"Any idiot can face a crisis. It is this day-to-day living that wears you out."
--Anton Chekov

I've really been working hard to, for lack of a better phrase, chill the fuck out lately. Things have been going fairly swimmingly (I got laid again this weekend and have the large, rather gauche lovebite on my neck to prove it) and I'm finding this the perfect time to work on breathing and relaxing.

And, let me tell you, it's hard! Seriously hard! Like, breathing and chilling out should be easy, right? Nope! I'm finding it very difficult to be still with my uncomfortableness. I've never enjoyed facing difficult situations head on; I much prefer to stew with my anger and blow up later. Talking, communicating, not running away from problems... all things that sound much better in theory then in practice. But I'm working on them, because that's the key to being a much more balanced and zen human being.

And it's a new month tomorrow. August. The very last month of the hottest summer in Illy-noise. And I, for one, can't wait to get this shit over with. Bring it on, August.

As an atheist and an ex-pagan, I live and breathe the concept of free will. Do I believe in destiny? Well, sort of. I believe that there are plenty of chances and opportunities in the world that are worthy of pursuing, but that you need to pick and choose what path you ultimately take. Every day is filled with new possibilities, but most people overlook them until the right moment comes along for them to claim fate or thank God.

My world is blessed. The negatives float away and I dwell mostly in positives these days. I don't believe in God (it all seems too easy to me), so my world is of my own making. I am my own God. I craft my fate, I spin the web of my destiny and I create the existence that I live in. I don't blame God or some other higher power for the downfalls I face; I simply pick myself up and keep walking down the road. Somedays it's a skinned knee, others it's a black eye... but those times when life is like lying on a bed covered in satin and rose petals drinking a bottle of red wine (had a delicious Malbec this weekend with my darling Eala), well, they're just so much more lovely.

I firmly believe in grasping life by the neck and worrying it until it gives up. I go for what I want, I do what I want, I am everything I ever wanted to be... and nothing is holding me back. My free will is just that, mine. Everyone in my life are people I've chosen, handpicked if you will, because they somehow enhance me. They've taught me things, they make me understand life better, they make me feel... they're all mine too. Even if the relationship only last a day or if it last a year, I still carry a part of them inside me. That's how I learn best.

But don't get me wrong, I have no God complex. I wouldn't even begin to assume I'd know how to run anyone else's life. I'm my own little center of the world, and I like it that way.

Interesting horoscope considering I've been working on a post about free will... and yes, I'm a Libra. That means I'm duel in everything AND that my birthday is coming up in 2 months. Better start shopping!


"I foresee the possibility of a Jerry Springer kind of week ahead for some of you Libras. You might seek romantic relationships with incarcerated criminals, or embark on a diet that requires you to eat three pints of ice cream per day, or try to take out your frustrations by spitting in the faces of unhinged teenage boys in mosh pits at punk concerts. On the other hand, there is also the possibility that many of you Libras will be pursuing unusual departures from the routine that would be more appreciated by the Dalai Lama than Jerry Springer. For instance, you might teach your skills to a class in a penitentiary, or go on a juice fast to purify yourself in preparation for a confrontation with abusive authorities, or express your righteous indignation at injustice by volunteering at a battered women's shelter. Whether you go more in the direction of Jerry Springer or the Dalai Lama will all depend on how craftily you wield your free will. "

I'm far too exhausted to post, give me a few days and I'll be back to myself. Promise.

There is no orgy of the senses quite like walking into an air conditioned apartment on a day with one hundred percent humidity, sliding sticky thighs onto a cool leather couch and eating the first tree-ripened peach of the summer. I know, I know, it's late in the season ... but I don't have much time to make it to the local farmer's market. For the record, the sweet corn on the cob was equally succulent. There's just something special about biting into food and having it spray sticky juices all over my face. I'm just sayin'.

