Thick @ MindSay 
Howdy Howdy all!
Drastic Measures to give the mood a boost! Blue Moods do not suit me.....maybe these will push down the lump in my throat.
How about some poetry...here goes...(I think perhaps I have said too much too much too much doll)
Without Warning
Without warning
as a whirlwind
swoops on an oak
Love shakes my heart --Sappho
Goddess Bless
.... when you've been victimized, tales from another broken heart.....
So today was pretty good.
I got up, lazed around, then I decided today was a day to masturbate. So I did, came twice, then I took a long shower. Washed my hair, decided to shave my legs, pussy, arms... all nice and soft. So I go to my room, I'm drying off, and I get a call from a number I don't know. I answer, and who is calling me? D is calling me. His wife and kids are in town, and he's alone. So I told him to give me 20 mintues and I'd meet him.
I got dressed, met him, and followed him to his house. Damn he lives in a nice house. He was really nervous, like last time. We started on the couch, I was sucking his cock.. which was so big and thick I could just barely fit my lips around it - which is saying something. He kept trying to call his wife to see if she was on her way back or not, then we went to the bedroom... Oooh man it was fun. I put the condom on him, and layed back teasingly... then he got on top, and started to push into me... good thing he makes me so wet, otherwise he would never have fit, he just barely fits inside of me and moans in my ear "oh god, you make me do baaaad things". Omg, hot. So he's just banging me, and it was feeling soooo good. Then he came. It was terribly quick, but it wasn't porn star quality. He felt bad. He's married though, he doesn't have to put on a porn star show everytime he bangs his wife.. and I'm... well - very tight since I haven't had a couple kids. lmao. So.. he was felling bad "I'm pathetic, just like that, pathetic, can't even last for you...", I got really close to him, rubbed his crotch and said "If you were pathetic, I wouldn't be here" which made him feel better.
After that I headed to Pamida to get some toys for Cole. Then back home.
My sister called, and guess who's in Kalispell? My brother Chris who can't make it here for Christmas, but can for the week before Christmas. That kinda pissed me off. :( I want my dad here for Christmas, I mean, I'm sick, and it's my first Christmas moved out. So, boo on him. Brian is coming Wednesday, and Cortney is coming Saturday. :D
Tonight was interesting. I had blood in my stool - which freaked me out, but I guess it's to be expected. I'll call my doctor monday and let him know. If it was related to the procedure I had Wednesday, I think I would've passed blood Wednesday night or Thursday. Not Saturday, that's too long, and the blood was bright red, so it was fresh, I think. I dunno. I had really bad pain for a while, like the 10 on a scale of 1-10. :( So I took one of my blue pills and waited. I feel better now. Tomorrow I'm going to town, and seeing AJ.
Still though, it was a difficult process to sort everything into neat(er) piles, put them away. It seemed wrong in a sense; how was it possible to take these things, this proof that I had lived, and put it into a corner, a shelf, a drawer to quietly gather dust? Was it denying that New Zealand had never happened, relegating its place as once more just a dream? Was I supposed to go on with my life normally, now that “Visit New Zealand” was checked off my To Do list?
Days drifted past. My brother went back to Rice for one last week of classes and then finals. I kept myself busy by doing those little jobs around the house that always needed doing, but no one ever had time to do. It was in washing the windows, weeding my mom’s many gardens, cleaning out the barn that I was able to find answers to my questions. New Zealand had clearly happened, and was much more to me than simply an item from a checklist. I had refined my life’s direction on a bike trail, appreciated determination at the top of a mountain, encountered passion at a rugby game, discovered a new kind of culture in the classroom, and learned the value and beauty of nature while strolling the streets and pastures of a country far, far, away. These events and emotions had really shaped the Jon That Is, and there could be no denying that.
