For the love of all things precious, people, please write something!

I am stuck at work, waiting for a job to come it. I've been waiting for three hours. On my own. I am reaching my limit of self-entertainment!!

I think I have read every blog on my list at least three times, and have trawled through other people's recommendations in a hope to stave off the boredom. But, it's not enough. Write, please, please write!!

Or, I guess, I could write something instead. Hmmmm... go from passive receiver of entertainment to generator of ideas? That sounds a bit like hard work!

I'm going to start a little project soon (yes, another promise to write, add it to the list of empty promises I seem to be accruing here). But this one could be a stayer.

Ages ago, I bought a cute little book, The Writer's Block. It really is the cutest little book, about 10cmx10cmx10cm, so yes, literally, a block. And it is full of spark words and assignments and prompts for writing ideas. So, I'm going to pull my finger out and start writing based purely on where I open the page. It might be fiction, it might be typical 'bloggy' stuff, it might be anything. I'm making it up as I go, so no rules.

Anyway, as a starter, a few days ago I opened up on to the word:

VIAGRA

My response to the word was immediate and intense. I felt angry. Not a cerebral, logical anger (I'm sure you can have that kind of anger), but a gut clenching visceral anger.

Now, this seems silly. After all, it's just a word. But just reading it was enough to take me back to a time when I was unhappy and really repressed my feelings. It was a time when the-husband-that-was and I had started to lose whatever connection we'd had, and the dark times were looming.

The word. The word sparks a time when I thought t-h-t-w was having emotional troubles dealing with a tragic event in his life, troubles that needed professional help, and were manifesting themselves physically.

He'd told me he had suffered from impotency in the past, but since we'd been together, over three years, it hadn't been an issue. Until the event, and then it became a constant in our lives. To the point where I withdrew because it made me sad that my desires were making him feel so badly about himself. And so it went on, for years. A fumbled attempt, a rush of blood, a grab at the opportunity, maybe once every six months. Of course, in hindsight, it was a flashing neon sign of other things that were slowly dissolving between us. He withdrew further into his own projects, in his pursuit for fame and fortune. I told myself that my love for him was enough that I could live without physical satisfaction.

The truth, of course, was I resented him for not seeing that penetration wasn't the only way he could be physically affectionate with me. He withdraw himself completely. A kiss, a hug, a back rub, an appreciative glance of the back of his hand on my thigh as we sat side by side... these things counted as well. We loved each other, but it was becoming far more like a love of siblings, platonic, still intensely intimate, in that noone else knew us the way we knew each other, but I really missed him appreciating me.

So the day he walked in, without any discussion, and produced a packet of blue pills, announcing that his troubles were over, left me hurt, and the anger began. He thought one pill and our troubles would be over? One quick grope in the dark, a quick root, and everything would be better? It made me furious. One erection from him and I'd be there, waiting, legs spread. This was all sex was to him now.

And when he finally did touch me, I tried to enjoy it, but inside, my heart was cold and non-responsive.

No little blue pill was going to fix what was going wrong between us.


Well, that was a chirpy little piece of writing, wasn't it! hehehe

But at least it is writ. Hmmmm... it seems my next spark word is DEADLINE. Apt.

Highsides / Lowsides

How to finally cure yourself of a foolish crush

Person A is someone you’ve had varying levels of crush on for a long time.
Person B is someone who you were friends with once, but due to circumstances, are no longer in contact with.

Person A, Person B and you used to go out together occasionally and Person A and Person B seemed good friends.

Person B was in a long term relationship. However, you discovered from Person C that Person B was having an affair. Neither you nor Person C knew who the Mystery Lover is. Person C suggested it might be Person A, but you dismissed this, even though you had a niggling suspicion yourself.

A year passes, events unfurl, you no longer are in contact with Persons B or C, but you still see Person A occasionally. Like a few nights ago. Conversations with Person A these days seem to have de-evolved to discussing Person A’s love/sex life. You discover that Person A was having relationships with several people last year that were married. You discuss these affairs over a few beers, without naming names of course, and both go your own ways.

But that niggling has become a full tugging. And so, you decide, after a year of wondering, to ask the question. Alright, asking by SMS might have been wrong (yeah, I know, tacky) but it was a huge spur of the moment action.

So you ask.

And you know, regardless of the answer, you won’t be able to see Person A anymore.

And you're relieved because you're sick of feeling foolish.

Observations at a crossing

Sitting yesterday, having a late brunch at a regular café, people watching as they crossed the busy paedestrian crossing.

A mother crossing, pushing a stroller, holding a toddler by his hand. As they reach the middle of the road, the toddler pulls back, twisting himself, hanging of her hand, forcing himself to face backwards, so he can give a big wave to the policeman in his marked stationwagon that has pulled up at the crossing.

