Laugh Long, Love Life,
- Current Location:Putt Hill, Pagosa Springs, Colorado
- Current Mood: sad
- Current Music:Bad Religion, "Beyond Electric Dreams"
A man by the last name of Seale believes it is illegal to sell milk form his Nubian goats because you need a paper permit to sell your bread. At the end of the road exists a series of a-frames upon a hill side where a septic overflow pond exists uphill from the creek we know and love. Perpendicular to the other houses exists a house of a girl who believes in provacy in a land refusing to give privacy to the dead. Each step I take drains my energy and fills me with dirt from the way we live in this valley; thankfully my soul to take only when I am dead. Bless this land of cursed dread and be done with it at the end of this month. Such a great spirit within the inverted lake of the sky and a land of poison dirt and beauty. This world is a fucked up and beautiful place, one of hatred and love. I vow to take care of it and heal before getting out of here.
So this afternoon has been filled with spurts of motivation timed with power outages that happened to affect the side of my trailer near my computer and lamp. This has been the first time for the last hour or so that I haev been able to access my brain and several places to use it. Reading would have been a suitable alternative to online work but was unavailable due to lack of light. Luckily we are back online again and my brain never quite woking, even though the power might have. Without even having to touch the breaker the electricity turned back on and functioned like gold once more. Now I can return to The Bader-Meinhof Comlex, which I was watching just a while ago. We shall see what My brain comes up with and uses to paint its canvas as I sit back, collect, and take notes from the paint and ink regurgitated by my subconscious as I dwell here in the dark, staring up at the ceilign from a rolling office chair as balck as the night I sit within. Long live marijuana and the imagination.
Laugh Long, Love Life,
There is a fire inside me, burning to devour the last of the pain from the denial of a coward to afraid to allow the world to know she rolls in the dirt. Blake, here is to you, fame and fucking fortune in all. You excell at weakening the skin and toughen mine because of the way it works. Thank you Blake for ensuring that my soul will never die and Fuck You for not being here to fight once more.
Fuck you with love and hate:
Laugh Long, Love Life,
You could say fuck you or I agree or disagree with your post. Words like dislike or indifferent are acceptable. I need feedback in why the world is so fucked up sometimes and why I must take a shot back at it to feel better. These days I feel as though I am nailing a shot back at the wall. This wall I refer to is pasted with an assortment of memories of my life. Photographs of a Washington street, lined with trees and the dirtiest river in the Northwest. Brick houses and abandoned buses nearby a field serves as a giant compound and gatehouse for the military. Life sifts slowly from one side of the street to the other for a passer by from outside this neighborhood. People of paint and a taste for life and the culture to prove this, exist in a place where the troubled can actually heal. Up the street is a coffee shop that would flourish if someone only spread the word and if the owner wanted it to be spread.
"I am not really trying to make money girls; I've just always wanted to own a coffee shop," said a woman in my mind as she sipped on something covered in foam and whipped cream.
There is more to come. Beware the dreedles. To find out what those are, stay tuned.
Laugh Long, Long Love Life,
Laugh Long, Love Life,
It has been a long time, so I thought that I would send you a message and a funny story of the utmost hilarity. The tale begins at a sad little campus called Colorado Mesa University of Grand Junction, Colorado. I was delivering a copy of the student paper I write for, "The Criterion," to a source by the name of Scotty Waters, member of a band by the name of Drop Top Lincoln. Check them out; they have a web site by their name followed by the ".com" and play a plethora of Rockabilly and Jazz tones with a heavy dusting of Rock. Upon writing a review of their band I brought him a paper and found out while standing like a jackass on his doorstep with him reading the paper that the editor of my section edited the paper so poorly they tore it apart and mismatched the names of the band members with their appropriate positions--as he was reading it. This infuriated me with such vigor that I send a wave of disrespect in the form of an email laden and spiced with several "fuck you's" which promptly got back to the lead editor and the faculty adviser, professor Sandstrom.
I will take this time to keep the name of the editor confidential. Her name is Allyssa Chambers. Feel free to mock her in writing. In any case, this and one of my posts from my journal, a post with references to spanking, got back to the Vice President of Academic Affairs upon a reference to the site to a fellow student. The post went straight from a student I cannot recall to the adviser and to the Vice President and I was asked to meet with him about my "Style of communication" and the heat was on.
When I sat down at the desk of Vice President of Academic Affairs John Marshall, I asked him about the content of the blog in question he responded with oblivion of the title of the blog but stated that it contained some questionable content.
