Saturday, September 17, 2016

A Journal By Some Guy 89

Journ when I used to look at this, I'd get goddamn intimidated because I knew how far I was from being able to get here. Comparison is the thief of joy and that's exactly what happened. Seeing something I wanted to draw and knowing I couldn't do it stole the joy of drawing from me. In the same vein, this has obviously been mirrored in my lack of activity with you.

My trauma and the prevalent societal attitude towards improvement had lead me to believe that there is no hope in a thing if it doesn't happen instantly. If you're not adept in the beginning, then you should abandon it. You're obviously no good. Why waste your time?

I hate to use Berzerk as a metaphor for anything in my life because logic willing, it will never be that bad but with me rereading the manga because of the anime, I can't help to.

Those Who Cling, Those Who Struggle is the name of the season finale(yes it's actually just 10 episodes)and also the name of said chapter. Long story short, those who clung to god and the Church were destroyed but those who fought and scrabbled to stay ahead of the massacre lived. Such can definitely be said of humans today. We're afraid of what we don't understand. We cling to what we know in spite of it because what we know makes us feel safe.

With my art, I must struggle. With any new thing really. I am not going to be good at something right off. I'm never going to know all that will go wrong. I do know this; if I want something bad enough, I will do what it takes to get it within moral reason. I want to draw almost like Miura-han. My story should be epic. Why should I not have that? Why should I not risk falling on my face for what I truly want?

I was talking with the Clone the other day about terrible rappers. Trap music isn't my thing. Not his either. He did have this to say. We can hate on there music all we want but they went out there and got it. They hustled to get where they are. He was right. They can be awful but they made it for however long that lasts.

When I think about it, my ambition is somewhat unrealistic in some areas but concrete in others. If I attain the artistic talent I desire, I can create what's in my head. I can make the art for this game. I can make my hentai on Tumblr. I can start drawing Storm(working title). I can get into 3D printing like I want to. Many doors open for me. If I add my meager writing talent to the mix, I can arrange all this nonsense to actually make sense. I can write for days.

A good friend of mine gave me a touching comment. She said my writing was un-basic.

And yeah, I'm watching that.

But a comment like that makes me want to write. It's like, that's a start, you're not complete garbage.

I know you've heard this for the umpteenth time Journ, but I took a hiatus from Facebook. I know. It's like I fell off the world. Perhaps I did. I don't think I'm going to completely leave or whatever but I am trying to make more of effort to socialize in real life. It's good for keeping in touch with people. I have actual friends on there. The information overload is too much though. It just eats up too much attention and time and I actually have, you know, stuff to do.

The time is approaching. There are signs in the East. Portents observed. Causality is running its course.

My test is coming up. Another reason to buckle down. Gotta focus and clear this checkpoint because I'm so fucking sick of my job I swear I could vomit.

Fucking Griffith. I gotta kill this thing. I gotta win. I'll struggle when I want to cling.

Friday, September 9, 2016

Quickies: The Wolf and The Princess

Save for the incessant hum of the air conditioner, there was silence. The only light came from her laptop, snuggled between her thighs. The chill gave her nude body goose flesh.

This Vampire Claude had just topped Serena, the alpha female wonderfully. He had to wrestle her down, pinning her so that all she could do was squirm. He would not take her by force, he needed her to submit in the wolf way.

Show me your belly.

It was perfect accept she couldn't change the fact that Claude looked like Jeremiah. Goddamn fuck face of a fucker Jeremiah who said they had to take a brake because his parents were forcing him to talk with ex-fiance Sandra. And just so happens to be a princess or something.

"But I don't love her. I mean, she broke it off in the first place..." If the pause wasn't there, she wouldn't have worried but to add insult to injury. "And what we're doing isn't super serious right?"

Maybe. Did she want it to be? She didn't know then. They had gone out. In daylight. To the UCF campus and around Orlando. He drove her out New Smyrna and they grilled until the stars came out. They talked about aliens and space as he awkwardly hinted that he smoked weed. She hadn't in years but him she might try it. Might. They talked a bit in his Range Rover.

She couldn't help but shove his hand down her basketball shorts. Jeremiah loved to finger her, marveling at just how wet she could get. Groups of  bar goers were passing by. The flash of headlights told her that someone was parking.

Celeste couldn't have care less. He was kneading her spot. She growled, squeezing her thighs. Jeremiah sighed in satisfaction.

So she agreed. It wasn't serious. In fact, they could take a break because she had writing to do. He was being distracting and didn't he have exams to study for or some shit? "Well, uh, yeah I guess...I mean my psych test is kind of important-" Fine. She hung up on him. Her phone was full of missed calls from him. That's why it was on airplane mode now.

It was for her writing she told herself. Maya Angelou could write a novel on a notepad with a bottle of whiskey or something she had heard. She didn't have alcohol. Just porn. Always interracial and always amazon.


His mother had not been pleased with Simisola breaking off the engagement. When he told Celeste she was akin to a princess he had not been exaggerating.

The Yoruba people were spread across the world. Communities were in the Caribbean, United States, England, Cuba, Brazil, Australia, and strewn threw Latin America in general. Even on the continent, the Yoruba were found in most of West Africa and the Niger-Congo.

The elite of these communities intermarried for connections. A Jamaican child got to go to Oxford not because he was an athlete or especially intelligent but because his eldest sister married a lawyer whose father was a professor at the school.

What would be the product of three generations of such unions? Would such a network of nepotism between powerful groups create a hegemony? Considering that its influence could potentially be global, one would could say yes.

The Awojobi Group circumvented being able to buy land in different countries through family ties. Their name was known across the world because there was always a rich Awojobi somewhere making money doing something. Real estate, cosmetics, oil, law, entertainment, even weapons he surmised, the Awojobi had their fingers in everything. Everyone wanted a piece of it. His parents were no different.

