First of all, this is the best political thread of the day, bar none. It’s classic Balloon Juice snark–very high quality. I start out with that because I need all the laughs I can get these days, and that entire thread gave me hearty guffaws for several minutes. I go to BJ for the front page bloggers, but I stay for the commenters. They are in a class of their own (and yes, you can find a few comments by me there as well).
Second, I am sipping a rum and Diet Pepsi as I blog, so who knows what will flow from my fingers? I am going to see if alcohol helps me sleep. I know, I know, but I’m desperate at this point. Last night, I had a horrific dream. I dreamed that there was a woman who knew something that she refused to tell. So, “they” (the military) put her and a guy into an air-tight, glass-walled room and turned up the heat. I am watching the scene as if it is a movie. The interrogator is calmly informing his underlings that you have to go slowly so that you can still get information from the person being grilled. Literally. The flesh melts off the people’s faces and their hands (they are wearing clothes). Both of them have their faces and hands pressed in horror to the glass walls as their flesh disappears. The interrogator keeps giving his lecture, failing to notice that the people are fried to a crisp. He (the interrogator) turns to the woman and demands that she tells what she knows. She can’t say anything, obviously, because she’s dead, but that doesn’t stop the interrogator from threatening to throw a friend of hers into the room to make her talk.
Sadly, this is far from the most disturbing dream I’ve ever had. So, numbing my brain with alcohol before going to bed doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. I can’t take sleeping pills because the dose is never right. I have a hard time waking up afterwards, which is never a good thing.
Sports: I am thisclose to giving up on pro sports completely. What with all the whining going on, from owner on down, the sense of entitlement, and the corporate welfare doled out in terms of taxes for stadiums, I am rapidly losing interest. I love the Twins, but I will not root for them once they step foot into the Hennepin County Tax Payers’ Stadium. The Vikings are dead to me now that they signed that fucking drama queen, Brett Favre, who hasn’t been a top-tier quarterback in many years. To add insult to injury, they have been making noises that they need their own stadium, too, and yet, they gave ex-Cheesehead $25 M for two years of service. That’s a bad deal, especially in this time of recession. I would much prefer the Vikings got a solid QB without the monstrous ego and a decade younger and slowly build up for next year.
Aaaargh! I fucking hate Brett Favre.
Next, I am horny as hell, and I can’t do anything about it. My mom is still here, and I have so much of her magnum opus to write. Plus, it would just be weird to go on the prowl while she’s here. I mean, I wouldn’t bring someone home anyway because I don’t like others in my space, but it would still feel kinda weird to stumble into the house at eight in the morning, reeking of sex, booze, and cigarettes. Not my idea of a good time. Sure, I have my three friendly dildos to give me a hand (I haven’t used one of them yet because it’s BIG. It intimidates me) and lots of lube, but it’s just not the same. I mean, I like my hands very much, but they lack a little pizazz–a little oomph, if you know what I mean.
To that end, I have decided to get proactive about it. After my mom leaves (in three and a half weeks), I am going to find me a sex buddy or ten. Yes, I feel like an elephant. Yes, I feel more sexual than sexy. Yes, I feel unsure about my body. You know what? Fuck that shit. I am tired of letting my insecurities get in the way of what I want. Right now, that is sex, and lots of it. Stupid sexual peak. The thing is, there is no reason on earth that I shouldn’t have as much sex with as many people as I want. I am single with no dependents, and I am horny as hell!
I am not closing off the idea that maybe I’ll find a relationship along the way, but it’s not my priority right now. Back when I was nominally a Christian, I bought into the idea that sex was bad, shameful, dirty (especially for girls) until you got married, and then it was beautiful, holy, sacred, and earth-shattering. What nobody ever told me (and what I had to learn for myself) was that sex is fun, energizing, messy, liberating, sometimes sacred, sometimes profane, and, at times, mind-blowing. It can be the ultimate expression of love between people; it can be a way to satisfy a physical need; it can be just about anything in between.
My life: I need to find space for my fiction. I have two or three solid stories in my head that are clamoring to find their way to the page. In order to do that, I have to stop surfing the net so damn much and focus on what’s truly important to me–my creativity. I am nurtured when I write creatively or when I perform. I am giving birth to stories that will take on lives of their own. In essays, rants, and blog entries, I pretty much shape the direction of the flow. Yes, I meander and go off on tangents, but in a semi-structured way.
It’s completely different when I write fiction. My best stories come to me almost intact. I let them simmer in my brain for a few days, and then I type them up. If I try to make a story go in some preconceived direction, the story falls flat. It’s only when I let go of control and let the stories speak for themselves that they come to life. I need to get back to my roots in order to replenish my soul. It’s imperative.
P.S. Minna +1 (in drinks), so my apologies if my thoughts are a tad scrambled. I got eggs for brains, anyway.
*Chop suey is basically all the leftovers thrown together.