The Problem With Manual Stimulation

At the hair salon tonight, a new girl washed my hair. She went through the usual rou­tine, but before she fin­ished, she placed her fin­gers along the front of my hair­line, and with con­stant pres­sure, slowly worked her way back.

The water was warm, my hair was wet, and I felt the ten­sion going down my scalp. It was com­pletely sub­lime.

The edges of my lips started curl­ing, but I couldn’t tell if I was help­lessly smil­ing, or it was the stretch­ing of my skin upwards.

In the shower tonight, when wash­ing out the stray hairs, I tried doing it on myself. It didn’t feel the same, of course.

It was like that scene in Secretary, where Lee Holloway (played by Maggie Gyllenhaal) tries to spank her­self with a hair­brush when explor­ing her sub­mis­sive ten­den­cies. I love the expres­sion of intent, and ulti­mately let­down, on her face.

The prob­lem with man­ual stim­u­la­tion is that it never feels as good as when some­one else does it for you.

Bittersweet Paradox

bit­ing keeps your words at bay
tend­ing to the sores that stay
hap­pi­ness is just a gash away
when i open a famil­iar scar
pain goes shoot­ing like a star
com­fort hasn’t failed to fol­low so far

and you might say it’s self-indulgent
and you might say it’s self-destructive
but, you see, it’s more pro­duc­tive
than if i were to be happy

—The Dresden Dolls, Bad Habit

I was jit­tery and ner­vous all day.

Several new devel­op­ments have left me with a lack of res­o­lu­tion. People to meet, presents to give, pic­tures to take, respon­si­bil­i­ties to ful­fill. And as much as I try not to think about it, it’s in my nature to do so.

I still haven’t got­ten passed this feel­ing. Still don’t know if I want to. Still don’t even know what it is. All I know is that it’s mak­ing me manic.

Until I fig­ure it out, I’ll wal­low in it.

I can only write this at night. When I’m falling asleep and off my guard, sit­ting on my chaise, with the cur­tains drawn and the win­dow open to the win­ter air.

Now I feel like writ­ing, but I don’t even know what to say. Everything’s too jum­bled for me to decide whether I’m happy or sad. Maybe it’s both, maybe it’s one because of the other. Life, at the moment, is so bittersweet.

Wonderfully bit­ter­sweet, that’s what it is.

Pardon My Freedom

Oh my God, did I just say that out loud?
Should’ve known this was the kind of place
That that sort of thing just wasn’t allowed

And look at me now up here run­ning my mouth
I just open it up and see what comes run­ning out

Well here it comes…

Like I give a fuck, like I give a shit about that fuck
Like I give a fuck, like I give a shit about that fuck
Like I give a fuck about that moth­er­fuck­ing shit
Like I give a fuck
Like I give a fuck
LIKE I GIVE A FUCK
LIKE I GIVE A SHIT
LIKE I GIVEFUCK

—!!!, Pardon My Freedom

This is me with­out boundaries.

This is the truth. My truth. My hon­esty in it’s purest form, includ­ing my opin­ion and bias.

Often, there are things said that peo­ple don’t want to hear, or don’t want to know. I never apol­o­gize for what I say because my opin­ions are never forced on oth­ers. No one has to come here and read what I say.

There are two rules: I never say any­thing here that I can’t say to someone’s face, and I never give away some­one else’s pri­vate infor­ma­tion.1

Other than that, I’ll never cen­sor myself for the sake of others.

  1. Private” is to my dis­cre­tion, of course. []

Missing Kissing

I’m fac­ing the very tan­gi­ble pos­si­bil­ity that I’ll be sin­gle for the rest of my life. Sometimes I won­der how I’ll sur­vive. The strange part is that I feel like I was meant to be in a rela­tion­ship. Quixotic ideas and roman­tic ideals have always pointed me in that direc­tion, but either the right per­son hasn’t come along, or they’re taken.

At the same time, I won­der if I can be in another rela­tion­ship. I’ve grown so accus­tomed to liv­ing alone, hav­ing things exactly my way, with time to work on my projects. No main­te­nance, as it were. How I do enjoy the freedom.

One sit­u­a­tion isn’t bet­ter than the other, of course. Both have their pros and cons.

Still.

I miss kiss­ing. More than the sex.

The quick acknowl­edg­ment of love in the form of a peck, or the inti­macy of a make-out session.

Has the win­ter brought this feel­ing? Has the sight of snow and snow­fall reminded me of how frigid the nights can be when you’re by yourself?

Or maybe it’s from being sin­gle for this long.

The Weight Issue

With a tone of gen­uine con­cern, as if I was being con­sumed by some dis­ease, Abdallah told me he noticed I was get­ting thin­ner. Perhaps this is true. I was recov­er­ing from an episode of IBS, and con­trol­ling my food intake. Maybe its my sets of nar­row, flared pants I’ve been wear­ing lately on Julie’s sug­ges­tion1.

Louise tells peo­ple I don’t eat a lot, which is true only when we’re out 2, and is also the only time she’s seen me eat. It makes me even more ill at ease when I’m already feel­ing unat­trac­tive, as if it was my fault and I wasn’t doing enough about it. Others will com­ment about the size of my waist, or make a pass­ing remark about how they wish they had my metabolism.

I try to take it all in stride, but it’s not easy when the sub­ject is con­stantly brought up.

According to my doc­tor, I’m aver­age weight — the aver­age being a range, with me being near the bot­tom. I know this, but it doesn’t make it eas­ier. Bronwen once told me that I have a weight issue, and after think­ing about it for a while, I real­ized that it was true. Even though it’s some­thing I can joke about, it’s still a source of self-consciousness, lead­ing back to mem­o­ries of my par­ents telling me that no one will love me if I’m this size forever.

Sometimes I won­der if I’ll ever get over it.

  1. Her the­ory is that baggy pants do noth­ing to hide thin limbs and make skinny peo­ple look even skin­nier. []
  2. Usually because I don’t like to be too full when I’m out. []