It could be a crisis, but I can't tell because I'm high

The funny thing about love is the way it enjoys anal.

Seriously, love will sneak up behind you and jam it's dry, 9 inch rod in your ass.

If you take a look back at my life (it's in the semen stained VHS case next to Babes in Boyland), you would notice a pattern of bad decisions, that I can always link back to a man. And one time a woman.

I attract domineering men. Conquering a lady like me is a challenge to some. Then it's a game. I want to win the game, so I'm all in. Immediately. I've got 8200 in chips and they are all on red. Fast, hard, hot and heavy love. Like your first high. Like 160 in a new camaro. Like your first orgasm. It will never be that good ever again. You will be chasing the dragon for the remainder of your relationship.

You're winning, buying round after round, having a great time, then BAM. Wrong hole, love!

That one straw. It dropped and the camel is fucked. You're also fucked.

I have acted crazy over relationships, not because of deep feelings for another human being, but because of my fear of loss. I mean losing the game. Defeat. I do not take it well.
When I hear a Lifetime wife beater say "if I can't have you, no one will" I can relate. He's got it right there. If you aren't going to be mine, you're damn well not going to be anyone Else's either.

I've burned clothing, smashed a windshield with my easel, broke into an exes apartment, slandered and most likely libeled as well. I have poor decision making skills. And love brings out the worst in me.

I blame public schools. And the boys I slept with while I was there.

Semper My Thigh

It was the uniform. It's always been an object of my lust. Army, Navy, state police, if it had a vertical button line, I was in need of fresh panties.

But the U.S. Marine dress uniform brings my clit to attention.

So, I was helpless against it's power when it's host brought out his camera for some show-and-tell. I smile, with no intention of the photos being taken. Then a glass of white.
I really enjoy wine.
Two, three, and soon the second bottle is uncorked.
We're listening to Tool and having a very deep conversation about the apartheid and anal stimulation. I'm feeling a little silly and I grab his dress jacket off of the recliner and slip into it.
I pose on the ottoman, kicking my bare feet up.
"Stay right there," he fumbles for his camera.
I sit up and grab for the camera. "I want to take a picture of your nuts wearing a hat."
"OK. But then you."
"I don't have nuts," I laugh as I flash him my left breast. It was on.
There was so much heavy petting going on, his dog was getting jealous.
I had no resistance. I would be forever captured on film in campaign destroying glory. There were photos of positions that the Kama Sutra is trying to buy rights to. Shit, I was in my early 20's, flexible, and had no scruples.
We used props for some of our photo shoots. Toys, a small, leather cat-o-nine, and a variety of vibrators make special guest appearances. Handcuffs were a favorite of his, and he enjoyed restraining me and snapping away. Eventually, there were dozens of pictures, as proof of the sultry deeds we shared.
A year later he was out of the Marines, and we were both working as Correctional Officers for state penitentiaries. Still with the uniform, I could handle the jump to fucking a civilian.
We worked at two different facilities, but we each were members of the Correctional Emergency Response Team (CERT) at our own prison and occasionally our two teams would meet for joint weapons or restraints training.
The men in CERT are extremely tough on the women that join, so I enjoyed fucking with them. Big, muscle bound, morons getting off to shot gun blasts and OC bursts to the face. But I was stuck with them, and after all we were a team.
Restraint training generally consisted of drills that showed your skill at shackling an "inmate". We would take turns playing the inmate, offer a bit of resistance for a true to life feel. My turn to be the convict. I go down easily (that's what she said) wiggling a little, but eventually I am subdued by the officer. As soon as his hands leave the cuffs, I slip one wrist through the grips and then the second. I dangle the empty shackles above my head.
The guys gathered in a circle and laugh at my former captor. He turns around, grabs my arm and swings me around. I pitch forward as his knee quickly jabs the back of my leg. He takes me to the ground in a practically effortless movement, and cuffs my ankle. Before I could fight back, he has the second clasp around my wrist, hogtied, so to speak.
Breathing heavily, the winner leans down and puts his lips to my ear.
"I know how much you like cuffs, Kodak."

You always hurt the one you love

There I sat staring at it.