"All I can tell you is that the subject matter contained something about..," he leaned in close as if wanting to prevent others outside his office from hearing and paused before finishing, "spanking...and not in a fun way either--one that was meant to hurt."
Fighting back a laugh, I inquired about the reason why this was a university issue. He responded with his inquiry of concern about whether I possessed any intention of hurting my fellow students. For a moment I considered saying "only if they have been a bad girl" but decided that this would weaken my chances of fighting to establish that this was an act between consensual adults and should never have hit university turf. What I would like to know is how the masses of the spanking community would handle such a moment with pure, undiluted mockery over something these professors could barely talk about in a casual conversation. I almost want to ask why the faculty of the Mass Communications Department would ever feel it was their duty to delve into subject matter they could not touch with a ten foot pole unless a student had gone on-line and out of their way to get it.
This is a moment of mockery and a call for disrespect. Tell me what you think and notify your friends. Call me a sucker for starting a fire but the tinder has been piled and the matches are scattered everywhere. Take what humor you can and give nothing back but responses. My journal will contain the plight of this story and all I ask as readers is that you speak your mind and fill the pages with responses to my post. Send this to your friends and neighbors because I am firing a shot from this as my platform. I need a person with a spanking finesse to help the flames grow with wind and I have chosen you. The flames must grow my friends and I am growing cold of the hell frozen over brought by those to cowardly to speak their mind to me without going to the authorities of an institution over an interest of mine and the beautiful and passion word of FUCK. I almost want to ask what else these people do when they run out of room to hide behind desks and classrooms full of students educated enough to regurgitate information but not discuss their concerns.
Calling all clowns of disrespect and jesters of fetish with something to say in this regard. Friends, Romans, countrymen, send me your middle fingers because there are too many assholes to say fuck you to and not enough hands of mine to raise myself. I want only to provoke a response here and give bait to those who fish like blind net-surfing sailors with enough gusto to find their hook on-line but never tell me anything I do not need to draw out of them with questions like poison. The devil is laughing at the so called humility I am required to give the people that see this as a legitimate concern for the safety of students. Read, digest, and fling this one off of the carousel for me. The ring leader awaits.
Laugh Long, Love Life,
- Current Location:United States, ,
- Current Mood: devious
My mind whirs and I catch the moment again and ride the stream back to the present as the carousel of time returns me there. The library beckons me and so does the moment in which I will get there. Fuck you Monsanto, you and your chemical bull shit that poisons us all. There is a card upon which a devil and the joker combined laugh at your attempts to shut the farmers down, Monsanto. A duo arises for each person you attack with your army of lawyers and Gestapo dance. Now we take your shit but eventually we retaliate and when that day comes, all the world with burn in order to catch the attention of the masses and draw it to the epicenter where you will fall. We know where you shit, Monsanto, and we are watching you to ensure you get away with the least amount of poison possible outside of the toilet. Fuck you, you sly dog, we are watching you. I know how to eat and I get to decide where from; so do we all. Back off of my stomach and mouth or I will begin to use my mind and hands to fight back.
Laugh Long, Love Life,
I stroked the Cecilian skin on her lower back and began to battle with the Dolorous River on sound superiority--flowing water verses spanking and cries of erotic pain. By the middle of her left cheek her moans quickly turned to tears and by the time I reached her left thigh she had begun to squirms and lament continuously. She burst into tears to show her near excruciating pain mixing with erotic pleasure of her skin as I stroke her spine. Wind chimed in to compete with her cries and pleas and the air and river combined threatened to overwhelm the pair of us until the moment she climaxed in nervous tolerance of pain and reached back for the third time since her punishment began. I shook my head with a smile that signaled my satisfaction at having provoked a demand for more pain. With a hug, I slipped my left hand down to the button of her jeans and opened the snap. As I dropped the zipper she looked upward in embarrassment.
"Drop those jeans," I commanded.
Submissively she whined but obeyed. This time I guided her over the wooden bench, carved out of a halved pine trunk, right next to the spring. Overwhelming scents of feminine allure emanated from her in various places and began to surround me. Her luscious lips made the shape of letter fifteen of the alphabet as I messaged her shoulders and upper back until once again moving south. She carried a bashful look in her eye when I removed my belt and began to wrap part of it around the hand gripping the buckle. With my right elbow at and perfect square angle, I lifted my hand above my right shoulder until the flexible length of leather rested upon my back. She hid her eyes until the moment I brought the belt down upon her in an arc.
to be continued