Gathered Notes, Uncrumpled, And Written in Ball Point Ink


My insides are on fire, you know. A kettle expanded, hissing through the nostril, bent in a big mama pose. I can never learn to transition from hot to cold. Opposing twins conjoined by difference, I know of no bridges. No logs to cross from shore to shore. Although I like the cyclical spin of day into night. I feel like an open pore of the earth. I absorb so much without any warning. No wonder I’m constantly flushed, trotting on the lip of unconsciousness. Is my body sick? Maybe I become too easily impregnated by my atmosphere(s). This is not always the case.


For some time I shunned the idea of being a Scorpio, as the sad portrayals of the dark sign always left me wondering if I’m cursed by the moon under which I was born. My English professor once told me from behind his modest Grecian nose and coarse salt-n-pepper goatee that astrological signs are mere boxes that aim to contain. Same as stereotypes. Sure, one could have prophesied the common habits of the weeping Pisceans, proud Arians, and toiling Tauruses to a precise order by which we can our conduct our lives. But, human nature bleeds through our own perceptions. It is the one element of our existence that continual defies us, again and again. It’s our own fault that Cancers are obnoxious, that Virgos are perfectionists, and Scorpios (like me) have sadistic tendencies and violent sexual urges. What I can say is true for me is this: Stereotypes and astrological signs are quite similar, if not nearly the same. They aim to contain; and, yet, they’re almost always true. They fulfill their own neatly wrapped destinies, despite our silly, civilized modes of thought. Not everyone is an intellectual. Not all Jews are greedy, blacks lazy, Asians uptight, and so forth… But, most are.

It’s just an easy excuse. Same with my sign. Sure, I’m jealous, possessive, dominating, dryly sarcastic, violent, brooding, etc. But, who isn’t?

So, while my free will continues to break through these boxes of gender and race, it halts for only one accurate portrayal of me, and beings like me. We are ENFPs.


My first assignment in college was to complete the Myers-Briggs Personality Test and discuss my self-discoveries to others. I have always been fascinated by myself, and while it may be a vain symptom of ego, I find this contrary to my personal history. I hate describing myself; and, in a comic sort of irony, while I can find the words to make your story sing I cant search deep enough in a closet of language to describe myself in the first person. Not irony… Just discomfort. Anyhow, upon reading the results, I, for once, enjoyed the analysis and beamed as I read it aloud to the rest of the freshwoman (I went to an all girls school).

On another note…

Sometimes my body itches and ticks with abandon. It echoes in my ear, a droplet dropping from the solid perfect mouth of a kitchen pipe. Pop Pop Pop. Quite soberly, in fact, I measured my thigh using my forearm, and realized how dangly my limbs truly are. No wonder I like dancing so much. I like to flail about and shake and twitch.. jerking the life right in and out of me. I miss having an animal companion. I continue to scheme of ways to smuggle in spiders, lizards, or big fluffy bunny rabbits with red eyes and white fur… and possibly a parrot with whom I can develop our own secret dialogue…

On another note…

I’ve been dreaming of social functions lately, taking place in apartments and bedrooms. These streaming scenes of water flowing down stairways and sewers enables me to fish-swim from one issue to the next, always arriving almost on time so that I may quietly observe. Sometimes these people I make up in my head approach me, and offer me some interactions while I meander without a body.

I’ve been dreaming…

I’m able to tell the difference between the orgasms I experience by myself versus those I share with others. Not one is better than the other. However, I must admit that I like to cum first when I’m having sex. Unlike masturbation, I become energized, playful in fact, while my body convulses in a religious/epileptic sort of state. I can go for hours, prolonging my lover as long as I like. Fuck with no ending, no happy little assortment of squirts to chime the finished moment. No, no. Slip it in then settle for a moment. Then we break to take a walk, have a smoke, play board games, or go on adventures. We come back and continue the sessions, completing our circles, moistening the drying sheets heavy with the stench of ass. This I enjoy most when having sex with others.

By myself?

The more I stain my own sheets, the quicker my orgasms have become. I need to delay these impulses, keep them special. I can no longer sustain with just fingertips. No, I need vibrations. Heavy with a kneejerk. I am always satisfied.

I ended my menstruation today, officially. I like my period. It starts heavy on the first day, regular on the second, and spots for the next two days. The strong smell of my innards fascinates me. I wonder if other girls smell themselves, becoming acquainted with their crime scene organs. I would like to gather tampons and pads, fresh with heavy globs of vaginal lining, and compare. Don’t look at me this way, you men have your natural means of bonding. Your sperm and penises. Good for you. Women should have something like it too. And don’t sugarcoat my vagina with artificial fragrances. We should all smell like children newly hatched from our mothers; we should smell like salty rivers. We should smell like afterbirth. And discuss this as we compare each other’s scents.

I dive right into my stories. I start anew, with a structure and a plan. This leaves me with ramblings on here, should you wonder why I speak so freely about such subjects.

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