Fresh Hell

Whenever my body decides to revolt on me (usually when I'm on my period), I have a penchant to ask What fresh new hell is this? This is mostly a question that is wildly inaccurate. While oftentimes my body warns me of the pending uprising, I am always shocked by its presence. Whether that be manifested in my lactose intolerance deciding it's had enough of my pretending to be a milk drinker -- I think most lactose intolerance-ees will agree those pills rarely work -- and mandates that I spend the evening by the side of the toilet bemoaning my life choices. That's the tamest scenario I could provide without grossing anyone truly out, but I think you get the idea. I don't take care of my body, my body tells me so in violent manners that a wallop to the head would be welcomed graciously.

So what has me up at 3am (I don't care what the Goddamn time stamp says, it's 3am) running to the word vomit factory that is my blog? It would appear I have contracted something which brings an uncontrollable nose faucet, an elephant on my chest, shivers, mild delirium, and best of all... ACHES. Now if you've never had the pleasure of getting sick, what the fuck is your secret I want it. 

Anyway, I'm not exactly sure how colds are experienced by others, but I usually stay in that awful stage where it's the day before you're about to get sick... the entire time. Meaning I am still functioning at a normal level, but covert WWIII is exploding all over my body. I've been very blessed in the fact that I haven't gotten sick since my injury up until now but DAMN. That achey feeling your body gets goes to a whole new level. While the rest of the body does its thing, sleepers are carrying out kill-shots in my knee. It's a miserable experience and I don't recommend it to anyone. 

F you cold. F you. 

Getting Crafty

Being the resistant cleaner I am, I went to the internet this afternoon to procrastinate in the glory of mindlessness.

Lo' and behold I found these great beauties:

For all you needle crafters out there, you can find the pattern here: http://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/simple-adjustable-handcuffs

P.S. I like these better, but Pintrest is being a dick and won't tell me where these are from because I don't have an account. 

Another Sunday Funny

Let's Talk About Things and Stuff

Oh Hai! It's been a while, hasn't it? I've kind of been having fun outside the internet, fine-tuning myself into who is typing today. Actually, that's a slight lie. Let's just say due to the natural cycle of womanhood I'm a teenie bit more reactive today than normal. C'est la vie, no?

My shit sundae started a bit like this: I was having a relative handle on my unpredictable hormone level and for the most part with the help of coffee, I felt and acted normal. After work, however, I hear through the grapevine that yet another one of my exes is getting married. To a gal he started dating directly after me. No, don't worry, you haven't stumbled into the script of a shitty romantic comedy. In my mind I've always taken this tidbit as comedy (I'm a lucky charm!) but I'm not quite sure why this latest news has me feeling all goopy in my middle bits. To further the point, it also makes me feel a bit, well, dejected and tainted. Despite what my brain says, some part of me still wants to throw a little tantrum and scream to the Heavens, "WHYYYYYYYYYYY?!?!?!?!" When in all reality I'm right where -- and with (family) -- I'm supposed to be.

Now, this next bit of anxiety can't be emotionally healed with the tiniest paragraph. I fear I would be concerned (rightly so) whether raging bitch baby hormones were coursing through my body or not.

New Year's Eve I feel pretty hard and fucked up my knee again. While at this point I'm quite at ease with OH MY GOD HOLY FUCK MY KNEE sort of occurrences, the swelling hasn't quite gone down and as my rehabilitation trainer pointed out today... it's unstable and I should see my doctor soon. When your worries are confirmed by someone with 15 years worth of experience with post surgery aid... It's like the shit encrusted cherry on top of my sundae.

Good news? That same trainer introduced me to a punching bag. Part of me died and went to heaven.

To My Future Boyfriend(s)

I will cheat on you.

From the day we meet to the day we part, there will always be others. Others to take my breath away, to steal my heart from you, to make me wet. I will be with them behind your back and you will feel their presence when I am with you. It is inevitable. It is unavoidable. 

They will share our bed and you will see what they can do. You will see how they can make me scream, see the girlish excitement of love for them flitter across my face. You will see how they can change me -- forcing a kaleidoscope of emotions fractured and glued, tragically beautiful and chaotically violent into a single day. 