They couldn't pressure him to marry Simisola-who called herself Sandra in the States-out of social obligation but they didn't make it easy not to inconveniently run into her. He sensed the awkwardness was shared. Her smile was painted on wood whenever they met. Yet for some strange reason, she told her father that she approved of him.

Then Silver took him to handle family business in Trinidad. Everything changed. Sandra went from tolerable to querulous to down right evil. When he learned why, he met her vitriol in kind.

The Awojobi are everywhere. There were times when Jeremiah would have laughed that off.  He was sure someone told her about Celeste. That's the only reason the engagement was back on. His mother specifically spoke of him being with a tall white woman? She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. Even now that he was older, her disapproval could shatter him. Surely this a temporary thing?

Why did he call Celeste with that nonsense? Jeremiah replayed the conversation over and over. Each time he came to the same conclusion: he was spineless asshole. Did Silver not tell him that he would support him if his parents cut him off? So why was he still trying to please them? He more than liked Celeste. Her vampire-slash-wolf porn was actually well thought out. He was sure if Silver took a look at it, he could get her published. She was insightful. Kind. Funny. He didn't have to be anything but himself with her.

She wasn't taking his calls. That was no surprise. Her personality was as fiery as her hair. Celeste didn't take shit from too many people. Jeremiah knew he was not on that short list. He couldn't let her go though no matter how he tried to convince himself that he should. It wasn't about spiting his parents or Simisola. It was her and him and what they had together, whatever that was.

He only heard of Del in passing from Celeste but somehow the message she sent him on Fetlife seemed naturally her. Buy me food and tell me what the fuck is up with you two. The familiarity and being on a fetish site was typically off putting for him. Jeremiah had few issues but kink was particularly personal.

Yet he agreed to Izziban Sushi on Colonial Drive, an upscale restaurant/bar built in what was once a car lot. He had been there before with his college cohorts many a time so he was used to how cramped the parking was, cutting his wheels just so when he found a space. He found himself adjusting his tie and collar in the mirror then chewing some gum for good measure.

Why he needed to make a good impression on her, he couldn't really say. All he really knew was that he was desperate and not wanting to look it. With the heat index being that it was, his dress shirt was already sticking to him. There was nothing to be done about that nor the sweat beading on his bald head.

Inside, two Korean teens dressed in flashy shirts were busy laughing with the hostesses, clearly not understanding that they got hit on constantly and that smiling and making conversation were more job related than anything else. He didn't fail to notice the taller of two smiling at him.

However he had overlooked Del. "You couldn't have done that shit around Celeste." Her wheezy voice boomed out of her short frame. "She would've cussed you out."

"Del I presume?" Jeremiah failed to sound casual. His smile felt too wide on his face.

"Like I don't have a picture on Fet?"

"Not one without-ahem-gear on."

She cocked her head. Her bowl haircut and square glasses made the gesture robotic. "I'll give you that. My mistress says that I'm a different person in sub space." She shrugged walking past him. The teens shot her mean looks. Del's face remained impassive. "For two."

"Right away Ms. Ainsworth!" It was the shorter of two who skirted the young men as if they weren't there. Jeremiah was a regular here and he had never seen them respond like that. "Your usual spot?"

Del sighed, rolling her eyes. "Sure. Whatever."

The young woman did everything short of bowing before leading them to their table. The din was unusually loud even for a Friday. Faces young and old were glued to television screens. There would be no Korean music videos tonight. The basketball game took center stage.

If it wasn't the Super Eagles, Jeremiah really couldn't be bothered. The whoops of the crowd rose and fell in waves. He could hardly hear what Del was trying to say. "I said you can tell this was a dealership building by the layout." She pointed a black nailed hand to the kitchen. "Look at all that extra space. For car displays and shit."

"Are you an architect?"

"Better. My father is building magnate." The hostess had brought them outside. She was right. It had definitely been a dealership in a previous life. The patio was on concrete. Wait staff weaved through tables. The clak of their shoes sounded like UCF traffic. There were monitors outside under awnings he presumed to keep off the rain. Loud though they were, the open air gave the game a muted quality.

"You're that Ainsworth? Big Billy Bob Ainsworth?"

"Yup. The most racist, sexist, religious idiot I know."

"And Triple B is basically building Orlando."

"You're two for two." The table was on the slab's corner, nestled away from the noise. He got the feeling that she usually ate here alone. "Three will kinda impress me."

"I know he's not racist enough not to be fronted by Nigerian money."

Her eyebrow quirked a bit. Only then did he realize that the hostess had been listening to their conversation. She must have noticed that he noticed. "The waiter will be out momentarily Miss Ainsworth. Is there anything else you needed?"

"Food." She said flatly. "Besides that we're good."

She smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. The hostess bobbed her head before excusing herself, her eyes darting between them. Jeremiah mopped his head with a handkerchief.

"Your father has eyes."

"So does yours the way Celeste tells me." She sparked a cigarette. The flame revealed the blackness of her lipstick and her pallor. "The fuck is that about?"

It's about your redneck father's backers, those Awojobi fuckers. "Not my father, Sandra has people that keeps tabs on me. They told my parents-fuck that sounds bad-"

"Yeah it does."

"-And-and that's because it is." He found his head in his hands. "I love Celeste," he whispered. "I never loved Simisola."

Was he crying or sweating? It was hard for him to tell. There was a collective whoop from within the restaurant. He smelled nicotine on the breeze. Jeremiah was wiping his face again.

"Who the fuck even carries a handkerchief in this day in age?" Her laughter was even wheezy. Had she heard what he said? "You must be some kinda dom, being all fancy and shit. I'm half expecting you to unfold a napkin on your lap." Del must have saw his face. "Oh my fucking god you do! That's so weird."

