Fugacity » Mon Mar 23, 2015 10:40 pm

Oh, sure, I've got fancy degrees, drive a nice car, and get paid to write descriptions of hardcore pornographic movie scenes. But I put my pants on one leg at a time like anyone else. I put my shirt on like everyone else, too. I put my head through the head hole and then my arms through the arm holes.

Wait... or do I put one arm through and then put my head through and then put my other arm through? Or maybe I put both arms through at the same time and then put my head through afterwards. How the hell do I usually put my shirts on? How the hell does anyone put their shirts on?

I put my socks on like everyone else, though; I bet you that much. I mean, how can you put your socks on except the normal way? I suppose you could have some device that put them on for you, or something that held the socks in the air while you simply stepped into them. I suppose that would technically be different than the way I put my socks on. I'm not sure if such contraptions exist, but even if they do I can't believe a lot of people put their socks on that way.

Underwear. What about underwear? There can't possibly be more than one way to put your underwear on. I just put my leg through one hole and then my other leg through the other hole and then I pull my penis through the fly exactly 32 times to ward off evil spirits, just like everyone.

I do have a problem with putting myself on, though. My brain tells me things that aren't true and, after listening to them thousands of times per day, I start to believe them. Even when I know it's happening, or is going to happen, or has already happened, I can't see things differently. I definitely can't feel them differently. At best I can recognize that something artificial is happening, though I can't recognize what the reality is. It's like having a lucid dream. You know it's not real, but that's all you're aware of. What's happening outside the dream, in reality, does not exist to you. The only thing that exists is the dream, so while it exists it's your reality, albeit one you recognize as artificial.

There was a point at which I think I understood why M was there. She was obviously there to play peacemaker and matchmaker and all those things she should have known were just slaps in my face. But I suppose she didn't sense that because I masked my hostility with pleasantries and diplomacy.

But I recognized that my perspective was changing. When I got there I didn't give a ###$ about her. That must be true or else I wouldn't have brought her into the proceedings at all. And one of the reasons I left was because I started to recognize, consciously or not, that things were shifting back to where they'd been before. There is a very simple test that I can conduct in these situations to see if things are getting artificial and dangerous. Do I think positive things about this person? Do I care what they have to say? Later on there are more precise tests like whether I fear them and whether the things they say and do cut me to the quick. But at first the positive end of the spectrum is a more conspicuous tell that things are moving quickly into Crazyville.

I think all that is true. It must be true based on the things I did and didn't do. But then something bad happened and it caught me off guard. I went away for what must have been months, and then came back for some reason. I don't recall why. It was possibly an accident. But during my absence, the absence of anything observable from her allowed my mind to move significantly down the path of recreating M as object. When I'd left... she hated me, didn't she? Everything she wrote to me was either angry or condescending.

....

....wait. This isn't meaningful. They do not exist. That version of me does not exist. This is the crux of the problem. It is an attempt to create and validate a false version of myself in a fantasyland. One where I've got fancier degrees, a nicer car, and I write something other than descriptions of hardcore pornographic movie scenes. Whatever the characteristics are of the person who interacted with these girls, they aren't mine. I am a bitter, ugly misanthrope whose only enjoyment from his job came from the knowledge that what I was helping to design and build were machines of war and death. A person who enjoys the thought that I hurt these girls far more than the thought that I made them feel special. A person who celebrates the exploits of C and R and laments their capture.

Put it away. Put them away, back in their box. Close the lid and forget that they ever existed, regardless of the muffled noises that come from the box when they're inside. She was never there. I was never there. The real her is presumably out there xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx To read this content, please subscribe to our premium service xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx They are all just ghosts who haunt me in the day. I must not have done a good enough job warding off evil spirits.
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Re: You, me, make love? *may trigger*

Postby Fugacity » Thu Mar 26, 2015 4:23 am

what happens when you corner the critter? does he go peacefully knowing he has no other choice? or does he absolutely lose his $#%^ and lash out at anything that moves?