I also found myself struggling with those common re-entry problems that most people endure, such as how to answer that much-dreaded question: “How was New Zealand?” (Actually, I had to deal with “How was Australia?” more often, as a surprising number of people thought New Zealand was in, or at least a part of, Australia. No offense meant to any Aussies out there, but I believe I speak for most New Zealanders when I say, “Hmph!”)The classic quandary: how to summarize five months of…everything into the two or three sentences that most people wanted? I managed to finally come up with an answer or two I could live with, which was, “Oh, it was definitely one of the best experiences of my life” or, “It was basically a five-month vacation [insert chuckle or sheepish grin here].” There was also the stereotypical problem of incessantly talking about what they do/have/say in New Zealand to anyone who would even look in my direction for more than a moment, though since I’ve been on the receiving end of this sort of behavior, I’m quickly learning to keep the reins in on my mouth. And of course, there’s always the looking at the thousands of pictures and short movies on my computer, and thinking about how fun this was, or how I actually miss my flatmates and their bizarre ways, like Dan’s inability to wink or Hayley’s jigs.
There have also been some unexpected issues with being back, like the fact that I haven’t tried driving on the left side of the road or anything like that, or how strange it is to hear “zee” as the twenty-sixth letter of the alphabet as opposed to “zed.” Perhaps the strangest side effect of being back is the fact that it has become very difficult for me to understand thick Texan accents without unwavering concentration. My brother and I once had a conversation with an elderly gentleman and I spent the whole time thinking he was talking about boxes or building something until my brother, unable to contain his laughter, informed me later that he had been talking about a delicious meal that he had had that day.
Thus, what I’ve realized is that there is no need to keep separate the world that I experienced in New Zealand with the world that’s back here in Ben Wheeler. Though one place connotes excitement while the other is named after the first postmaster in Van Zandt County, both are now an integral part of who I am. It is not a matter of putting something away and forgetting about it, but rather it is continually moving forward, dreaming up, establishing, and overcoming the next challenge. For me, the next semester awaits back in Houston, and thanks to my time in New Zealand, my life and my mind is chock-full of new dreams which I intend to see through into reality.
But enough of that now. I believe some of that good old fashioned Blue Bell ice cream calls my name.
The view outside of my window. Though it’s the same as it has been for years, it is only now that I can fully realize how beautiful it is, and how nice it can be to be home again.
The weekend and all I can think of are striped bags through metal doors in green and silver, leather and shining belts that are sequined. I see that stop in the train where so many moments of my life have been spent in anticipation in the spring and summer, hot and thick, or solemn standings in the winter, shaking and white and sterille, I see it through hard helmets and through bent and faked angles plastered on walls. A staged fistclench from eyes that gleam over a snide and sickly pernicious smile, round by his wrinkled matron behind blankets of caucasion suitjackets in yellow and conservative black.
Goodbye to the Pyramids, they scream on squares.The name spoke of the fathers of their stonecarvings, browned and painted over sandstorms. Hatred planned on sheets and on roving arms and furrowed brows deep in hanging lightbulb glow, to and fro, to and fro. I remember in spaceships housed explosions in the sky, and the orange, plastic covored chair in which I sat, swinging on top of blue tile as I pitied the shame, pitied the shame, and the smoke clears.
Is it sick that there are thrashing chords happy in the vibrant colors of the deathwatch? How quickly we forget from the sidelines.
There is a woman who sits in her house by the supermarket, motionless like an old man in the reflection of a mirror. Her face is an accordian as she breathes, though her stomough neither rises nor falls over the belt of her shorts. Sitting in her chair on grass that bleeds vibrant green stenches into the thick air, she is a stoic sentinel, and her arms are brownyellow, and her eyes are black, the black of her hair and the black of the single feather of a raven in a small and inexplicable bank of desert in a forest.
Some of them walked on swolen feet to Los Angeles and to Nirvana on Tuesday, screaming to the Govorner to erect a monument to Buhdda and to watery contact lenses of the mothers of raped five year olds, and to their gaping mouthes. Others tried the outer route and found themselves in utter Northeast, swirling with predicted cyclones and jumping from buildingtops thinking of levvys and of the teething gums of the baby in their arms.
*lana*
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