defconnexion

I'm doing it. I'm posting to post; I'm writing to write. I have no idea what's going to happen in the next few minutes and instead of fear or self-loathing I have this looming threat of disappointment. Next month is nanowrimo and I've told myself that I'm going to do it; the truth is that I don't know where the Muse is. I used to think she was in my dreams and that we had infrequent but amazing conversations in between flight and fuck, but she was just a redhead who wanted to talk. Greener pastures abound and I'm not that young anymore; I can't remember the last time I flew. Everything is stitches and wordplay now. I don't even get off; last Wednesday I had a dream with a fuckscene and I came and you know what? I didn't. I came in the dream and just kept on dreaming. So what? Well, I've done just about everything in my nightspace, I mean, I've been shot, stabbed and crushed. I've gotten into kung fu fights and high speed chases and I've flown, yes, and brought clouds and made lightning and I've even taken a piss or two and not wet the bed. There are two things that always wake me up. Even the last stair thing doesn't always wake me up. Twitch. But I can't come or blink. I can't blink. Or come. Without waking up. Back in the old days blinking was my failsafe. My crash override. My ace in the dreamtime hole to prevent myself from having to face down the inevitable nightmarish conclusion. Blinking, you see, doesn't happen in dreams; your eyes are already closed and they don't need any more moisture than they're already getting. Try it sometime. If you have any lucidity at all, just give it a shot. Let me know what happens.
When I blink in my dreams I blink in the real and wake up right away, my eyes cleverly forced open.
Hmmm, I don't suppose this trick will work if you're one of those people who sleep with your eyes open.
And when I come in dreams, I come in the real and the sensation of hot wet sticky generally tears me screaming proverbially from my (usually intense) fuck dream. Yes, this is usually a bad thing. If I could find a way to just keep fucking, pumping out generations of seed like some kind of tentacled hentai beast, you'd bet your sweet patootie I'd do that shit all the time. My dreams would pretty much consist of one of two things:

A: Flying.
2: Walking around the mall gushing ridiculous acreage of semen on the cute girls working at the local scent, lingerie or jewelry store before growing in size to cyclopean proportions to rain hot godly spunk down upon the parking lot or alternately sprout a hundred penisae and engage a centurion's march of bukkake before some kind of sexy Soviet police force attempted to stop me near a spaghetti factory with tear-away riot gear and you see what happens when I don't have a plan? I write this shit.

Hey, girls, quick question:

Does it weird you out when some dude posts a blog about their (almost definitely) creepy intentions for you, even if it's clearly some kind of (likely perverse) fantasy? I was totally going to write up an example but I'm afraid of what else might spill forth from these overstimulated fingers.