Eat it until she cums or don’t eat it at all.

artisticfanatic:

Ppreeeeeeaaacchhhhh

"

I don’t know what’s happened to me from the 31st of December up until today. I’m still trying to decipher whether it was a psychosis or period of enlightenment, but in that period I realized the blog wasn’t for me anymore. It was a complete miscommunication of myself (or at least the person I became), but like all things that linger in the past it became a symbol for me. A monument for my life. I gave meaning to this blog, and I was proud of it because it gave me something to do. It was something i had been consistent at, consistently. A topic of conversation amongst peers and strangers. My inner elitist couldn’t have been more satisfied.

And then i got tired.
Getting dressed was a job.
Make-up was a job.
Taking pictures was a job.
School (the fucking establishment that is engineered to kill any and all forms of creativity) was a job.
Getting a “real job” (and keeping it) was a job.
Trying to grow up yet trying to maintain any ounce of light and innocence in life was a job.
Not drinking too much was a job.
Not smoking enough was a job.
Trying to not fuck my co-workers was a job.
The band (what band) was a job.
Running from fake friends and learning all about the thickness of blood in my relatives was a job.


Life became a list of shit TO DO and NOT TO DO. An endless, mindless fucking list of running around in circles. Circles of karmic balancing, chemicals interacting, and re-interacting, only to disintegrate and begin all again. And at that time (last summer) I only found peace in meditation or in the very last drop of a whiskey bottle. Meditation would grant me discipline, but the whiskey was more fun. So like most writers, and alcoholics, I chose whiskey. And it was through whiskey that I began to study vices, and came to the conclusion at the end of my research that the only vice in this world, who’s full indulgence didn’t garner any positive spiritual payback was in the indulgence of men. Men. Men aren’t interesting. Men aren’t special. At least not like women. It spewed in me a tiny dislike for men. All men. Related and non-related. A tiny dislike, that sat in the corner of my mind, the same way my mother’s basketball trophies, newspaper articles, and awards sit in the corner of her closet. Just so tiny. So minute.
It didn’t help that i was sleeping with a few of them. All mama’s boys with daddy issues, and realistically I stood around longer than i should have because the whiskey was free.

Then Manhattan happened.

On a cold November night, i got lost in Chinatown near Canal, and halfway through the train ride to the studio apartment my mom rented in Brighton Beach, I realized that I was living too small. A month later I moved out of my mom’s place (thanks to my dad), and got a job at a sex shop to solidify my hatred for men. Only to realize 3 months later, that my previous research was inconclusive, and that realistically no vice garners any positive universal payback. My best friend smokes dank kush, Monday thru Thursdays right after work to get the voice of his boss out of his head, and the universe doesn’t grant him anything special or positive. Nothing; not even a didactic lesson. Whiskey only granted me 10 extra pounds (maybe 15), and that sure as hell ain’t positive. Unless, we’re looking at the word “positive” in an additional sense and not as a characterization. I moved back in with my mother a month after my failed hatred for men, and only because I couldn’t bare the sight of her crying. She found me, alone, in the road one morning in April. The way someone in the mountains may wake up to an abandoned and severely damaged elk in their driveway. I remember returning to my pink painted room. It looked posh, empowering, and the air had a prissiness to it that was suffocating. Two days later I remember calling my sister, who somehow after four years of living in Louisiana developed a southern accent, and randomly told her about my repulsion for the color pink.

"It’s a childish color," I muttered.

I could hear her rolling her eyes over the phone, “Mia, that doesn’t make any sense. You’re the one who chose that color for your room.”

It was my repulsion for the color pink that made me realize that maybe nothing I was doing or nothing that I thought I liked was true for me anymore. And it wasn’t just the placidness of my room that I was unsure about anymore. It was about everything. Another list began. I felt lost on Canal again.

Pink doesn’t work.
Certain relationships don’t work.
My major in school (DEFINITELY) doesn’t work.
My job doesn’t work.
Whiskey doesn’t work.
Sex with whiskey doesn’t work.
Sex without whiskey still doesn’t work.
My mind doesn’t work.
Therefore, my work doesn’t work.
The blog (oh shit, the blog!) doesn’t work.
My life doesn’t fucking work.

I threw everything out. The clothes, most of the makeup. EVERYTHING, except the box for Goodwill that’s been sitting in the back of my car for three weeks now. But it’s all gone. All that’s left is my bed, and a desk. If you call me at 4 in the morning, I usually answer, you’ll hear the buttons of a typewriter being pressed. Other nights its the keys of a computer. My fingers are typing out the stories of the past six months of my life. The cryptic messages of voyages taken, that I must now make sense of as I move inward to make space for new voyages. My index finger presses the next letter, my mind asks, “Am I emancipated?”

My fingers respond, “Who gives a fuck!”

And off into the night I go, typing away…

"
– dank kush: (THE LAST BLOGPOST FROM THE EMANCIPATION OF MIMI)