"Because I'm black?"

"Fuck no, because you're human." If her blue eyes rolled any harder, they'd pop out of her head. "My mom tried to get me and my brothers into that shit. Supposedly," She took another drag of her cancer, exhaled. "she was preparing us for high society or whatever the fuck. Didn't really take. People either saw us as dirty Eastern eurotrash or just plain Southern white trash." Another pull. Her eyes roved over him. "Seems to be working for you though."

"Not lately."

The waiter came, a twenty-something with a beard and a top knot, to take their orders. Both of them ordered the happy hour special. Jeremiah had water. Del had sake.

"You're a douche." She said after the waiter left. "You make me want to curse at you in Ukrainian."

"I have to get her back or at the very-"

"Ni. No at the very least. Go fucking get her. Man up. Fuck your parents."


"No." She put her small hand over his. Black nail. Fingerless gloves with steel rings. "Fuck your parents. Fuck my parents. We all gotta say that at some point in our lives or else we don't get to live our lives." With a pat, she broke the connection. "Stop being a pussy. Do what you gotta do."


Stretching at home had made her wet.

Getting worked up over nothing was usual just after her period. That was biology at work. If Celeste did squats she'd get horny. It wasn't just her privates rubbing against the fabric. It was the isometric tension of her inner thighs stabilizing. Any lower extremity or core exercise seemed to do that.

When she got in her in her Chevy, she could feel the trickle between her thighs. Her body was betraying her.

She couldn't resist speeding off and she hit a speed bump. It made her bounce. First she hit the top of her head, then her bottom hit the seat. More wetness with a bruise to match.

"Fuck!" She spat just as she passed Miss Gertrude. The gentle, old lady recoiled in surprise. Celeste apologized profusely before pulling off.

He's begging you like a supplicant. He wants you in the wolf way again.

Oh how she hated to make dialogue in her head, especially when she was driving. It wasn't that far to the Planet Fitness on Lake Mary Boulevard. Maybe three blocks. That didn't mean people within that length of street didn't get into crashes often. Like her dad(when he was there)said, you gotta drive for yourselves and those other retards.

She was glad he wasn't around much.

There were more speed bumps in this parking lot of her gym too and also a pothole that she didn't maneuver pass quickly enough this time. Not to mention people not even looking before walking through traffic. The Humvee ahead of her slammed on brakes and honked in frustration. The group of Puerto Rican guys promptly flipped them off. It was humanity at its best.

Celeste barely registered the hello from the staff member before spotting him. Black basketball shorts with tights under them and a matching wife beater. Jeremiah was curling fifty five pound dumbells, his arms pumping in rhythm with her breathing.

"I said Miss Celeste." It was the Italian guy who did too much upper body work. "You said you needed a new tag?"

She wanted to slap the grin off of his face but the heat in her cheeks told her she was blushing. "Yes!" she snapped.

"Are you alright Celeste?" When did he get so close? Sweat glistened on his chiseled arms. The musk of his workout made her nipples pebble. "You slammed the desk and-"

Had she? The stinging in her hand wasn't there before. "I'm just pissed off, OK?" She growled. Her heart was beating so fast now that he was near. Her body didn't want to obey. "And why the hell does that matter to you?"

His chest rose and fell, she knew, in rhythm with her own.

How can a dead heart beat like a wolf's?

"I'm just-" The blinking. The puppy eyes. Celeste wanted to beat him up. Or fuck him. Maybe cuddle. She didn't really know which at this point. "I just got worried. Can I be worried? You say you're busy but-"

Celeste walked passed him, feeling the eyes of the staff burn into her back. They had been witness to this drama on and off for that last week. He had tried talking to her in the parking lot when she blew up the first time. Jeremiah gave her space then but he didn't go to another gym. Celeste could feel him watching her. Pining for her.

She went to the stair climber. Set it to cardio to get her blood pumping though with sweaty, pouty, and muscle bound Jeremiah climbing on the one next to her was more than enough to do that.

Celeste had teased him, for kicks she thought, by working out next to him. To see the agony in his face of not being able to touch her. After those sessions, the fantasy made her orgasm hard enough to fall asleep in a puddle.

He offered his hand. She did not take it. The half formed erection in his pants was enough for her.


In her gay fantasies, she still used Brandon. Even after the break up and him coming out to her, it hadn't stopped. Zauriel, one of the vampires in her stories, was based on him. Del didn't think it was weird to objectify him in such a manner. Her Sir/Ma'am agreed. Celeste herself felt it wrong because it was her ex. She couldn't say he was quite over him.

After what happened with Jeremiah, she tried to keep him and Claude out of her masturbatory escapades. Celeste didn't want to give him the same preference as Brandon.

Yet she would come home, to an apartment littered with anime and comic statues, posters, and memorabilia, her subconscious went to Claude without permission. Jeremiah liked her Pochaco statues just as much as the Superman one. She imagined Claude not sharing the same sentiment(four hundred year old that he was)but having his curiosity, asking about this character and that as he flowed through her space like a liquid shadow.

Zauriel would fuck a guy in front of her just to be an arrogant tease but not Claude. He would pretend not to be interested in her because of her being a she-wolf. He'd make up banal conversation even as his eyes roved over her.

Today Leslie had tap danced on her last nerve. She was just running the office. It wasn't like she was book keeping or handling contract shit. She forgets to forward one, one goddamn memo and she lost her shit.

Celeste could literally bonk that little bleach, blond bitch on the top of her head. Yes, she thought kicking off her flats. Just like that hammer game at the fair.

She was moving to her bedroom not her hobby room. Calm down. Claude purred. You mortals get flummoxed over nothing. With a well practiced wiggle and-ah!-the breast shackles were off and on the floor. Next was her skirt but she kept her stockings on.