or maybe there's a third option. it doesn't seem like there's anywhere to go and so we just go back and forth between two unsatisfying choices. i was hoping it wouldn't be this way. i was hoping that by ruling out all options as unacceptable i'd eventually dismiss them all. instead, my brain keeps doing the idiot move of cycling between each alternative, as if one of them might have come back to life while it was poking at the other with a stick. nope, still dead. nope, still dead. nope, still dead. no $#%^, sherlock. they're still ######6 dead. my subconscious mind is apparently a ######6 moron.

but hold on. we knew this. i wrote about this with A, eight (!) fukcing years ago. (Note to mods: This was not an intentional attempt to bypass the swear filter. I genuinely made a typo and misspelled "######6." I'm leaving it misspelled, and thus bypassing the swear filter, not to be obstinate or because I'm incorrigible, but because otherwise this parenthetical wouldn't make any sense.) the pendulum arcs... we knew this. why do we forget so easily? it's cycles within cycles within cycles within cycles. sinusoidal fractals. we've seen this all before. why do we forget so easily?

------------

more ammunition for the argument that these are narcissistically driven and not romantically: S is still chapping my hide. i have zero affection for her, interest in her, or attraction to her. there's absolutely nothing i find appealing about her. ######6 nothing. (I admit that that was partly an attempt to evade the swear filter, though it failed.) and yet she still irks me, albeit far less intensely than in the past.

this is about envy for an importance (?) i once possessed through her.

it can't be about desire or i would feel some desire for her. it's just an annoyance... no, let's call a spade a spade, a frustration that for some incomprehensible reason she continues to thrive. (actually, it's not all that incomprehensible. but the reasons why are pretty pathetic.) and there's little mental shelter from that. oh, sure, i can defend myself with something like the idea that she has never once impressed me with anything she's ever done or been and i dazzled the ###$ out of their Philistinic selves. (you've got your army, toots, but with me you're in way over your head...) there's some wimpy $#%^ like that, sure, but all it really amounts to is a pitcher at the dish, choking up, and trying to make contact on two strikes. he's happy if he just fouls one back. that's lovely but it isn't really worth a damn.

---------------

i once had a professor (probably more than one, actually) who, when viewed from the back of a lecture hall, seemed highly dynamic, charismatic, and friendly. i felt, even if i didn't consciously think it, that this was a professor who'd be easy to approach, easy to talk to, and make me feel like he cared about me as an individual even though I was just one of 200 taking his course.

then one day, for whatever reason, i had to go up to the front of the room after the lecture and talk to him about something.

and it was pulling bloody teeth.

it was awkward and uncomfortable. he seemed indifferent and distant. where did that other guy go? the one i saw from the back of the lecture hall?

i feel M is like that. not just in the way that all objects are like that as they can't possibly live up to the standard of the idealized image. but she seems like she should be so warm and inviting and yet i've never found the real her anything but cold and insensitive. she was so much more disappointing than the others (though partly because i had no expectations for the others as they were quite obviously pieces of $#%^).

i feel like i'm a bit like that professor, too, though maybe in a slightly different way. with me there is the appearance of something alive, something real, perhaps even something to connect with... but there's nothing really there. watch it and it gives the impression of life, sometimes even of energy. but approach it and the closer you get the more you'll recognize that it is completely lacking in substance, devoid of any real warmth, and that the sound you can hear ever-so-faintly emanating from its chest is actually the sound of grinding gears.
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Re: You, me, make love? *may trigger*

Postby green m+m » Sun May 17, 2015 3:49 am

I miss you. It is always easy talking with you.

...nothing like talking to a robot - at all....

(and you don't write like one, anyways; I would bet that robots make terrible writers)
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Re: You, me, make love? *may trigger*

Postby Butthole » Sun Jun 21, 2015 4:00 am

I'm tired of hiding behind masks and fake names and haphazardly-applied makeup. It's time to come clean. My name--my real name--is Sebastian P. Butthole.

What follows is a close-up photographic image of my butthole:

*mod edit: I have no idea what the picture actually was, I couldn't view it but removed it just in case.*

(The filter is Mayfair.)

