pb

"realism is the sharp knife point, the killing rocks i die upon at the end of my fall from fantasy." -painbearer







that's me and my sexually frustrated self tonight.

if i were a woman i'd be ovulating.

i wrote a long, ravishing, blood red ode to lust and sexual frustration and how it turns men into an aggressive time-bomb which can go either way. much rage, lust, hate, pain, and discontent was flowing like a killing, pure summer flash-flood from my pounding fingertips.

but when i hit 'save entry' i was left with nothing but angry faces. typical. i'm too wound up and feeling like i'm going to explode to sit still and write another and i can't remember what i'd written before because it burned itself out of my mind and everything is melted and useless and still smoking.

and so, because of some internet glitch, some evil cyber gnome living in my coax connection to the 'net, some unfortunate Murphy's law bullshit, we're all deprived of an angry red rant from me.

i'm sure you'll lose all kinds of sleep over it.



that's usually the sign for anger, pain, or th pb. tonight it is the harbinger of bottled lust and razor blade aggression risen to the killing edge.

i never make sense. don't try.


-pb


music: fucking RECOIL
book: star fraction
disposition: duh
drink: cran raz
attire: boxer briefs and sweat