win...

Oh yeah.

pretti-fication...

I'll say that the project is coming along nicely. Arms are getting nice and built, and nicely bulked chest, and I'm pretty sure the core is doing well under those inches of fat.

I read somewhere that sculpting an elephant is simple. You simply take a large block of of stone or whatever, and take off whatever doesn't look like an elephant. Hopefully there's some hot underwear model under all this flab.

Seems like buying the marble is a lot easier than chipping it off.

despondency...

It's true what they say. You find the most to say when you least want to hear about it. Is it therapeutic? I don't know.

Increasingly, it's become more about the fact that I'm not dead yet, rather than the other thing. Increasingly, it's the fact that I've given up on life as a whole, rather than the fact that I'm alone. Increasingly, it's going back to the way things were.

Is it good? Is it bad? Only thing I know is, it is what it is. Maybe death by starvation is the way I'll finally get it done.

icarian...

Just finished a most grueling week of more assessments than ass. Although mine felt pretty damned raped by the end of it. That said, it has all went fairly well, so we could say it's like the premium massage with "happy ending" thrown in. Just make sure to pay the masseur before he finishes.

The final stretch is the one you take just before you pull a hamstring and are out of the race before it begins. Hamstring sounds kinda tasty.

That said, I'm almost done with the semester. Exams should be fairly breezy, and they almost never factor into my considerations of workload anyway.

Then again, keeping the final stretch in mind, flying so close to the sun only gets you burned. Bring your sunblock.

zits...

The strangest place you can find a zit is on your nipple.

After popping it, it got really really sensitive. Couple this with a piercing and you have something like super sonar.

I spent most of today getting randomly stimulated, leading to arousal, after simply moving my arms. Sensitivity max.

historical truths...

Was just posting up some pictures on the ubiquitous omniscience that is Facebook. Some really REALLY old pictures. Fragments of memories from eons past.

I think I used to be happy then. When our biggest concerns tended to be minor, petty. When he still had that innocence. When I believed that he trusted me. When we, as a group, tended to have more than ourselves, but ourselves were ultimately the only things that mattered.

We are scattered. Even those who are not, are not the same as the things that went in. We cannot even pretend to reenact those times.

In search of a happy past, I have only succeeded in fragmenting my present. Gawd, I should just go to bed.

passion...

On the train back from my weekly card-flopping adventures, I found myself musing at the relatively entertaining though of randomly hooking up with some chick I'd meet at a particular predatory bird's organized events. The really interesting bit was, would I ever do something that was, for the most part, an impulse driven act? Then the question lead me to HAVE I ever given into the heat of passion at ANY time in my life?

Sexually, I reckon only once have I ever put aside the ever present, ever churning logical machinery and just given into the spur of the moment. The occasion itself, besides the notable lack of control, was mostly non-descript. Once, with a particular rabbit that I used to have, we were just sitting, watching reruns of reruns, when the itch hit. It was the only time I recall where it was just passion with no thought, no control, and pure unhinged ecstasy.

The only other times that remotely approach the total abandonment that would characterise passion would be the malicious glee in which I happen to take when arguing.

It's only a break, he says. But from what I have seen, it looks like a break up. It would hurt, I guess, but it doesn't. Maybe that's the most hurtful of all.

To never need passion is a thing that will free me from the shackles of ever needing anyone else, and imprison me in a world of silence where nobody will celebrate my coming and going.

Maybe, just maybe, my passion is where I never have to say anything, because I will never be understood.