Count Down

I favor lovers whose pulses quicken and rise violently at the thought of me. Hearts like rocket ships, propelling us towards the glass ceiling that segregates the profane from the divine. Cutting through the atmosphere before we run out of fuel and fall back towards the ground at terminal velocity… but when the explosion subsides — even before the last tongues of flame are suffocated by the vacuum of mundane life — their heartbeats slow and the counter starts ticking down…

My lover’s heartbeat sounds like an egg timer. He leaves me soaking in a boiling pot, until all of my feelings become hard boiled. A solid mass of yolk to be worn later as the egg on my face. 

I don’t know what it means to love on my own terms or on my own schedule, because I’ve never had an agenda, only the misconception that if you love somebody enough you are immune to the trappings of space and time. Only the promise that if you don’t hold my hand tight enough, I’ll just float away. Only the expectation that desire and love can sustain an infinite, chain reaction… a perfect circuit glowing against the darkness of the void… that it just takes one spark to illuminate that face of someone you’ve been waiting for, for what feels like eternity. 

And when is someone going to love me more than their own projections? When will they stop shadow boxing their own demons, mistaking them for me? When is someone going to finally spot me hiding in plain sight? 

When will I fall in love with someone who isn’t counting down to extinction… before I even slip out of the bed and creep out the front door?

The Mythology of You and Me.

In the beginning, you were the darkness. Still and empty, lonely and eternal, you felt nothing. In your infinite boredom, you split in half. In a burst of light, we both became less but more; you were the part that was no longer me, and I was the part that had become not you… I was the part that you willed into being because you wanted to feel… something.

At first, your pulse quickened as I burned lines of fire into the sky; a crackle of desire; a flash of joy; a throb of pain. You strained against the silence, in the lulls between the rumbles of my existence, when you couldn’t see me against your own darkness. But I was always there, like electrostatic energy building up for another blinding discharge. My love was a wicked jolt of primal violence that you wielded as an apocalyptic weapon. It was a primordial fireworks show; an invisible dance between elemental forces; a natural phenomenon dressed up like a spectral horseman, riding a pale stallion into the arms of oblivion.

Now, I am a tall tale that you whisper at the midnight hour. I am a figment of your imagination that went viral. I no longer belong to you. When you think of me, you understand that I am the proof that there really is a you, because even though I am gone, the feelings still remain. And we both know that being separated from one another is a gift.

Yet, sometimes when you reach your hand out to trace the absent shape of things to come, you wonder if you just created me to hurt yourself. You fixate on my disappearance, feeling all alone in space and time…

But we will always be together, in one form or another, because there would be no me without you

Being superbly aware of a single instance of existence — being in the now — is an incredible gift to yourself.

"Once, I wanted To Be The Greatest…"

Once upon a time, I wanted to be pressed against you in the dark… until our bodies molded together like sacred geometry. Until we were still and perfect, our love a golden ratio proving that everything was right in the world. I wanted to move against you like a cosmic force — every flex and flutter like the shudder of an ever expanding universe riding on the back of a butterfly, whispering secrets that have been echoing under the white noise of every day life since the birth of the galaxy. Once, I wanted to be the greatest; the greatest love, the greatest partner, the greatest lover, the greatest thing that had ever happened, and the greatest gift of knowing that it happened just for you…

I know that I wasn’t the greatest. I fell short. I was imperfect and less than all my good intentions… but I hope you remember that despite my failures, I tried. I still happened… 

And it was all for you. Only for you. 

If someone treated your best friend the way you treat yourself, you’d probably be the first person to hug your friend and say they deserve so much better…

Please be kinder to yourself. You deserve so much better. 

Robin William’s death reminds me to always make my funny friends laugh when I can, because funny people tend to need cheering up more than the people they seem to cheer up.

nolashots replied to your post: "I know you think you know me better t…

this is badass… i love it

Thanks ;)

"I know you think you know me better than that. I beat your dog ‘cause he hit on my cat. I wipe my face off and give your kisses back, baby…"

Love is a loud accusation being shouted at you from the back of a shitty dive bar. The noise pollution cuts through the walla walla of idle chatter. Who the fuck is yelling all those ugly, slurred words in your direction?! You flex your ego and ball up your fists. “When I find that rude motherfucker, I am going to put my knuckles right through their face. I’m going to crush their windpipe and shatter their jaw.” You bluster in the direction of the crowd — even though you’re speaking to no one in particular — as you grab a bottle and smash it against the side of a table. But no matter how tough you think you are, you’re always bringing a bottle to a knife fight. And if you bring a knife, you’re walking into to a gun fight. And if you bring a gun, you’re charging into a chemical weapons brawl. And if you bring chemical weapons, you’re running into a nuclear arms race. ‘Cause no mater how bad ass you are, love is bigger, nastier, and willing to do what you’re not. 

