February 25, 2010


You, with your messy, blonde, layered bob. Your nauseously bright, hot pink tights. Your blue floral lampshade dress. You had seductively baby-fat round calves atop glass ankles. I loved the Crayola blue eyes lined in kohl; punk eyes peeking from a child's face. You're the kind that gets what she wants with a coquette's batted lashes. You giggled becomingly at each of his witless jokes.

What a counterfeit you are; what a dirty fake. What is it you're getting from him? Money? Sex? Is it adoration? It is, isn't it. Adoration. I bet you get it from anyone you want. You can't live without it. He's such a slouch that he doesn't see it. He thinks he's a real winner. He thinks he's catching you!

I love watching your game. What do you do, my little witch, when you are done with them?

I can see the game now. You keep him around, don't you, until his stupidity begins eating at you. You lose your patience with him. You needle him with a seductive combination of praise and insult designed to make him love you, but begin to hate himself. He feels like he is failing you, so he tries harder. Double entendre for each phrase you utter, but you reel him in with witch kisses when you're done breaking him down. I bet you make a big show when he buys flowers for you. You preen on those kissable calves, those delicate ankles. You throw those luscious arms around him on tip toe. You make him want you again.

What happens when he has been successfully dissolved? Do you suck your poison right out of him again, your poison mixed with the personality he once had? I bet his friends wonder what happened to him. He stopped hanging out with his friends right? Because every time he was out, you called. You made it impossible for him to refuse you. You'd make yourself damaged, pathetic, in need of some strength that only he could provide. He rushes to your side, knight in shining armor style. His friends grew tired of being left in the dust. Now the only person left to care for him is you. You, who just wants him destroyed.

You minx. You radiate sweetness to the tips of your pink painted toes. You look all bubblegum and light. You cloud his mind with your cloying perfume. You make him see innocent little you through loving eyes, but all you are doing is dropping crumbs for him to scramble after.

Perfect little you. He didn't even see you coming.

February 23, 2010


I made a rather momentous decision recently. Six months ago, my life was headed in a different direction. I was primed to "do something" and "be somebody." Understand please, that I've been receiving these messages my whole life; messages from friends and family that I am somehow special, somehow different from the rest, somehow destined to do great things.

I have never felt enormous pressure from my family, but I have been conditioned to believe that I would be a success at anything I do. I set my life on a step by step plan to grow up and have a big career, to get published in scientific journals, to become a teacher, to make some groundbreaking discovery over the course of my research.

See, let's lay it out.
First, bachelors. Show I'm capable, work hard, raise the GPA, work in a lab, do independent research. Check. Second, get into a doctorate program. Show I'm capable, work hard, raise the GPA, work in a lab, do independent research. Third, compete to get a great internship. Show I'm capable, work hard, do independent research. Fourth, get hired. Show I'm capable, work hard, do independent research. Yeah. All that would be great if I had a passion for proving myself and performing independent research.

I had an epiphany. It seems so plain now, written above, but this was something I missed for four years.

I have also always had a huge fear of becoming so wrapped up in striving for a "successful" career that I lose the good parts of me. I did not see that it was already happening.

I bought stacks of books with an unspoken promise that I would one day get to read them. I constantly refused nights out with friends. I never did yoga or went for a jog (things I love!) because catching a little extra sleep was more important.
This last semester, I lost 15 lbs. completely on accident, because stress made me nauseous.

No more. I am no longer going to be the little unhappy ball of stress I have been. For the next few months, my one true goal is to get back to me. The one true me. The me that dances, sings, does yoga, reads, cooks for god's sake. The rest can wait.

I met someone. We share a platonic relationship, but life-changing conversation over coffee the other night made me see her for who she is. She burns. You know how I so love those passionate people. She reminded me that in life, there are no rules save the ones we choose to abide by.

I'm ready to move forward. Ready to create a life full of my own rules.

Rule #1: There are no rules.

February 19, 2010


I refuse to hide who I am. See me.

I play the coquette in crowded rooms. While attending the New Year's Eve party, I yearned for a like-minded person. I shot shielded glances, smiled sly smiles, I watched pursed lips, I watched eyes follow me. No takers. Are we all just so painfully shy? I want someone a little more fearless.

I want to be a little more fearless myself. Fearlessness in women tends to offend people. I love that. I'm still trying to break out of the old mold. I'm trying to offer myself up for all life experience. I'm trying to be as many people as I can before the fear of my own mortality takes me.