It's not just an image of my butthole. It's also a metaphor for my butthole. It's a metaphor both of and for my butthole. You see, it's a butthole. That much is obvious from the picture. But it's also a butthole of a Butthole, if you catch my drift. So it's like nested buttholes. Like those Russian dolls, only buttholes. Buttholes within buttholes within buttholes until we regress infinitely into one infinitesimal hole. And that's the genesis of the universe, isn't it? The universe all came from this one, infinitely small butthole. And then it expanded out, butthole after butthole, until it's now full of nothing but buttholes and hot gasses.

(I'm really proud of that picture. I had just received the best anal bleaching of my life and so I felt it was, like, Constitutionally required that I take a picture of it. I think it came out great.)

---------------

I legitimately have an advanced degree in nuclear engineering.

---------------

She said to me, "But I was so tense. I could hardly sleep because of you." I looked at her incredulously and asked, "But why?" She said, "I thought..." and then hesitated for a moment. "I thought you were going to hurt me." I still didn't quite understand. "Hurt you?" I inquired, "Like... how?" She looked at the ground. "I thought you wanted to kill me," she said softly. "But I don't understand," I said. "Why would I want to kill someone I didn't love?"

----------------

I want to be pristine. I need to be pristine. Otherwise they won't love me. Otherwise no one can love me. Not unless I'm clean.

And so I'll pick something pure, something glimmering with innocence, wide-eyed enthusiasm, whose lips have never touched anything vile--no curses, no kisses, no Coors Light, no chronic, no crack rock, no cocks, no come, no cunnilingus, no calumnies, and certainly no crap. (Who would eat feces? I just don't get that. I'm hugely into scat--don't get me wrong. But eating it? C'mon, that's probably not even kosher.) I'll pick that unblemished flower and wear it on my breast, right next to my black heart. But who's going to notice my anger and hate when all they'll see is that sanguine rose, when all they'll smell is its lovely scent? "Look at me, World!" I'll think smugly, "I clean up pretty nice, don't I!" And I'll walk with some spring in my step that day.

But how do you keep that rose alive? It needs... what does it need? Moisture, I suppose. (Uh oh...) It needs dirt, manure. (Oh no...) Where could one possibly find a place like that to stick a rose? (Here we go again...)

Of course! I'll stick it in my butthole! To hell with the thorns! There are always sacrifices to be made in pursuit of noble causes! And up the poop-shoot she goes.

---------------

The girls are my pure self, white as the driven snow. My name is Mxxxxx. Aren't I sweet and pretty and delicate? My name is Sxxxxx. Aren't I pristine and gentle and innocent? My name is Axxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. Isn't my name to die for?

The voices are my vile self, blacker than night. Blacker than sin. Blacker even than Smell the Glove. They are in me but I can't face them there. They have to be projected onto things, onto anything, so I can disavow myself of them, so I can say, "What a pitiful creature that is. Who could love something so abhorrent? Certainly not me." So I can be white again.

What is the reality? All characters. All fiction. All the time. Little girls, pure and angelic in their brand new underpants, fresh from the pack. Screeching madmen with their wild eyes and stringy hair. Monsters. Perverts. Freaks. Ghouls. Philanderers. Vagabonds. Prestidigitators. Confidence men. Bums. Junkies. Hypochondriacs. Psychopaths. Laymen. Democrats. Door-to-door salesmen. Idiots talking about buttholes.

What is the reality? I no longer remember. Worse yet, I'm no longer sure I can stand to know.

---------------

See, he called her "something-bean" three times. That was the thing. He called her "something-bean" three times and then said he'd toss the three-bean salad. It was a wordplay about tossing her salad, about giving her a rimjob. You know, eating out her butthole.
Last edited by seabreezeblue on Sun Jun 21, 2015 9:10 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: You, me, make love? *may trigger*

Postby Butthole » Sun Jun 21, 2015 4:17 pm

Genuinely lessening reactions, which is obviously good, although that's always accompanied by an increase in the frequency of dreams, though that's really just an annoyance. The separation seems to be happening slowly but surely, encouraged by the no contact, which I still think is a double-edged sword but ultimately the only weapon of any worth. Uncovered as the borderline-like emotional tumult and vacillations dissipate is a high level of hostility that I hadn't recalled, though that's not to say it wasn't always there. Still, if it's an unavoidable trade-off then it's a necessary one.