Love is comically huge, 8-bit video game style bullet moving at the speed of "holy fuck these graphics suck!" You twiddle your thumbs waiting for the god damn thing to cross the screen. There is no possible way you can fuck this up… but you always seem to jump at the wrong moment. 

Love is wearing your favorite sweater in the middle of a heat wave but being too stubborn to strip it off. It’s swimming in the ocean when you’re dying of thirst. It’s being allergic to citrus when you’re dying of scurvy. It’s being lactose intolerant but eating a second scoop of ice cream anyway…

Love is a lot like death, without the release from sensation or responsibility; without the bliss of being unaware that you’re rotting away underground.

It will fucking end you… 

But it can also bring you back, reborn and fresh…so it can slay you… but then you rise back up… again and again… like a zombie.

And sure, you’re a fucking zombie, but technically so was Jesus and things seemed to work out pretty well for him in the end, right? 

At least someone might write lies stories about you. 

I don’t think I’ve ever felt as safe as when I was nestled between your sharp teeth, being ground down to nothing but happy pulp. 

And sometimes people tell me that I have to stop looking for or assigning a deeper meaning behind or to… well everything… but, that’s just the way my stupid fucking brain works.

How to talk to women.

If you want to talk to a woman, try starting an actual conversation. Try not to just be another asshole who she has to politely tolerate while they stare at her tits… And don’t be surprised if she’s run out of patience by the time you come along to chat her up. If you want to feel indignant, why not be offended that it’s taken her this long to yell, "Fuck off!". If you want to blame someone, why not blame the types of guys who have taught her that a casual friendly conversation is usually not casual nor friendly. Thanks.

Dear Hirum,

Like any self-respecting demon, you have a list of pseudonyms that you have collected over the years. But I know your true name, and that’s supposed to grant me just enough power to compel and/or expel you with. Or perhaps it’s just enough power to destroy myself? I know you as a demon, because I had to travel to hell and back to find you. Though, some mornings when I saw your face in the light, while I was half awake and squinting against the open blinds, you looked more like an angel… sometimes I thought that we could pack our bags and take a hit and run holiday up that long stretch of road to Heaven. On some nights I thought perhaps you were actually The Devil, when I was half asleep and my cheeks felt like they were being kissed goodnight by flames. Because I knew I was damned, but it was worth the price… what’s the value of a soul these days anyway — not much, I’m tempted to wager.

Do you remember my true name? Do you remember when you uttered the letters, soft and sweet and then your voice would devolve into just vowels and growls? Do you remember my lips pressed against yours like a promise? Do you remember my sighs and moans, offered in tribute? Do you remember me at all… all those feelings… all that love that passed between us like guilty confessions?

I don’t know if I can do this anymore. I don’t think I can wearing this badge of honor, like the mark of the beast, over my heart but under the covers. I don’t know if I can be friends with you, dear demon. Because demons tempt and taunt you until you’re too arrogant or aroused to heed that you can’t contain them — not indefinitely. Eventually, they devour you…

But I keep trying because I remember your real name and I can’t keep from saying it, over and over again.

— Me


There’s something wrong with me. It has something to do with being addicted to the thrill of the kill. It’s not the chase that gets my blood pumping. My eyes wander too much. My legs get sore. I hate cardio. But the kill… ah the kill leaves me licking my chomps. That first gush of blood when I close my jaws around a willing throat.

There’s something wrong with me, but it’s the only thing that seems to make me feel right… I’m weary of your hypothetical expectations because baby, I’m not a shooting star. I don’t catch you by surprise and then just fade away in the blink of an eye. I’m more like a doomsday comet that you can see coming from a mile away. I don’t fizzle out quietly. I ignite on impact and I don’t stop burning until everything you have ever known is nothing but ashes littering the broken ground. 

There’s something wrong with me and there’s nothing you can do to sort me out… I wish I could scream, "RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!" But I can’t even tell you that I’m pretty sure that I sort of kind of like you. 

There’s something wrong with me. I want… 

I have a tiny crush on you…

It’s just a tiny insignificant bug bite that I can’t stop picking at. The kind of superficial wound that I could tear open with my fingernails until it fills with pus and ends up being a terminal MRSA infection. It’s cool though. No big thing at all. 

Self Care (part 1)

When I feel like I’m boggled down with problems, I have to remind myself that I’m being blind to the opportunities.