I am a biodegradable robot.
Wow. I'm sitting in the computer lab and my neck feels funny. I guess a beetle was crawling out of my hair. I'm all for slugs and worms and shit, but beetles remind me of ticks and ticks are parasites just like fetuses and fuck the whole lot.
Dear people sitting next to me, please go back to staring at my hairy legs. Three reasons I don't shave my body hair unless I'm venturing before a camera or desperate to get laid:
1) As a poverty-stricken American, there are infinite realms of possibilities for my time and money more appealing than buying little bits of plastic and metal, and then sitting shivering in a bathtub until I either finish or my neck hurts too damn much.
2) I prefer to think that people are staring at my white peachfuzz rather than my disfiguring scars. It's probably some of both in reality.
3) I'm about as towheaded as they get. My fur is white and relatively sparse. I don't find my body hair all that distracting. If somebody thinks I'm attractive and then changes their mind because I choose NOT to alter my body in one particular way, then go fuck somebody hot. Like your mom.
People raise an interesting point against public journals. I've been hearing it for my entire seven years of pouring my sloppy-ass heart all over the internet's face.
Which is: Why should I let anybody and their mom read my private thoughts? Why should I run the risk, even if everyone I mention is just a pronoun? And if you refrain from personal musings, then what's the point of a journal? There is no point.
Maybe I'm just slinging slag because I'm lonely and I'm lucky if, in person, I get to have a brief discussion of the weather and some unpregnant pauses.
My inverted ballsack definitely drops somewhere around knee-level in text.
Eye contact is something I reserve like the chaste reserve fucking. It's awkward, intense, and unsettling. (I barely understand how to do it. "Should I aim for the bridge of the nose? Shift between one and the other?" Let me assure you, faking eye contact is far more difficult than a fauxgasm.)
A penis in a vagina ain't shit compared to the little black holes to your brain aligned with the little black tunnels into mine.
In case anybody has forgotten, I spent my junior high and highschool years in a locked bedroom, nocturnal, suffering through a fundamentalist X-ian "education" (if I used that word any more loosely, you could fuck it with an air craft carrier) and was given 300Mg of Prozac and Ortho-Cyclen in place of developing coping skills. In the wee hours of the morning during the wee years of this century, IRC, livejournal, Napster, and rotten.com raised me, sex-educated me, stripped me down to the lovely atheist pithe, and endowed me with my incredible social skills. (Should we call them antisocial skills?)
For every highschool party you went to, I had a flamewar. For every teenage romance you indulged in, I had phonesex and posted naked pictures. For every personal, deep bond you made, I stayed up all night converting myself into pixels by playing the computer keyboard like an extension of my body. For every local band you and your friends nodded your heads incessantly to, I sifted gregariously through MP3s with my 56K modem.
Maybe I make idyllic assumptions about "you" and "them" and how green all "their" grass is. Surely if I had been allowed near my peer group, I only would have hated them more. Surely highschool would've destroyed me.
I want to tear out my voicebox and implant an LCD screen in my forehead. Oh boy, just think of all the close friends and sparkling conversations I'd have then.
If I ever meet you, I'LL CTRL-ALT-DELETE YOU!
Wow. I'm sitting in the computer lab and my neck feels funny. I guess a beetle was crawling out of my hair. I'm all for slugs and worms and shit, but beetles remind me of ticks and ticks are parasites just like fetuses and fuck the whole lot.
Dear people sitting next to me, please go back to staring at my hairy legs. Three reasons I don't shave my body hair unless I'm venturing before a camera or desperate to get laid:
1) As a poverty-stricken American, there are infinite realms of possibilities for my time and money more appealing than buying little bits of plastic and metal, and then sitting shivering in a bathtub until I either finish or my neck hurts too damn much.
2) I prefer to think that people are staring at my white peachfuzz rather than my disfiguring scars. It's probably some of both in reality.
3) I'm about as towheaded as they get. My fur is white and relatively sparse. I don't find my body hair all that distracting. If somebody thinks I'm attractive and then changes their mind because I choose NOT to alter my body in one particular way, then go fuck somebody hot. Like your mom.
People raise an interesting point against public journals. I've been hearing it for my entire seven years of pouring my sloppy-ass heart all over the internet's face.
Which is: Why should I let anybody and their mom read my private thoughts? Why should I run the risk, even if everyone I mention is just a pronoun? And if you refrain from personal musings, then what's the point of a journal? There is no point.
Maybe I'm just slinging slag because I'm lonely and I'm lucky if, in person, I get to have a brief discussion of the weather and some unpregnant pauses.
My inverted ballsack definitely drops somewhere around knee-level in text.
Eye contact is something I reserve like the chaste reserve fucking. It's awkward, intense, and unsettling. (I barely understand how to do it. "Should I aim for the bridge of the nose? Shift between one and the other?" Let me assure you, faking eye contact is far more difficult than a fauxgasm.)
A penis in a vagina ain't shit compared to the little black holes to your brain aligned with the little black tunnels into mine.
In case anybody has forgotten, I spent my junior high and highschool years in a locked bedroom, nocturnal, suffering through a fundamentalist X-ian "education" (if I used that word any more loosely, you could fuck it with an air craft carrier) and was given 300Mg of Prozac and Ortho-Cyclen in place of developing coping skills. In the wee hours of the morning during the wee years of this century, IRC, livejournal, Napster, and rotten.com raised me, sex-educated me, stripped me down to the lovely atheist pithe, and endowed me with my incredible social skills. (Should we call them antisocial skills?)
For every highschool party you went to, I had a flamewar. For every teenage romance you indulged in, I had phonesex and posted naked pictures. For every personal, deep bond you made, I stayed up all night converting myself into pixels by playing the computer keyboard like an extension of my body. For every local band you and your friends nodded your heads incessantly to, I sifted gregariously through MP3s with my 56K modem.
Maybe I make idyllic assumptions about "you" and "them" and how green all "their" grass is. Surely if I had been allowed near my peer group, I only would have hated them more. Surely highschool would've destroyed me.
I want to tear out my voicebox and implant an LCD screen in my forehead. Oh boy, just think of all the close friends and sparkling conversations I'd have then.
If I ever meet you, I'LL CTRL-ALT-DELETE YOU!
cineman:
This is fucking INTENSE. what.the.fuck?