The cold. It made her flesh tingle. Inside her stockings, under her panties, her hand was churning lava.

Have you wolves no shame!? Claude was repulsed at the straining of his pants. He was trying to master himself but his hand was going to his zipper. Celeste could feel the sudden gush at the thought. She wanted Claude to take her, to pull out her hand and lick it clean, growling at the the fire that sparked in him-

"Fuck!" Celeste was shivering in her thighs first. It was climbing. She was taking in too much oxygen. Everything was going sideways now. "Shit! Ah! Dammit!" One hand was swimming, the other twisting her nipple. Celeste was thrashing now. Her eyes darted beneath her eyelids. "Goddamn you Claude! Goddamn. You. Jeremiah! FUCK!"

She had curled into a ball at some point which was normal. Jilling off like that had started as a experiment but was probably turning into a fetish.

That longing in Jeremiah was good story fodder, art imitating life. In her high school days, had she not wished for the impossible? Some hot-for-no-reason guy wanting to be with her but for some stupid reason, not being able to be with her? This was Serena and Darien level shit here.

Her hand had never been this wet she reflected. She was practically juice now. Nor was she in high school. If she wanted Jeremiah, she could have him. Nothing was stopping her save herself and ignoring his bullshit. He was desperately trying to apologize. Then there was Del's uncharacteristic interference to consider.

If she wasn't ready to forgive him at the very least, she was ready to fuck him. That's what she said to herself denying the fluttering in her chest.


The one mark of the true gym rat is to be habitual.

That should have been a warning sign.

Jeremiah was dubbed the eternal e'lir for a reason. He'd go to school just to go. All of his classes were early in the day. That meant right after, he'd go to the gym in Lake Mary, and if it permitted, smoke with his buddy Silver later. It shocked her to realize that she knew him that well.

Apparently someone else had as well.

The tension between them was instant. So much was it that even passerbys hushed in passing.

Her name was not Sandra. It was Simisola. She said it in the set of her chin, the way her defined shoulders went back as she strolled towards her with absolute confidence.

She was frozen in place, Her heart was hammering in her chest. The woman's grace seemed preternatural. It was obvious from the way she displayed her six pack that she worked out but her rolling gait was that of a dancer. Ballet if she had to guess and by the elongation of her muscles, probably yoga as well.

It was only when they were face to face that she realized that Simisola had gauged her as well. Celeste felt her almond eyes rove over her right up until they met hers.

That is when she saw the chink in her armor.

She knew he had already chosen. Celeste's phone was ringing. The theme from Vampire Knight was soft to all but them. "You're her." Cultured. Not British but definitely European.

Celeste instantly hated her. She was a fucking princess. He was turning Simisola down for her? "I am she." The smile on her face felt extra tight.

Simisola took a visible breath to master herself. Her perfect fucking breasts straining against her too cute fucking sports bra. "If I wanted him-"

"You still couldn't have him." Celeste growled. You wolves are so quick to anger. "What's mine is mine."

"Bitch." She hissed.

"You forgot to put boss in front of that." She thought Simisola a vampire but her hackles were raised like a wolf. There was fire in her almond gaze. Celeste could feel her breath quicken in response.

"My lady." A soft voice called out. "We've dallied too long. Your mother awaits."

"Yes...Lolade." Celeste could see Simisola's fist unclench. She found some of her princess bullshit training. "We must be off." Her eyes hadn't left hers. "I've already handled this business anyway."

She wanted her to bump her, to give her any excuse for them to fight. Her body was humming with anticipation. She wanted to beat her pretty fucking face in.

But the quiet stare from the sharply dressed, corn-rowed, woman in the suit said that wouldn't have been a good idea. She'd have to get involved because she could probably hurt her.

Was there a little embarrassment in that warning? Celeste didn't think she was reaching. She had been a part of something petty and she was all business.

Her adrenaline was coming down. People again had been witness to her personal life. Maybe she should slink off and skip a day. Save herself some anxiety.

But queens don't do that. She wouldn't give Simisola the satisfaction.


A rival she-wolf. It was all so clear.

Vampire-wolf hybrid? Stupid. Like completely ridiculous. Amina was just an older werewolf who took vampire blood to sustain herself. Her pack were worshiped as gods and goddesses because of how the blood made them beautiful. Some went mad. Amina had to be executioner and pack leader to maintain her kingdom.

Amina. Simisola.

She told herself that this time, her self imposed exile was actually for writing. To an extent this was true. The story was really coming together with Serena(Celeste)finally having a villain to contest against. Claude apparently loved her long ago but never made love to her because he still thought it taboo.

It was petty because she was beautiful. Celeste couldn't stand how true that was. She was unreal. Her hips, her thighs, her everything was put together. It was like she was crafted out of buttery chocolate with a perfect halo of an afro. The fierceness of her gaze made her want to challenge her out of spite.

Because Jeremiah hadn't been joking about her being royalty or something. It wasn't some misplaced sense of superiority she had. She was trained to have it. Celeste couldn't imagine her walking around with books atop her head speaking French and playing the violin.

So why? This had stopped her from getting past the climax of the story where Claude agrees to become one of us Amina's guard to save Serena's life. The question of why Jeremiah would turn down such a woman for her? It wasn't sex. He wasn't promising Simisola anything. He must've known what was happening to have called her like he did...

No. Claude shouldn't fall in love with Amina. Amina should love with Claude...for being so in love with Serena! It could work. She scrawled it down on her notepad. She liked the idea so much it made her a little wet.

The trickle brought her back to the question and the fact she hadn't undressed after coming here straight from work. Celeste hadn't jilled off either so focused had she on her writing. The cool air and the dark of the hotel room made her nipples harden. Maybe it was time for a quick wank.

