I'm a graduate student getting my Master's in Counseling and working with kids at an after-school program. Austin, Texas.
I CAN TALK WITH MY EYES SHUT // Car Seat Headrest
Sometimes a cigarette
is just a phallic symbol
If I can’t claim the victory
I’m taking you down with me
Break legs, break legs, break legs
I was born with a Texas-shaped birthmark on my shoulder, mole marking the tiny town of Henry. I hitched my way there at the age of twelve, right after my folks got burned up. A nice lady on a motorcycle took me the last few miles. As she dropped me off she told me to hang on to this ring box and never open it unless she said so and I was definitely sure it was her and not a ghost. I said OK and went to a diner and got a patty melt. This grandpa sat down and said take off your shirt and so I did. He twisted me around and saw my birthmark and said it was about time I showed up. He said give me that ring box and I said OK and then he gave me a good smack. Wrong answer, he said. You ain’t give anyone that box and never open it neither. I said nobody hits me anymore and opened the box and that’s why Henry is gone, stripped clean off the map, three hundred fifty souls graveyard dead. Mole’s gone too. Felt bad about it for a long time but doc says I was just a dumb kid, what’d they expect.
The president said I should write up my life story, people’d be into it. Said he’d give me a nice quote for the cover like “Holy shit bulbs!” or “What the???” —Barack O
But I knew he, like everyone else, would skip over all the heartwarming bildungsroman stuff and hard-earned marketing insights and go right to the three years I spent training with Madame Debbie to learn the elite sex move known stateside as The Bad Windmill.
Thing is I could break it down for you right here, give you all the step by steps, but you still couldn’t do it. You gotta be born with the gift and then taught to control it by an old school sex move sensei like Deb who loathes you at first but over time you earn her grudging respect and then, on her deathbed, she gives you that feeble titty twister that lets you know the student has finally become the master, etc.
Truth be told, I haven’t done the Windmill for years. Not worth it, you ask me. Involves weeks of preparation, a tiresome diet (oh boy raw beets, watercress shots mmm), a primitive sort of Neti pot, something called dark calisthenics, godawful poetry (both reading and writing of) and if you think you’re allowed to pee during all this you can think again.
The actual act is pretty basic and works on either gender equally well. Kind of a Spock nerve pinch combined with this ululation at a specific frequency. Your consort’s skin heats up to where most natural-fiber clothing disintegrates, then there’s a sort of mental orgasm that lasts a couple seconds but feels — so I’m told — more like half an hour. Then the physical one that forever rewires their synapses so from that point forward they exist as the purest version of themselves, whether that’s a good or bad thing.
And me? Zip. My “lover” is off supping upon the very flesh of this world, igniting her soul vapor with pulsating vagina flames or whatever and meanwhile my boner and I are sitting here flipping through the channels, dying for some carbs, feeling like the dumbest god there ever was.
This is like the modern blogger version of Borges’ The Sect of the Phoenix.
Quote with 1 note
The fantasy we call “current events,” that which is taking
place outside in the historical ﬁeld, is a reﬂection of an eternal
mythological experience… . Nothing can be revealed by a
newspaper, by the world’s chronique scandaleuse, unless the
essence is grasped from within through an archetypal pattern. The archetype provides the basis for uniting those incommensurables, fact and meaning.
Moving into haunted houses can be weird.
Post reblogged from with 2,918 notes
I wish Metamorphosis by Kafka had one of those animorphs style covers
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