You will see my breath catch, hear my heart breaking, feel my limbs curl around you as I pass on their gentleness. You will see my fingers flex and bend, dancing across the air to a tune of lust, of passion, of impatience and perhaps, regret.  I may even mention how disappointed in them I am. 

Yes. There will always be others that no matter how much you matter to me, no matter how much I may call you Master or Sir or how much in love with you I fall, no how much respect I will have for you I will be thinking of them. 

I am a bibliophile. And books will always come first. 

Unless you build me a library... or give me yours. Because then, seriously, I love you forever. 

What? I never said I wasn't easy. I mean... my perfect day includes a used bookstore, the beach, food, and sex. And maybe a butt plug, but that's just for kinks. 

Photo credit here

Because I always read half naked. ALWAYS. 

The Female Sisyphus

I'm not sure at what point I dropped the ball on living any sort of life worth living but it's occurred to me I'm just exististing. What I mean to say is it would appear I've chosen to live my life on only the barest of what could outwardly called put together. I've systematically shut down any belief in myself to occomplish anything. For example, I had a brief moment of clarity and clocked myself at a maximum of 20 seconds of effort -- even on the smallest of things. 

It doesn't matter what it is: bills, finding a piece of paper, putting my clothes away, getting to work on time, eating a remotely healthy diet, accepting I might fancy someone, applying for classes, dishes, reviewing a novel... All fill me with this sense of anxiety and dread I can only withstand for a maximum of 20 seconds. It would seem I've frozen myself in this little stasis of immobility and to be honest, I'm not even sure why or how -- or how to get myself out.

Well, I know how I got here. I'm not sure what challenge I put forth to myself but what I've let myself become is pretty much my worst nightmare. It's like at some point I "failed" at something and chose this to be my punishment. I'm preeeeeety sure the punishment doesn't fit the crime. 

Whatever the events I chose to get here, it brings me no amount of comfort to chose to get out of it. Like choosing to live my life in accordance with... I dunno happiness and comfort and flow is the equivelant of carrying the boulder up a steep incline. And sectioning it out doesn't do one iota of good because I remind myself that this pebble of a task is part of that huge heavy boulder and even if I get that pebble up the incline, that huge, heavy boulder is still on my back growing like a tumor infecting my body and life with the evil partnership of gravity.

A happy thought, no?  

I'm not quite sure how I'm going to get myself out of this one this time, but I will eventually. 

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I've Basically Died & Gone to Heaven

This is the fun part where my bookish ways collide with my kinky ones. Without further ado I give you...

Fifty Shades of Alice in Wonderland (#1)

Summary (from Goodreads): Eighteen-year-old Alice is unhappy. Her boyfriend is nice and polite, but he's also quick and careless in bed, and doesn't give Alice the attention and variety she craves. But he's not entirely to blame, because Alice herself doesn't understand her own needs. She's heard about what sex is supposed to be like, but has never felt anything remotely close to what she's read about in runaway bestselling books.

BEYOND 9 1/2 WEEKS...

Then Alice follows a vibrating white rabbit down a deep, dark hole, which leads to a place beyond her wildest imagination. There are no nice boys--or girls--down here. Only those who indulge in secret, forbidden, kinky fantasies.

BEYOND PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES...

Alice is confused and frightened and... aroused. She is bound. Teased. Spanked. Toyed. Brought to the limits of sexual endurance. And during her trials, she begins to understand her body's needs for the very first time.

BEYOND THUNDERDOME...

This isn't the fairy tale you grew up reading. This isn't for children at all.

This is for those with dark desires, who wish to explore erotic excess beyond the plain vanilla of everyday life. Follow Alice down the rabbit hole, if you dare...


Fifty Shades of Alice in Wonderland is slightly longer than the Lewis Carroll version, roughly 32,000 words or 115 paper pages long. Melinda DuChamp is the pen name of someone you may know.

RUNNERS UP:

Fifty Shades of Chicken I actually own and I can tell you it is not only hilarious but the recipes are delicious! The Mr. Darcy book I just fancy a peek at. I do so love a good laugh. (Click on photos for more info/ description)