Her phone buzzed. It was Del or maybe Mavis. Hopefully. Or it could be,,,

I'm outside. Del told me where you were.


Please talk to me.

Goddamn Del! She was going to chew her the fuck out for this shit! Celeste texted him back.

You're gonna be honest with me?


Yes. Whatever it takes.

She should make him twist in the wind more some part of her thought. The other was that maybe Del had done her a favor; she had faced Brandon and what he was. There were some lingering feelings there but they were getting sorted out. If there wasn't going to be anything between her and Jeremiah, it would go the same route.

Unbolting the door, she hadn't realized it was dark. Monroe on the Lake was just as it named implied nestled right on the marina in downtown Sanford. Birds still cried on the wind blowing the smell of the St. Johns into her room.

"Thanks." Jeremiah as always was dressed professionally in a crisp white collared shirt and slacks. He smiled without showing his teeth.

"Don't say that just yet." She let him walk past her. His cologne was undoing her a bit. He didn't go to the bed, instead pulling a chair around to face her. He took a deep breath. "What do you want to know?"

"How did that bitch know where you were and who I was?"

"The Awojobi have eyes."

"The hell does that mean?"

He sighed. "Del could tell you a thing or two about it. Long story short, the Awojobi Grouip are made up of multiple companies under one umbrella. They are spread throughout the world. Simisola is the first daughter of Oritsewehinmi Awojobi's second wife, who is the leader of the group."

"The wife or Ori-I'm not gonna butcher that name."

"Oritsewehinmi is the leader. I should know, I got a stern talking from him the other day." His face had a mixture of dread and awe. "The-the things he has done. Who he is. It's-it's more than I can handle. I never wanted anything like that. It's like they just absorb you into their world. I can't deal with that."

Celeste resisted the urge to comfort him. This guy had really scared him. "And that's why you could never be with Simisola?"

He laughed. "You saw why I couldn't be. She'd always see me as less than herself and she'd feel justified in doing it." Jeremiah shook his head. "Look at what she pulled at the gym. Who does that? Who shows up to a gym with goddamn Kato?"

"So she was a bodyguard."

"Lolande has already taken a bullet for her."

The hum of the AC hung between them. These things he said casually. Bodyguards. Bullets. Whoever her father was. Celeste didn't know the pressure he spoke of was real. How long had he been backed in the corner? Why hadn't he told her anything? She wanted to punch him.

"I might be closer to you."

"What was that?" She hadn't realized her mind had drifted.

"I said, I might be closer to you." He said sadly. "My parents might be cutting off since I turned down Oritsewehinmi to his face. I might not be able to keep the mortgage up on place even with my tutoring. Silver says he can put me up if it comes to that."

"They would do that? Oh come here!" Fuck. She didn't know it was that serious. He looked like a lost puppy, an incredibly cut lost puppy. It felt good to put her arm around his muscular shoulders.

"Yeah they would. I've been going to school like forever so it's not like they weren't on the verge of doing it." Another sigh. She missed the rise and fall of his chest. "But this is the final straw. It's like I spat in the face of all of their hard work. My mother-she went silent. I've never seen her do that."

"And your dad?"

He closed his eyes. "He said, I don't know what to do with you, I don't think I ever did. What does that mean? Am I failure? Did he fail? My father isn't existential at all."

She was massaging his shoulders, falling back into their rhythm easily. The knots were there. He needed to relieve some stress. They both did. "How many languages do you speak?" She queried.

Jeremiah actually had to think about it. "Eight?"

"And how long have you been in school?"

It was so adorable that she giggled. He chuckled bashfully. "Since I was sixteen."

"I didn't know that you jerk!" She slammed him with a pillow. He toppled over laughing. "Sixteen?! Oh my fucking god do I hate you!"

"I thought I-"

"Damn. Genius. Fucker!" She put her laptop on the nightstand only to be blindsided by Jeremiah hitting her with a pillow. "And you cheat at pillow fighting! I bet you play an instrument too!"

"The drums!" He tried to escape to find more ammo but Celeste had pinned him down. "But my parents didn't like it!"

"You still play though you asshole!" She was straddling him. His squirming was turning her on.

"My neighbors hate me!" Jeremiah rocked back and forth. She lost her grip on his wrists. He reversed their positions, slamming her on the bed. "They wish I would just join a band or something."

They were both breathing hard. Celeste struggle, a low purr in her throat. Their eyes met. His lips almost brushed hers.

"Show me your belly." He whispered. "Submit to me." Celeste shivered. She turned her head to the side, baring her neck. His warm tongue explored it before he nipped her. Her body was aching. She didn't move. He kissed down her collar bone before releasing her wrist. He unbuttoned her shirt. She raised her back. He unhooked her bra.

His tongue was like fire on her nipples. Celeste wiggled but not much more, savoring how he batted them around, slurping and nibbling. He slapped her breasts. The sting made her growl.

"Play with your pussy." He kissed her between sentences. She could tell he missed her, the way he hungrily explored her mouth. The lump in pants bumped against her mound. "Let me see it."

His cock was out as he paced about her, stroking himself. Jeremiah's eyes were drinking her in. Her hand was moving in and out of her. Two fingers kneading that spot he loved. She was squeezing her thighs together. Her breath came in gasps. He was jacking off right over her face.

"Tell me when you're cumming so I can fuck your mouth." Jeremiah gave her a finger to suck. It was salty with his precum. "You like that don't you wolf-bitch?"

Fuck! Her pussy gushed. He had been reading her shit! "As if your vampire cock would be enough..."

"We'll see wolf whore. If it's unfit, you shouldn't choke on it."