Sunday, on my way out the door, Bear said something that stuck with me. We were talking about my weekend (I went out and drank way too much) and I was beating myself up over it, as I'm want to do lately. Bear listened to me and came back with the fact that "people are all works in progress." It reminded me of something that I heard during my short stint at AA (my father was an alcoholic during my childhood) about how life is ever changing and it's in everyone's best interests to roll with it and let it take you where it will.

Honestly, I'm horrible about that. I have phases where I seem to take things in stride, but generally I worry and fret and have a hard time adjusting to life changes. I think it's time to let go of that. I always tease Bear about being "zen," but I really admire that about him. He's able to relax and let life happen, to adjust accordingly and grow with the lessons life is trying to teach him. Hell, he's been on bedrest for 3 months and it's very rare that he gets depressed. "It is what it is," he always says, and that's so true. I can't really change things, so I need to just "be." I should really put all this yoga to good use anyway.

This song was featured on the Wedding Crashers soundtrack, but is from one of my favorite bands and probably in my top 5 songs of all time... I leave you with the lyrics.

"Measure me in metered lines, in one decisive stare,
the time it takes to get from here to there.
My ribs that show through t-shirts and these shoes I got for free;
I'm unconsoled, I'm lonely.
I am so much better than I used to be.

Terrified of telephones and shopping malls and knives,
And drowning in the pool of other lives.
Rely a bit too heavily on alcohol and irony.
Get clobbered on by courtesy, in love with love and lousy poetry.

And I'm leaning on this broken fence between past and present tense.
And I'm losing all those stupid games that I swore I'd never play.
But it almost feels okay.

Circumnavigate this body of wonder and uncertainty.
Armed with every precious failure and amateur cartography.
I breathe in deep before I spread those maps out on my bedroom floor.

And I'm leaning on this broken fence between past and present tense.
And I'm losing all those stupid games that I swore I'd never play.
But it feels okay.

And I'm leaving. Wave goodbye.
And I'm losing, but I'll try, with the last ways left, to remember.
Sing my imperfect offering."

Control. It's a major issue for me. I often wonder what trick of fate left me partly submissive and, as I don't believe in god, I find it hard to believe that this was all part of some larger plan. However it got there, it's the rare occasion that I am completely able to embrace it and just let myself feel vulnerable. It's hard for me, but necessary, as I'm only capable of shutting down that part of myself rarely.

Last night was heaven. He started slow and sweet, which is foreign to me, as I'm a creature who loves to fuck. Not make love, not have sex, fuck. Just fuck me. Seriously. As we progressed, however, I noticed the seed of something darker in his thrusts, in his eyes. The anger was there, the carnal nature, the beast... and it didn't take very much for me to coax it from its fleshy cage.

My breasts received a serious beating last night, although they're not black and blue on the outside. The inside feels like someone is jabbing my nerves with hot pokers, and they're swollen a bit. My back is still scratched and welted, which means that beautiful line between pleasure and pain was walked like a tightrope.

I was well and thoroughly fucked last night and I'm wearing the scars like badges of honor today.

Pardon me if this blog entry seems rushed or not neatly and concisely put together like some of my other ones. I'm fuck happy. Yes, you heard me correctly. I got laid. Seriously, spine bendingly, thigh drippingly laid.

I never really knew how loud I was until I got laid for the first time in several weeks. Noises I had never heard before, perverse ancient noises, were coming out of my mouth as if I were possessed. I don't believe I've ever had that many orgasms that quickly - it was like someone had attached electrodes to me and was pushing a button at whim.

I honestly don't remember too much about it. I was leaving, after having dropped off some quality of life things for Bear, and was adamant about getting out of the apartment to get my frozen food inside and make it to yoga on time. I kissed him goodbye, his hand entered my jeans and it was all over. Next thing I remember, my bare breasts were pushed against his yoga mat as my jeans found their way around my ankles. 20 minutes later, I was fucked out. I'm still giddy and tired.

Later, maybe, I'll write something a little more literary and a little less "holy shit, I got laid." If I can fathom the mental capacity, that is. Now I need to go brush my hair. It looks like I've been in a fist fight.