The smile that the policeman gives the boy in reply was simply beautiful, and I watch him continue to smile to himself as he drives off out of my sight.

A lone old woman, fragile and gaunt, unbalanced, is waiting on the kerb. Her bags of shopping are by her feet as she tries to wave down a taxi. One approaches, his light on signalling his availability, and she waves, a disjointed wave that is interrupted by her need to regain her balance. The driver, who obviously sees her, accelerates past, and there is a look of hurt, confusion and resignation on her face, before she looks back into the traffic, trying to spot the next taxi.

(The next one does stop for her, although he doesn't help her with her groceries, before she slowly, deliberately, positions herself and folds, crumples, into the back seat.)

My book rests in front of me, unread. I can't keep my eyes off all the people.

Major Grossness Factor

You were warned.

Ok, two things, both sex-related (explains the title).

1. The thought

I caught a glimpse of an ad, I think it was for a current affairs program, or something similar. It was about sex addicts, and a woman was speaking, saying she thought about sex all the time, every day.

*Hooch's thoughts* Well... so do I. A lot, anyway. Does that make me a sex addict? Can you be a sex addict without having sex? I guess you can be an alcoholic without drinking... so does that make me like a dry alcoholic? A dry sex addict? hehehehe Dry, indeed.

2. The dream
I don't have many sex dreams, really. Not graphic ones, anyway. They tend to trail off before it gets to the meaty stuff. Or perhaps I don't recall it. Bummer. But I remembered this dream I had a few nights ago. It woke me from my sleep. It really does warrant the above warning though.

I am in intimate position with a bloke I went to school with. We were never even remotely involved then, or since, although we have been in contant on and off online in the last few years. But still, nothing to provoke this dream. (apologies to him if he was to read this) So, we are naked and he is on top of me, kissing, and he is finally going to enter me when, bam, nothing. He's already come, too early. He's embarressed, but I, never one to let such things get in my way, just recommend next time we use a condom (do not ask me why we weren't, I am adamant about such things... it's a dream!) and so we're at it again, with the snogging and it's all good, and he's inside me and it's still all good, and then he comes again. But this time it's like an immense rythmic pulsation inside me, except that, at the same time, it feels like he is coming in my mouth, and I am gagging and can't control the choking and reflex against the amount that's hitting the back of my throat, and I just want it to be over. And then I can't control it any more and I vomit down his back. And yes, there were small pieces of diced carrot.

Who the fuck has dreams like this??

…after a fashion

I’m going to be brutally honest.

I haven’t posted for such a long time because I just couldn’t shout the words loud enough to be heard from the big black hole I’m in.

The last four to six weeks or so, it’s all overwhelmed me. I’m anxious and lonely and feeling hopeless and tired. Bone achingly tired. A tiredness that comes from the spirit and leaks out into the body, not from honest hard physical labour.

I found myself standing on the station, bags heavy, day long, at the end of the platform, watching the trains emerge with a gusty blast from the underground tunnel. I considered the mechanics of suicide. I do that often. It isn’t that I am suicidal – just that I’m morbidly curious. How fast does a train need to be going to kill you as opposed to just hacking off your limbs? How far ahead do you leap? For how long does it hurt? Personally, I think that is an awful choice of death, if only because of all the innocent people that will be traumatised. There are less selfish ways of going.

But, like I said, I ponder these things. And as I stood there, watching the train emerge, too slowly to be effective as a means of a quick death, I had a moment of clarity. I think I suddenly realised what suicidal people want. Peace. The peace of just stopping. Of being so tired and being able to stop.

I’ve always believed there is something better just around the corner (so I careen madly around corners, blind but hopeful). But in that instance it made sense. Stop. And I found myself crying, quietly, unnoticed at that late hour on a busy city station.

I’m tired. I’m lonely. I’m finding it impossible to make friends anymore. I just want to feel like someone, somewhere, enjoys my company enough to seek it out. And for me to feel the same way about them. I want to laugh. I miss laughing.

I need all my energy just to get out of the bed and have a shower, to turn up to work and put on the façade of being reliable and competent and agreeable enough that I don’t inadvertently insult anyone while I’m there. Smile, work, smile, work, but it doesn’t scratch the surface.

So, I’m in a big hole, wondering if it’s worth the effort to keep yelling. I focus on all the positive things about my life, but it’s getting harder and harder.

This isn’t normal. This isn’t entertaining. It certainly isn’t worth writing about. So I keep quiet.

She lives

but it all seems far too tediuos to write about.

"Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!"

"Again? That trick never works."

Yeah. But I keep on trying.