"So this is what bodies are for, Remus thinks, though it's such a ridiculous thing to think, because bodies are for all kinds of things, like eating and, and building pyramids, and keeping your brain out of the mud.
But no, all of those are things they can do. This, this is what they're for."
Gotta love shoebox..
My grandmother was indignant when I laughed after she told me she wasn't naive. She told me how she's done things that the church would be horrified by. She's had two husbands. She knows. Her and her girlfriends once went to a stip bar. She didn't drink, of course, because she was the designated driver, but she had a good time.
Gasp.
I think, Grandma, that oral sex, dildos, and kink has left you way behind. So far behind, you don't even know what a dildo is, and I doubt you've ever been blindfolded.
Yes, Grandma. You are naive.
That was the first rape dream I've had in about 7 months.
It's .. very hard, to deal with this. It's like my mind had lulled me into a soft sense of security, that Darrel never existed, that it was just a dream, something I made up and never happened. I was okay with that. I was happy to take my medication, go to counseling to fix myself, happy that I never thought about what happened.
And then, all of a sudden.. I wake up, throw up, cry, and realize that it really did happen.
I had thought that I was healing. But I think I was ignoring. The fact that a simple nightmare, the sort of dreams I used to have every single night in the few hours of sleep I would get, has thrown me this much.. it's frightening.
I don't really want to think about it, though. I don't like to talk about it. I already did all of that crap, /several/ times. What's with all of these random flashbacks that leave me nauseous and disgusted?
I wish someone was online to talk to..
Bought a 'yoga for beginners' and punching bag today. Did some centering for about a hour and a half, until I was all relaxed and calm. And then I beat the shit out of the bag, until my shoulders and arms were shaking so hard that I couldn't lift my hands.
It was wonderful.
Why do I even try to come here.
You know.. I'm very forgiving to people who's elftown bios don't contain art, interest in fantasy, or science fiction. Elftown is a place for people to hang out and share interests. It's the people who go around to people's houses, annoying, bothering, cybering and what not, that really bother me. People who's bios are filled with sexual comments, offendingly disgusting pictures. Yes, I know, elftown isn't a place for children, and just like a person's house with artist nudity, I can choose to leave. But it still bothers me. I wish that the guards made more of a difference when it comes to people who are rude, naked, and or obsessed with cybering on Elftown. -sigh- I would much more enjoy a community for people who are interested in mainly arts and fantasy, but that's just not what Elftown is, I'm not sure if that's what it ever was. So we need to accept that, and perhaps go in search of a community exactly like Elftown, only with a better bio-screening process, eh? Sort of like an Elftown Elfwood mix, like, you have to have a drawing/photo/
I still love Elftown, and it will probably be a part of my life for many more years to come.
I think I will just start to branch out more.
Maybe create my own website. These classes I've been taking could come in handy. -smiles- Unlikely, but a nice thought.
-sigh-
A woman is studying herself in the mirror in a flashy dress, talking to her boyfriend.
She says, "How do you make 5 lbs of fat look good?"
He replies, "Put a nipple on it."
-weeps- God, what was I thinking?!
I feel so icky!
I'm so ashamed of myself!
..I've written...
MarySues! The HORROR! The AGONY! -dies-
I've run out of things to do.
Can't hurt myself, can't be depressed, can't be mad at people, can't put holes in doors, can't eat, drawing doesn't work, writing doesn't work, singing doesn't work, running doesn't work, cleaning doesn't work, screaming doesn't work. There's nothing left.
If I don't find something to do about everything inside of me, I feel like I'm going to explode. I can feel it building, I've been having little outbursts lately, and still I'm surpressing everything. But how do I let it out?
I need a healthy emotional outlet, but I can't find one. I don't know what to do anymore.
Any ideas?
It's ridiculously difficult to not do things that you'll regret later.
Why is this happening?
Apparently.... my nipples are the cherries on top of the yummies.
Go ahead and ask, if you dare.
Dude. Where do some men get off? I've been painting for the last few hours, and King of Queens came on the television in the background. I'm paintin' away, and the show filters in to me; the main guy character, Dug, who is probably around 300lbs, is freaking out over the fact that his 115lb wife, Carry, has gained a couple of pounds over their last few years of marriage, like, two or three. I'm sitting there like, "Where do you get off, you hunk of lard, telling her to go on a diet?". Geesh. Damn idiot men, you wonder how most of them ever get women.
So sick and tired.. so tired of this.
I guess I'm not quite willing to forsake my temperment.
Oh well.
We all have something in common.
We wait, but none of us are very patient.
And yet, we wait, for hours every day, every night. I'm so tired of it, all I ever do anymore is wait.
Stretched between the conversations is only waiting for the next one,
that next one,
then the next one,
Can't I just shoot every man in the entire world and be done with it?
The Green Mile is such a sad movie..
"Richard was sliding into his jeans. I watched him zip them up and button them into place. It was fun just to watch him dress. Love makes the smallest movements fascinating." :) Just related to this quote a lot. I'm glad I'm not the only person who feels this way.
I just punched a hole in my door.
It had to happen eventually.
Also, my throat hurts from screaming repeatedly, loud and highpitched and at nothing, alone in my room. At least it made me feel better.
But now I feel sort of empty, tired. I should punch doors in more often when I'm mad.
The movie Blood and Chocolate isn't nearly as good as the book, but.. .. but god, wolves, art, AND Bucharest, Romania. I nearly had an orgasm in my seat in the theater. The wolves and art alone would have done it for me, but add Bucharest into the equation and I'm a slobbering, happy mess of Jessie.