It's always the most dreary of days that make me the happiest. There's something so easy about blue skies and fluffy white cumulus clouds... it takes no drive and imagination to find them inspiring. It's bright, it's pretty, it's unbelievably cliche. And, honestly, these days those peppy people that seem to really enjoy those sorts of days irritate me beyond belief.

Give me dark, rainy, stormy and gloomy afternoons any day. If that means the hair I so dutifully straightened gets curly again or the mascara I just applied begins to run down my cheeks, I'll revel in it. I'll dance barefoot in the rain, fighting that growing need to take off my clothes and roll around in the wet grass, while every else sits inside their houses and succumbs to their depression.

I embrace that side of myself, more fully now than ever before. I used to listen to nothing but loud, grinding, antagonistic music to filter out the ugly side of my head. If I acted hard enough, if I fought strongly enough... I couldn't be depressed. Right? Of course that wasn't true. Over time, I learned to use other methods - sex, alcohol, cutting - but they never could compete either. Living with that inner sadness, understanding that it's a normal and necessary part of life (a beautiful part, even) has helped me grow leaps and bounds from that troubled kid I used to be.

I like to believe that, in my eyes, you can see the world. The profane, the symbolic, the beautiful and the ugly, the heroic and the cowardly; life in its most stark and contrasting nature. I wish I could tell you what you add to that.

I'm ridiculously cute... and I need to get laid. Seriously. If I didn't adore my mane of red hair, I would yank it out strand by strand. My poor pussy, so deprived. She's been nothing but wonderful to me and how do I repay her? By neglecting her. She's a creature of small desires... just a hard cock pounding her into oblivion every once in awhile. Perhaps some skilled fingers. A mouth or two. Lots of hair pulling. And biting. And slapping. And blood-letting. But perhaps I'm getting too involved...

Maybe when my lovely Eala (see photographic evidence if you doubt the loveliness of Eala) comes up in a few weeks... then I'll get some action. I know I'd love to lay into Eala's sweet flesh - it's been far too long (and apparently her ass is just asking for it). Mmm... rolling around on fresh sheets with a beautiful girl. That sounds like my idea of heaven.

Sometimes life is just like that.

If anyone wants a quick and easy way to get me naked, I suggest strip miniature golf. Seriously, I suck. A four year old nearly beat me. Wow. I'm completely demoralized. *laugh*

My fingers glide, wet with saliva and my own juices, over my pussy as I lie on the couch. I can feel the cool black leather against my bare ass and the creaking and moaning of the couch only adds to my excitement. I have this fantasy often, a man who can dominate me and force me to submit, but each time it feels like the first. I rub quicker, my toes flexed and my leg muscles straining. I can almost feel his hands entangled in my hair. I can almost hear the cracks of his hand striking my ass as he growls commands into my ear.

I like it this way, forced and violent, because it reminds me that there are bigger dogs out there. I sometimes feel like I have it all together, like I'm cock of the walk, but that isn't always the case. I need to be reminded, every so often, that I am (crazily enough) fallible. I can be taken down. I want to be taken down. Oh god, please take me down.

My hips gyrate to their own rhythm, causing the couch to express its own pleasure. I pant and groan as the orgasm begins to build, waiting for that moment when stars will appear. He's fucking me from behind now, my knees scratching the carpet as he teases me for thinking I could get away or that I didn't want it. He knows, just as I know, that I did want it. I do want it.

The warmth starts to creep up my legs as my fingers find the right beat, the nails lightly digging in. My back arches, I lick my lips... it's coming. Oh yes, it's coming. I'm coming... I press my lips against the couch in an attempt to censor the obscene words and moaning that explodes like the stars I'm seeing in my eyes. My toes point, my fingers dig in... oh fuck yes. This is what I needed.

Happy Fourth of July, all. I'm working on a post for tomorrow or the next day. See you then.