i really admire people who can create a blog and stick to is as opposed to skipping to new ones every year or so :P
also basically everyone has changed their urls and i have no idea who p well anyone is anymore.
hi i’m ella it’s nice to re-meet you all. i still write but it’s crap and i have very little social life or anything life because i spend all my time procrastinating and panicking over uni work. i play magic cards now too but not WoW in a long time due to time constraints and facebook is my new least favourite thing ever. i’m not even words properly right now and i don’t know how i still have followers but HELLO *yells in to the void*
a moment of silence for this blog
"my father’s dying"
it’s the sort of phrase that doesn’t sit well
in your mouth
the taste like blood
or waxen oranges.
The truth is that no one will miss you if you disappear one day. We live in a society deconstructed, an experience reigned by participatory culture’s voluntary, tactical affiliations. Everything is ephemerality. The content of any one person’s existence is a database comprised of individual elements, easily replicated and replaced. We’re taught that we’re all unique and special butterflies, but the truth is that you’re really just a permutation of quirks and traits, loves and hates, and you’re only unique in that you exist in this exact linear moment in conjunction with other database users. We’re no longer a part of any universal grand narrative. Family don’t end with blood because the nuclear core has broken down. So at the end of everything, I’m one possible combination data set in a sea of matrices, and you’ll replace me when I’m gone, assimilate in other elements to fill a temporary void. We are not bound to one another as people, anymore. We’re here because we choose to be. So what happens when we choose to stop?
So for my 400th post I was going to write a poem or something and then I decided that maybe I should do an about me instead incase you’re all to lazy to select the ‘about me’ link on my page, and I have gained a few new followers recently. The above image is me actually looking okay for once (probably because I have no nose, like Voldemort).
So the other day I was at an Australian animal wildlife sanctuary park because my friend’s swedish cousin (who was on holiday) wanted to see a kangaroo, and at the end there was this gimmicky gift shop. They had these god-awful rings for $2, which were various plastic Australian animals and their legs wrapped around your finger to form the ring - clearly tacky crap for tourists and their kids - so I grabbed one out of the basket - I think it was a kangaroo or a Tasmanian devil - and held it out to my friend and said, “Marry me?” and he just gave me this sidelong look like you’re fucking crazy and didn’t even laugh.
I mean, I thought I was funny.
And why spend like, $1000-10 000 on a ring when you can get a perfectly awful one from a shitty gift shop for $2 in the middle of nowhere? (after learning about how wombats crush dogs’ skulls and can run up to 40km/h?? I should have known this shit I’ve lived in Aus for like 20 years now)
It means the same thing.
seconds drip slowly
as we stand
ensnared by feeling
life, the rusted, leaky faucet
time, the water wasted
my mind a faulty camera
recording, not seeing
the angle, wrong
the same old scripts played
by different actors
a familar scene
limited and unoriginal
as you slip away from me
becoming all you said
you’d never be
in a story that promised
a different ending.
I’m fifteen years old and innocent, the world stretching before me like an uninterrupted argument, my life not yet tainted by the metallic tang of loneliness that seeps through one’s psyche like blood dripping through veins. His hand pushes roughly down my pants, blindly groping at my pubic hair as I gasp against the palm covering my mouth. I’m up against a wall, t-shirt ripped and half pulled off my skinny frame, pelvis jerking against his body. A raw sob escapes my throat, half pleasure, half pain, and the fingers covering my mouth fist themselves into my hair. “You’re mine,” he snarls in my ear, and I let him drag my climax out of me in slow, agonising pulses. His hand is covered in me as be pushes me to the floor and thrusts his cock into my mouth. I swallow back the bitter taste of his precum and -
And I’m eighteen and volatile, snorting lines of coke off her naked breasts. She giggles at the sensation, pulling me up until my body blankets hers, her hands tangling themselves in my hair. My fingers stutter against her ribcage and my gaze travels up to her mouth, her lips a pink puckered bruise smudged across acres of unblemished skin. They mould against mine, sweet and wet and glorious as our tongues roll together, and I’m lost in the sensation and taste of her, candied sweets and gardenias, as she sighs against my cheek, “Tell me you’ll always be mine…” and -