It wobbled a little back and forth throughout it's gelatinous, molded shape.
"What in the hell is that thing?" I ask him.
"What do you think it is?" he laughs.
I knew exactly what it was, my question really meant, where in the hell to you think you'll be putting that thing. I assume up your own ass.
My secret birthday present had been revealed. It was even wrapped.
But now the monster stood there, intimidating me. "No way. Nooo way."
"It's OK, it's fine. You don't have to. I thought you'd want to. It would feel good," he says in his most convincing voice.
"It would dislocate my vagina. You're a fucking weirdo."
"You're so funny." he taps the thing on my leg, "he just wants to say hi."
"Get it off me. Away from me," I toss it across the den and it hits the wall with a loud thud.
"Don't break it. It wasn't cheap, and I doubt I can return it." He picks the colossus up at stands it up on the coffee table again."It has a suction cup."
"I feel like you're trying to sell me a used car."
"Just once. With lots of lube. If it hurts I'll stop."

Three weeks I endured sly innuendos about the massive thing. It lived in the bedside drawer, rolling around every time he reached in to grab his reading glasses. It sounded like a severed arm, sliding back and forth, hitting the dovetailed wood. It mocked me.

One day I was cleaning up the bedroom, and thought about the plastic menace and peaked in the drawer. The smell of rubber wafted up to my nose. I picked it up. It seemed heavier than before.
You could knock a man out with this, I think, while giving it a baseball bat swing.
As I followed through on my home run hit, the slippery surface of the rubber made my fingers begin to slip. As if in slow motion, the dildo left my grasp as the bedroom door opened. He stood there with a confused look on his face as the 3 pound projectile hurtled towards his face.
THUD!
I watch in horror as this porn star plaything slams my boyfriend right in the nose. Blood gushes everywhere.
"Why the fuck did you throw that at me?!"
"It slipped. I was pretending it was a baseball bat. I'm so sorry. Is it broken?"
"Yes it's fucking broken," he fires back.
"Let me look," I peer at the bloody mess. His nose was clearly bent to the left. "It's broken."
"Pop it back where it goes," he squints his eyes, bracing for adjustment.
I gingerly grasp the bridge of his nose and quickly pop it towards it's home. He screams, and then sighs with relief.

"If it hurts, I'll stop.".
And that is the story of why I walked funny for several days in May 1999.

Take It All

I think I may have an unnatural addiction to pornography.

When I was 22, I was in love with a crush from high school. Recently back from time in the Marines, Brian was chiseled, tan, and beautiful. I could not keep my hands off of him.  He and I enjoyed the best sex I've ever had. He was deliciously kinky, as was I. But, I'll save the stories about latex gloves and cookie dough rolls for another day, this is about porn.

Brian and I watched a whole lot of porn. Every weekend, I would drive the 25 miles to his house with my overnight bag and plenty of lube. Dinner was made, sometimes we ate, sometimes we fucked on the table. Soon, we would settle in to the viewing of the naughty tapes.

He was a porno connoisseur of sort. The tapes (yeah, I'm freakin' old) numbered in the dozens, with vivid covers depicting light bondage, a bit of anal, and girls with mouths around a disembodied penis. He would carefully select our movie and there we were, naked, waiting for the fun to begin. He was my pusher, and I was hooked.

I began to watch on my own. I've spent hours on my laptop, searching for the most bizarre films I can find. Hardcore, S & M, role playing, I even watched a girl fuck a horse. And one time a dog. It was weird, and I know I should be appalled, but I couldn't turn away. I don't smoke, I reason, so this could be my vice.

Besides, I don't sit here, jacking off in a tube sock like some kind of weirdo.

I've become very comfortable telling people I watch porn. I scoff at women that turn their noses up at a mere mention of a money shot. I use porn lingo in the workplace to either arouse my coworkers or make them feel uncomfortable.  I like who I am, and I like porn, so you can suck it. And when you do, I would really enjoy watching.

I want to see the Intervention that tears someone away from their Twitter addiction. I want to compare the life of this forlorn, introvert to my own secret closet obsession. I want to giggle nervously as the tweeter tells unaccustomed family members about star fucking while wringing their hands in gleeful anticipation of their next encounter.

See, that's why I struggle with Twitter. I am one giant run-on sentence.

Twitter.

It's a hobby gone bad. It's a demented popularity contest hosted by satan's minions. It's my insomnia, my alarm clock, my bad posture, my chaffed nipples.