But she would and they both knew it. Jeremiah had all but squatted over her face, slapping his cock across her cheek. So hard. So heavy.

"I"m cumming!" She yelled.

"Open your mouth." And she did. Celeste was moaning with a mouthful of cock. Jeremiah pushed as much as she could take down her throat. She gagged as her pussy gushed again. Jeremiah shivered.

"What was that?" His voice quavered. "More than enough?"

Celeste was still cumming she could hardly string words together. Jeremiah kicked off his shoes. Spit dribbled out her mouth. "It was...acceptable..."

"Then I can have you in the wolf's way now that you've submitted?" He was shedding clothes like they were never on.

"Yes." Celeste was on her knees. Jeremiah had one leg on the bed. He had read her writing and somehow, that was turning her on more than the way he was fucking her mouth. He knew she was going to slobber his dick down. He knew how to make her gag. He knew she was going to keep playing with herself. Jeremiah twisted her nipples and slapped breasts more, grabbed a handful of her carrot hair moaning as he fucked her throat.

When she stood, he peeled her soaked stockings away before her panties. His fingers probed her as he nibbled and bit her. He knew to bite on her neck as she came.

"So wet." He whispered after she bent over. "Wolf pussy is so honest."

It was a direct from Claude. Celeste was already shaking at thought when his tongue flicked against her slit. He moaned in pleasure, slurping up her wetness, spreading her ass cheeks to get everything he could. The spanking made her squeal in delight. She heard the foil of a condom being torn and her body ached.

She felt so tight around him. He groaned. "Deceptive she-bitch." Another quote. He grabbed her hair. "Your hate for vampires doesn't extend to your nethers."

"Oh my god!" She was shaking. "You vampire bastard!" He was stroking her deep. She could feel him in her belly. "You'd never-" He was going so deliberately. It was like he was massaging her insides. "-You'd never fuck a wolf huh?!" Jeremiah was growling. Like a drum. He was beating her like a drum.

"Had to show you wolf whore." She sounded like macaroni. He was churning her faster and faster. "You'll not insult the nobility of my kind!"

"Oh my god yes! Yes! Yes you vampire fucker! YES!" She was meeting his strokes now. He wasn't letting her run. She wasn't going anywhere. She dripping down her thighs.

"Goddamn Celeste! You're gonna make me bust in you already!" Jeremiah had frozen up. He held her hair for dear life.

"In my mouth. Fucking come in my mouth!" She pulled away from him. He was taking off the condom. Jeremiah yelped as Celeste threw on the bed. She slapped his hands as she sucked him off. He thrashed and moaned.

"Fuck! Oh fuck!" He tried to sit up but Celeste used her free hand to keep him still. Up and down, her hand worked with her mouth. He felt her tongue run under his tip. He couldn't get enough before he was erupting in her throat. Celeste moaned as he kept shooting, kneading his balls as he shook helplessly.

She rolled to his side, exhausted. Jeremiah was still shaking and bewildered. His eyes flew open just to close again, staring at nothing.

"Do you have anywhere to go." Celeste asked knowing the answer.

"Wha?" He asked. "Oh. Of course not."

"You read my blog." She said pleased. "You fucking roleplayed with me."

"It was off the cuff..."He said breathlessly. "Improv."

"But it was hot." She rubbed his well muscled thigh. She was satisfied when he quivered. "I want more of that."

"So are you forgiving me?" The hope in his voice was cute.

"Nah just yet. You gotta fuck me a little more and butter me up."

Friday, July 8, 2016

A Journal By Some Guy 88

I haven't gone anywhere or really did anything all day.

I don't have an excuse. None of us do. This. What is happening in America is our fault.

I was already feeling anxious seeing as two police related shootings happen in basically a span of 24 hours. Oh it wasn't the fact that they were black and were wrongfully shot; in some sick way I'm desensitized to that. What disturbed me most were that police had the upper hand. Physically in one case. In the other, a citizen obeyed the law. They did not escalate the situation yet somehow...

Now a police shooting where police have been slain, right behind this and the shooter is black.

I'm not going to lie, I was hoping he wasn't. It's the closest to prayer an atheist can get.

And don't give me bullshit about why. You can't. If you're not ethnic or male and definitely not if you've never been a black male. Logic forbid a black woman. Pathos, Ethos, and Logos...our black women...

Who weeps for them? Who weeps for us? Who protects us?

No one. No one is protecting Americans from Americans. When our children were slaughtered in class rooms, we did nothing. When innocent people were killed in a movie theater, we did nothing.

And when black people are gunned down by the people who are suppose to protect us....

We do less than that. We get hot for about five seconds and then. Nothing. Because on some basic level we know nothing will get done.

I'm tired. I'm black and I'm gifted and I love the fuck out of this country but I'm fucking tired.

Are you on my side America? If so, then why do you let me and mine die? Why do I have to get used to my black people dying? Huh? But you want me to hate these terrorists? You want me to support this war? You want us to be one nation?

But. You let. Me. Die?

How does this fucking sound to you?! You mean to tell me that if I comply and do everything short of shucking and jiving, that I could still die? And you won't stand up for me when you know I died wrong?

Philando died fucking wrong and I'm tired.

I'm tired of excuses. I'm tired of mass shootings day in and day out and people telling me, well I have to have my Second Amendment rights so...

What about my fucking right not to die just because I go somewhere at the wrong time? Fuck that fucking shit! Don't fucking tell me that your right to have a gun trumps my right not to be shot by you! Just fucking stop it!

No good guy with a gun bullshit. Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously?

Ask any military trained person how a real firefight turns out. Go ahead.

There's a reason veteran's hate fireworks. There's a reason PTSD exists.

So if the men and women that serve in our armed forces are messed up from doing their duty...what in the actual hell do you think somebody that just has a permit is gonna do in a mass shooting?