And I’m twenty and broken. He tastes like cigarette smoke and coffee, sweet and sour and slightly bitter. Smells like sweat and danger. I lose all trains of thought as his teeth bite violet and indigo flowers across my collarbone, hands dancing down my spine. He holds me like I’m delicate, like I could break at any moment, but he touches me with a body aching with desire. It’s rough and gritty and makes me feel alive, even as he lowers me to the filthy mattress and I hear the crackle of a condom packet. “I’ll brand you like you’re mine,” he whispers against my ear. I whimper like a fucking twelve year old and –
And I’m thirty and ordinary, living the mediocrity in the middle of suburbia with a fucking picket fence. We move together in frightening unison, our bodies a familiar landscape to one another, the silence conveying more than words could. The sex is repetitive, the conversation between our mouths and our minds and our bodies dry and grating. As I shudder against her, she begins to cry big ugly quiet tears that splash into the chasm between our naked forms. “I wish I could keep you as mine…” she murmurs wetly against my neck and –
And I’m thirty-three and unattached, belonging nowhere and to no one. My body curls around his like a question mark, the long, languid line of us an incongruous query. Winter sunlight, washed out and weak, struggles through the grimy windowpane, Manhattan a dull blur as the city grinds through another day. He draws patterns across my chest with his fingertips. I huff small breaths into his hair as they curl like ink-stains across his forehead. “You’re your own person,” he chuckles into the empty air, dust motes trailing in the wake of his exhale. “I doubt you’ll ever be anyone’s in any capacity because-“ but I silence his lips with mine as the dull sound of suction echoes around us and-
And I’m forty and alone, stretched across a motel bed as the nameless girl beside me sucks my cock lazily into the heat of her mouth. It’s vile and cheap; I feel worse than I did before the sex as she licks me clean - something shrivelling and dying inside me with each press of her tongue - until I ache with a feeling unknown. I press the cash into her palm and she re-buttons her shirt, the mesmerising orbit of her hips the last thing I remember as I slip into a dreamless slumber and –
And I’m forty-four and tired, so fucking tired, my memories a relentless movie reel in my mind as I struggle through the days, waiting to die with each drag on a cigarette, chiselling off a further eleven minutes of wasted life. But he’s quiet and unassuming and a splash of warmth in the cold wastes of my future, full cock-sucking lips and innocent baby blues. I’m reminded of fifteen year old me losing my virginity in a parking lot, and he gazes up at me with wonder as our bodies slide together in the dead light of morning. I try to remember what being twenty eight was like, life still filled with chance and possibility, but I come up with naught and instead press kisses against his inner thigh. “You’re mine,” I mouth against his skin, and I want to chisel the words into his bones and etch them into each of his heartbeats because I’m forty four and finally think I’ve found my salvation in the arms of a youth who looks at me like I’m the sun.
i try to be angry
because anger is
expression of love
but to be honest
i don’t even really
Also guys did I tell you about the time my 11 year old friend - who I look after usually once a week (and have been for five or six years now) - said to me, “Who needs a boyfriend or a girlfriend when you’ve got Sherlock and Doctor Who?”
And I just…
It was beautiful.
i agree. i see her more as a plot device than a character. “what’s dean gonna do for a year without sam” “oh i know remember that episode at the beginning of season 3 with the kid”. idk i just felt angry whenever she was on screen.
yeah exactly and i just think she’s boring there’s nothing that interests me about her at all. i also find it kind of hard to believe that dean would just like suddenly drop everything for a year like he didn’t even speak to bobby? idk season six is weird
yeah exactly. and Cas, too. like i understand why he didn’t contact Cas a little more than why he ignored Bobby (even though by the end of the season he was carrying on about how much like a brother Cas was to him), but Dean obviously wasn’t even really that in love with Lisa - more going along with it because it was what Sam wanted for him (and i think Sam was projecting in that regard; it was what he wanted, to settle down with a woman, so he thought that it would be right for Dean too) but i think it’s really OOC for Dean not to contact ANYONE. and Bobby would likely contact Dean so Dean must have like, avoided Bobby. as much as i absolutely adore the show, it seems a bit like characters and situations were used as plot devices (Cas in instances, Lisa and Ben, Samuel and the Campbells etc) rather than fleshed-out people or arcs that resolved themselves. it made me angry. sloppy writing. and sorry rant over :/ (i could go on for a long time but i’ll spare you and maybe write something proper on this later).