My day is filled with attempts to put the mundane into humorous 140 character diamonds. Grocery shopping? So much of the produce department would fit perfectly in my vagina. Laundry? I divorced my husband for my Maytag's spin cycle. My mind is corrupted. I am Pavlov's wife. Something happens, I tweet. Something doesn't happen, I tweet.

In a year or two, there will be a syndrome or illness directly related to Twitter. Like porn addicts and shopaholics, we will join the ranks of the sham artists, standing at weekly meetings cracking jokes about dipping penises in the shitty coffee. I will use my real name.

Bread Crumbs

I cannot navigate 98% of webpages.

I am not sure if I have some kind of learning disability ( my first attempt was spelled leardning dibility) from having my skull knocked repeatedly off the headboard, or if it's a vision problem, but I just spent 12 minutes looking for the button that would allow me to write a new entry. I panicked after the first 2 minutes, and forgot what I was going to originally compose. It was going to be great, something about midget fisting or fisting midgets or midgets fisting each other, I'm sure. But it's gone now. The words on the screen get blurry and the muscles in my neck tighten as if I were 45 minutes into an hour long blow job. The seconds tick by, preparing me to abandon my new writing adventure. I am almost desperate enough to read some FAQ's when alas, I find the treasure! A big blue button in the middle of the screen.

I have the observation skills of a newborn mole.

But seriously, it's overkill sometimes. There is a lot of shit on some of these pages. Flashing, and loud colors, and 562 columns and articles and archives and PayPal buttons, it makes my ears bleed. I get the same feeling when I'm on the interstate, driving 70 miles an hour, and there's billboard after billboard, and I'm jettin' along, but I'm compelled to read every word. Even though I could wreck and die in a horrible, fiery death, I still read. I just have some place I need to be and this shit is slowing me down!

Don't get me started on the porn pages! No, I don't want to see your web cam,or enlarge my penis. I like my penis just the way it is. Hard, compact, attached to a beautiful Latino, and occasionally can be found in my ass.

I assume all of these ads and banners link back to every work from home offer I have ever received. Somewhere, a sweaty, fat lady is sitting in front of her computer, eating Doritos, getting payed .02 cents a click, to eye rape me with a "simple teeth whitening solution" ad. I will give you 20 bucks a month to stop. Please.

So, I made it, despite every effort that was made to stop me. And now I'm scared to leave because, I may never make it back.

P.S. I did it again when I previewed this post. It's another window! I should not be allowed to raise my own children.

I had a blog once. 

I had a house and a husband and an office, where I would sit, roll a doobie and let my mind wander.  With NPR playing in the adjacent laundry room, I think about Juan Williams, and a guy I worked with at a car dealership named Juan, and then how much I really enjoy tamales and can't believe no one sells them door to door here. They do in Wyoming.  And poof, I'm thrust back into my new life.

Houseless.  Husbandless.  Officeless.  Feeling feelingless.

I have dabbled on many social media glue traps since the seperation, out of boredom mostly, but like many ventures in my life, I lose interest as quickly as I did on my wedding night.  My Facebook status has been "wrapping presents" for 7 months now.  Mainly because I'm trying to avoid being hired out as farm labor by my nutty neighbor.

But Twitter has changed everything. I have managed to "tweet" (Twitter talk for posting a comment in 140 characters or less) nearly every single day for months now.  I am amazed.  Now before you get all congratulatory, keep in mind most of the tweets are about my vagina, and smoking weed, and teaching my vagina to roll weed so it's more like a window to my mind than a steady gig.  Finally, every sick, twisted thought I have in line behind some stinky ass redneck mom and her nose pickin' pink eye machine at Walmart is accepted publicly, and with reward!  Followers, fans, trophies...I'm still waiting to see what the trophy unions are going to do about this virtual trophy copyright infringement.

I'm hooked.  Like a meth head, counting ounces of copper wiring, I count the stars I receive and giggle like a sugar crazed school girl.  People like me.  At least 1000 people do.  OK, a few like me. Several follow me because they don't really read my middle of the night confessions, some more follow me because someone they really like follows me, a bunch are porn bots, one is my little brother's high school friend.  So, with the art degree I have (not the mail order one, like you may have assumed) that adds up to at least 500 people that may or may not find some of the shit I say humorous.  Not humerus, though, because that shit pisses people off.

So, Twitter has given me a place to hang my hat, or my virtual zippered black leather face mask.  I feel like I belong with the freaks and weirdos.  A home where you can put your feet or your penis on the coffee table.