As before--circa Futsal, I believe--the distractions and associated no contact result in an abandonment of the central images and questions which tie me to them. There is no more attention paid to which statements meant what, and what, if anything, was directed at or about me. Actually, I shouldn't say no attention; but the attention does change quickly as there isn't enough tensile strength in the bonds to keep them from snapping and forcing me to look for connections elsewhere. This is productive in one sense, and ameliorating, but it also unveils the deep-seated resentment and hostility that compose the core of my personality.

At this point the cycle becomes distinctly about me. Of course it's always been about me, and only me, but now that becomes conspicuous. Objects become foreign and unaffecting (and presumably uneffecting) and engender mostly feelings of annoyance and bewilderment. I wonder what I ever saw in them (other than my penis... *rimshot*).

Actually, that's a salient point. I'm starting to feel like the properties of the object are indeed defined by their pre-idealization properties. They are imbued with the qualities they already contain and can be used to satisfy what I'm searching for. It's still not exactly clear whether more is better or worse, but that's not really of any practical concern. They become what they become; they serve the needs they're capable of serving. Either they're suitable for something, or many things, and the mind latches onto them, or they're not, for whatever reason, and the mind moves on.

What's peculiar at first blush (and this admittedly leads directly to the practically unimportant question above) is that while M seems to serve more needs, the intensity of my attachment to her has always been significantly reduced compared to her contemporaries. Is that just the fact that she, in both instances, played the role of what I call a "transitional object"? Is it because she didn't satisfy the needs well, even if she could act to assuage them a little? Is it actually because less truly is more in this instance? Or does she not really satisfy anything, and was only chosen as an alternative to an object gone bad? (i.e. The transitional object is really more of a false object.) There are too many variables and not enough data to reconcile all situations thoroughly. For now that doesn't seem necessary, which is a very good thing, and I ponder it more out of academic curiosity and boredom than anything else.
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Re: You, me, make love? *may trigger*

Postby Foot » Thu Apr 05, 2018 11:36 pm

Feels like it did in 2011. Can't believe how long it's been since I felt like that. I'd forgotten how bad it is. Aches, crawling skin, nausea, insomnia. Mentally: panic; deep, deep depression; terrible anxiety; obsessive, racing thoughts. The body becomes a torture chamber with no escape. Instincts? Carve it up. Not helpful this time (interesting). Flee. To where? To what? Anything. But nowhere to go.

I even find myself reaching for her.

Hysterical. I almost wanted to go back to that. Of course that's simply because I've forgotten, or had forgotten, as exemplified by my surprise at how badly I feel now. Why does it have to feel this way? Or is the crushing irony that, this time, it's appropriate?

This is serious. Seriously serious. This seems to have the type of potential repercussions that ruin generations, not just lives. How can you even find yourself in a situation so bad that even death doesn't halt the dominoes?

Oh, right, that too. Death. That's what I want again. That's the instinct again. It had gone away for so long, or long enough to forget. But it comes rushing back in. Images flash through the mind. Some tiny rush of hope at the thought of losing consciousness. Releasing everything. I remember it all again, and so the words start to reshape themselves.

Others' words, I mean. Words that used to make sense no longer do. Unintelligible symbols, where before they were elegant and touched a chord. And the flip-side. Words that had grown hollow and detached regain their inertia. This side of the coin sucks the big one.

But what is the solution? What is the solution? That's why the mind races so quickly and ceaselessly: there is no solution to rest on. It's all disastrous. An absolute freaking nightmare.

How long did this last the last time? Weeks, I think it was. Maybe more. A chilling thought. And of course you seek help and are told it'll be weeks or months until someone can talk to you and express to you precisely how little they care.

What else? Oh, right, I'm also at that point where I no longer know whether I'm hungry or nauseous. I've hardly eaten anything in days but also have no interest. How did things get so bad again?

I never understood that question about feeling like I was being punished. Now I do. Or maybe now I do again.
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