I'm fucking tired. I'm just dizzy. I'm tired of this.

I don't just worry for me. I don't just worry for my black friends. I worry for everyone. America isn't keeping its own safe. We can't get any sort of legislation passed to at the very least deter gun violence. Nothing!

Time and time again, people of color, women,gay, lesbian, transgendered and just plain everyone are getting killed and no one can do anything. They won't protect us from us and we are fooled into thinking that somehow we can do so ourselves.

That everyone having a gun makes us all safe.

Unless your black. Because after all this time. All this suffering. All this injustice. All this marching...I'd have to give up my gun. To make someone else, who also has a gun, feel safe.

I'm tired. I'm tired of being black in this country.

I'm a big black guy. One false move, or not, and I could be seen as a threat.

Then I'll be dead.

You'll have pictures about me on Facebook. You'll be angry. Maybe sad. You'll hold a vigil.

And nothing will change.

That's the most galling part of it Journ. My death will ultimately amount to nothing because hell, they basically lynched Sandra Bland and nothing was done. Trayvon Martin, shot after a dispatcher told this guy not to engage him. He walks.

Not only that, but he tries to sell the murder weapon on the internet.

I'm tired. It's almost farcical now. We are caught in this whirlwind of violence and social inequality and we're just too lazy, or too selfish, or too numb...

I don't know. I really don't.

And that's why, I'm seriously considering leaving this country for somewhere else. Soon. Just packing my shit and leaving and not turning back.

Because it's too fucking illogical. If I obey this officer, who is supposed to protect me, I can still die. I won't have a weapon. I won't have any drugs. I won't do anything threatening. I won't be rude.

But five shots either way.

And though the mentally ill or a terrorist, shouldn't have any guns, we've got people actively fighting for their rights to possess them. Not gonna point any fingers because shit, everybody's doing it. The NRA...


And I'm just fucking tired. I mean...I fear the people who are supposed to protect me and that fear is not irrational. As a black man...I am a target and there's nothing I can do about it and nobody's going to do anything about it for me...

I'm not safe in the country I was born. The place I pay taxes. Where I obey the law. Where I own land. Where I mind my own business.

I can't really call this place home can I? Would you?

So I don't know Journ. This is a pivotal time for me. People don't understand what it's like to fear for your life and to not be able to do anything to ensure it.

I sincerely wish I was being dramatic Journ. I wish this was just satire or a joke or just me being extra.

But it's really not. I didn't want to go to the gym because it's in Lake Mary, where you can get stopped for nothing.

For you see, when they run your plates and they find out that your record is clean, suddenly, your break light is out....

Do you understand Journ? Does anyone not comprehend how many levels of bullshit that is? Because I'm not making that up. This has happened to me several times.

And I can't dammit. I won't.

I don't wanna die for nothing.

My life isn't perfect. I've made bad decisions and I'm not where I want to be but fuck, this is my goddamn life. The only one I'll ever have. I don't want it to end with me shot in my goddamn car!

That's all I want America. Some semblance of safety. Some kinda recognition for my humanity. Empathy. I'm not a thug. I'm not a drug dealer. I'm not a terrorist. I'm not any of these fucking things so stop killing me like I am goddammit! I'm an American. Treat me like you swear you do! If we're the Land of the Free then why am I wearing chains?! Stop giving me lip service!

Stop asking me to bleed for you when you don't do shit for me!

I'm tired. Everyone is tired. Tired of seeing the President have to make a speech to say the same goddamn thing, over and over and over again!

I'm just fucking exhausted with us! There is a problem. We are Americans. Aren't we smart? Then let's fix this fucking shit! Let's figure out what to do!...

But you're not are you?

And that's why I'm dying. Not from bullets. I'm running myself ragged. Trying to figure out how I'm going to make to work and back without being pulled over. Because if I do, I could get shot.

I could die. Doing what is expected of me as a law abiding citizen.

So let me get this out the way: If I ever get pulled over, detained, restrained or otherwise have a run in with the police, I did not resist because I was trying to get home to my family. I was trying to live. I was trying to see another day. I wanted to realize my dreams. I wanted to have a home and maybe a wife, and who knows? I might have changed my mind and wanted kids. But because of that, know that I didn't antagonize the police in anyway so that they had to use deadly force. If they say I committed suicide, I did not. Why? See previous statements.

And you know what? I have to fucking say this. I have to Journ. For public record. I have to make sure that should I die at their hands that none of the bullshit they say sticks. I've got to make sure that everyone knows that things aren't true because as a black male, being a victim means being on trial.

I'm tired of seeing Americans die and us not being able to stop it. My hands are tied if yours are. Maybe more so.

I feel awful Journ because I'm not even playing. I might have to leave everything I know behind, just so I can survive in this world. I'll have to be a refugee. I'll have to see what I can do with whatever I have. And what about my friends? My family? What do I say to them? Will they take me seriously? Will think this is a game?

I don't want to Journ. I really don't.

I just know that I'm not safe here. I can get shot down just for going outside.

I shouldn't have to live in fear of living.

Tuesday, July 5, 2016

A Journal By Some Guy 87

It's always awhile but I think maybe you'll see too much of me Journ.

Days become significant when you chip away at yourself. It is not to tear everything down but to cut away that which is unnecessary.

Self reflection is the most intimate form of masochism.

So through you I shall see more of myself. Perhaps this your chance Journ to punish me.


I had to unfriend two people on Facebook today.

To paraphrase Superman on Robot Chicken, "That whole sentence is stupid."

I don't really take the Internet too seriously, Facebook less so.

However, right after the tragedy at Pulse, people had a lot to say but not a lot of brains behind saying it.

