word slut

I love words.  I have a few favourites…

vituperate – to use or address with harsh or abusive language; revile. (like my son telling me to go suck myself off)

slubberdegulleon – n archaic – a slovenly or worthless person; villainous (Tom Robbins describing the CIA in Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates)

pejorative – having a disparaging, derogatory, or belittling effect or force (the word ‘cunt’ comes to mind)

originally hers

I was recently messing about with my new gmail account, an attempt to micro conglomerate POP servers, when I came across a long lost blog.  Musings and misunderstandings.  Clearly there were some issues at hand when I wrote the two meager postings…sometimes, I scare myself a little.

a girl

Sometimes all a girl needs is a little sleep. What is considered a little sleep is sometimes dangerous. What is considered dangerous is sometimes a girl. This girl, she doesn’t live here anymore. Sometimes happened to her. Some times. Those times when your guts have hit the floor and you vomit your feet through your nose. Some of those times. Some times when you have to disengage. Times are just a story. A story we tell ourselves to cause. To be cause. Just because. An evolution of theory. A manipulation of our senses. Danger! This girl – all she needs is a little sleep.

cat or mouse

In her sleep she caught a mouse. Between her teeth. She clenched. She doesn’t want to play cat and mouse, it’s the blood. Fear and blood. She should rip that mouses head off and hammer it into the wood panels. But instead she coddles the pulsing mouse. It’s her baby. Fat tears fall from her eyes. She can feel herself heaving in her bed. What she hears is a small voice squeaking down the hall. Like Poe’s beating heart it drives her mad. Paralyzed with sleep her dream self stares at her. Blood pours down her cheeks and soaks her gown. Squeak squeak. Squeak squeak. The headless mouse cries for home.


Procrastination is looming.  It’s looking over my left shoulder wondering when my chair will get scratchy and these two dangling things at the bottom of my legs will get restless.  I refuse to give in.  Peter Gabriel is telling me something about your eyes.  As much as procrastination loves listening to the radio, it’s in the best interest of everything else to put on some chamber music.  Anything sans lyrics.  Lyrics fuel the growth of procrastination.  Especially when the stereo has mysteriously turned itself up loudly and the dangling things want to move quickly about the floor.  Chair dancing.

There is this spot in my belly that is shouting at me.  Someone would tell me to do something about it because he can smell hunger on my breath.  Gads, if he can smell hunger I wonder what else that hounds nose can smell.  Do you think he can smell ovulation?  I wouldn’t doubt it.  <insert taboo here> Does any other woman experience a musky scent when ovulating?  I’m  not sure if this is normal but it actually cranks my libido to 11.  The scent, that is.  Then it’s all juicy and fat and that makes for half a day spent in bed.  Which makes me think about what happened to me the other night.  My head still hangs in horrific shame.  So I’m asleep…as much as sleep holds my attention…in a new environment.  An environment where one will go out of his/her (mostly her I would think) way to avoid all involuntary bodily expulsions.  Better known as farting.  Yeah.  Just at the moment my brain was entering into a coma my ass decides to rip one off.  I woke up so suddenly and so mortified I screamed. AHHHHH! or maybe it was YO!  I can’t remember but my shame is still very real.  Good thing it didn’t scare the shit out of me… Appreciation and gratitude to the powers that be that it didn’t smell bad.  My mortification would have been crawling home using my very own hands and knees.  I vow to NEVER eat wheat again!  It felt so good to get home and fart all day.  I think I lost 5 lbs. in air.


The smell of rain rose with the sun, blowing through my window on the pink rays of morning. The clouds roll over the edge of the world, hiding the dawn sun. My breath mixes with the wet breeze as my eyes drift  from laden dreams. Warm, hypnotic nakedness swoons beneath the sheets as the rogue wind whispers its desire. Tender flesh swells beneath my sexed fingers, reviving a morning smile.

Tender lips purse together dry and thirsty. The want of wet flesh yearning for your ubiquity.

and yet again…

Today has been a frustrating day for me. I’m getting work done but I am noticing how excluded my existence has been until I am needed. Then I am included. This long and sordid story goes back to 2008. Maybe even earlier. But this is not the time for discussion. What this post is about is being upset-free. Last night I attended number 5 of 10 sessions of a breakthrough seminar. These sessions constitute what a breakdown/breakthrough is and how to recognize each one. Then in turn recognizing the breakdown and the immediate result being a breakthrough.

The distinction for last night was being upset-free. The definition being recognizing the upset, letting the upset go. Giving permission to let it go. I was upset about what I was watching today. I chose to be upset-free and let my upset go. I know it sounds hokey here but in reality, an upset is an allowance of negativity. …oy… I got distracted while writing this bit and totally forgot my tangent.