In every room, I look. Where are you, precious one? Just one, somewhere, who burns.

What do you look for in a man? What do you look for in a woman? They all ask it.

The laundry list begins: intelligent, witty, kind, tall, dark, handsome, funny, dedicated, responsible, muscular, musical, talented, adventurous, family oriented, reliable, open-minded. Blah. These are all the same words you'll hear from anyone. What does it mean to be dedicated? What qualifies one as intelligent?

No. That is not how I play. Give me someone who burns. The rest doesn't matter.

February 9, 2010


"What will you be forced to do?" her blog asked. Hmmm, forced.

Do it. Push me against the door hard enough to leave a bruise where my shoulder hits the frame. Crush yourself against my body, thrust your thigh between my legs, bite at my lips and teeth and tongue. Decide that is not enough, and flip me around roughly. Press yourself against the curve of my ass, pinning me to the door. Yank my shirt over my head, use it to imprison my arms. Nip at my neck. Leave the imprint of your teeth buried in the skin of my shoulder. Use your free hand to caress my breast, side and hip, back up to pinch my nipple rudely until I squeak. Use that hand to seize my hair, pulling my head to expose my neck, that tender, tender neck.

Take me.

Pull me to the ground with you, your ardor burning so brightly that making it to the bed does not matter. Keep your fingers tangled in my hair, keep pulling. Make me arch for you. Nibble down my side, drinking in my heat, devouring. Stuff yourself with the taste of my skin. Use those teeth to unbutton my pants, push them violently to my knees. You want me too badly to care about freeing my legs. Grab my hips, and jerk me to your mouth. Don't rise for air.

Consume me.

Climax comes quickly, too quickly, my passion yanked from me. I'm wet, saturated with desire, legs still bound by tight jeans. Coming down, cooling off. You don't want me coming down. Quick movements, and I have my face buried in carpet pile, my ass exposed. Once, twice, three times you slap in fast succession. My face reddens with stinging pleasure-pain. You invade me with your fingers, a tight, wet, forced fit. You grab at my hair, yank my head back, offering your wet fingers to my lips, pressing them passed my teeth to my tongue. You grind against me, the hard tip of you seeking. You place yourself carefully, but thrust deeply. You are such a tight fit, my legs bound, your weight against my back. Your movements confirm your arousal, your movements short and charged with energy. Closer, I feel you coming, closer. Closer, and you are there, writhing against my back, making last final thrusts deep.

Finished with me.

You withdraw, pleased with yourself. I roll to look at you, timid gaze from beneath hair. You smirk, so satisfied. Look at you.
You loosen the harness, let the dildo fall. I laughed when you first strapped the harness around yourself. I am not laughing now. "Go clean yourself up," you demand. "We're leaving."

February 3, 2010


So much to read, and so little time for reading.

I am passionate about bookstores. I love these little places where all bits of knowledge gather. Something about the atmosphere breeds a new persona for me. They are tantalizing places, and they vary so widely.

Barnes and Noble gives off corporate-elite airs. Borders greets consumers with a slightly hippie front. Books-A-Million man-handles shoppers into a hug. Musky, dusty, little independent bookstores prime inquiring minds for a rainy afternoon's perusal. Each store broadens the possibilities for the future, but often so widely that I almost have a panic attack thinking of all the reading I have yet to do.

I'm young. I read voraciously in adolescence, but focused on contemporary (mostly vampire) fiction. My teenaged self adored Anne Rice, Anne Bishop, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Laurell K. Hamilton. Then I devoured John Grisham and David Baldacci. I morphed into love for Neil Gaiman, and Chuck Palahniuk. I still adore selected works by most of these authors.

I grew up a little. I started reading Austen, Swift, Capote, Edith Warton, but as class requirements. I skimmed over them in my procrastinating way. I wish to revisit them all. I read Oscar Wilde and Dorothy Parker for leisure, and swallowed Lewis Carroll and Ayn Rand right along with them.

Now, I yearn to discover more of the Greats (only a capital "G" will do). I want to consume everything. I have stacks of books not yet read. William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, Toni Morrison, Thomas Hardy, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Victor Hugo, Dante Alighieri, Gabriel García Márquez, Vladimir Nabokov, Jorge Luis Borges, Franz Kafka, James Joyce. I want to read so many more. They are a marching military force, and I can only pick them off one by one. How does one conquer such a force?

How can I, with part-time employment, full-time student responsibilities, and a lively social life, enjoy them all?