The first said something in response to something he posted. Long story short, he said something like Now I know they were killed and that's bad but if they're gay, they are going to hell.

The second was in the same vein of irrational phobias.

Now I posted some meme saying that the actions of a few Muslims doesn't mean we all think Muslims are bad. Some of us get it.

My friend who is Muslim said thanks.

This other one though, launches into a tirade that I won't even dignify by repeating. It was illogical, childish, and ignorant to the point of farce. It would've been remiss of me not to apologize to my friend, who just sold me a great car, on the behalf of a man child.

Religion is garbage. Always. Mark Twain had a good quote about it that summed it up perfectly. It's like people get a generalized fairy tale that's alright to have because there are many others duped into believing the same thing. It's actually just a nuanced form of social control used by the rich to get poor people to do what they want.

And who wouldn't want you to devalue the lives of 49 people shot to death by a mentally ill individual?

And who profits by making an enemy out of your own countrymen? My Muslim friend is more patriotic then I shall ever be and that is no hyperbole. He has a brother on the police force. He's passed on his love of comics to his son. He's more American than me.

Those 49 people were human beings that didn't deserve to die. To dismiss them because of your narcissitic delusion is sickening. It is the same attitude people adopt when Sandra Bland was killed. It is the same purview that says the right to own a gun trumps the right not to get shot by one.


I write to unload my mind Journ.

Please don't take this a money shot joke.

Anxiety is a many layered thing. You always have this picture of eyes darting about, sweating, or some nervous tick. As if a loud sound will startle them like a skittish cat.

But it's not. It is more akin to a tea kettle whistling or a traffic jam with everyone honking.

It is too many worries at once. Illogical or logical. There is hardly a difference for all of them need some level of attention correct? You wouldn't have noticed these things if they really didn't make difference to you?

Thus, you split your attention and that's the problem. You can't Journ. You can't keep your eye on every little detail of your life. You want to. You feel you should. That's the adult thing to do. You manage things so that they don't get out of hand. Life doesn't always allow for that though if ever.

For my own experience, I know where my anxiety started. It's trauma. You know this Journ.

I remember screaming and crying myself to sleep after that, doubly so if the lights weren't on until the point my mother one night just shut the door on me.

Cruel? Perhaps. I learned to self soothe from it which is why I hardly need reassurance from people.

It helps Journ. In a world where you are bombarded with expectations both real and imagined, you must step back. You must become detached and masochistic.

I literally step out of myself at times. Even after all these years of doing it, it is still strange.

Yesterday I felt anxious. Problems started to stack. I wasn't paid my money on time. The septic tank is acting up. I have to pay the house insurance soon. I have to get these gaskets on. I hope it won't be to expensive. Will it be? On top of this other stuff I have to do with this money I don't have? Will I have time to study? Will I be ready for this test? Can't I be doing more? I really need to clean everything. Will I have time? Help? What other stuff on this car will I need to fix?

All logical concerns, but being concerned with concerns doesn't get anything done.

I step back. I visualize always.

I'm in a janitor's jumper. I'm grumpy. What the hell have I done to mess this place up this time? Gotta rearrange all this shit. Put it in some got dang order or I'm gonna chew myself out about it.

This goes here. If he doesn't have your money, he can get the fuck out.

That goes there. Survive until the next check. Don't spend money on shit.

Why is this even here? Make a list of things to do. Don't invent problems. Solve the ones you have.

Might want to clean this off. You'll make time to study because you'll make a plan to do so.


Adult people not being able to adult is becoming pandemic.

Maybe there ought to be class in college for it.

Or a least some human should make money off teaching people what they should already know.


My anxiety extended to my writing. It's been eating at it for the last few months.

Probably because reading makes me think my stuff isn't good enough for someone to read. I tried the approach of writing things down to make things easier but now I'm editing my notes which isn't productive.

I hate not being able to get on this horse and ride off into the sunset like I want to. I love writing. It's like talking to yourself through a medium where other people read your thoughts.

I've had all these ideas lately and their scope intimidates me. I'm overthinking what I've been thinking about.

The worse part of it is, intellectually, I know that you really don't have to be a good writer to sell. I could name names but I'm not. I am critical of myself though because I feel I should know better.

I need to learn how to draft it out. If drawing Pokemon everyday has taught me anything it's that redrawing something right is easier than trying to draw it perfect.


Sometimes, well all the time, I wish I'd win the lottery so I can give the money away to people who have done right by me.


Sometimes, definitely not all the time, I wish I was stupid enough not to realize why I shouldn't be confident.


Loneliness is failed solitude Journ. Remember that. Not everybody that sits by themselves isn't secretly waiting for you to chat with them. There are people that just want to be left alone. I am one of those people.

If I'm not bothering you, don't bother me. This is my motto for the most part.

Small talk is a turn off. Why are you talking about banal stuff just to...I dunno, talk? What is that? Seriously? Why do people feel the need to make noise about nothing?

Honestly, I don't like to play the mean black guy stereotype but if that's what it's gonna take for you to stay out of my face, no problem. I don't care. Just don't bother me.


One of my friends got her tongue re-pierced recently. We talked about it beforehand and she asked me if I wanted to get anything pierced. I said no to which she responded But you're into so many things!

This is not the first time I've heard a variation of that.

It doesn't bother me. It intrigues me. What does that mean exactly?

This is one of those questions that I wish I could design a survey or some sort of ballot box thing going on.

What I didn't tell her was that at one point I did consider getting my tongue done but I would've only gotten for cunnilingus purposes. Apparently I don't need it. One of my nipples were considered but it chafes too much for my liking.


I need more tattoos.

Cheap artist. High quality. I need them now.

There's no more to that. I just do.


I hate to quote Nietzsche as I have conflicting views about him as a philosopher.

Happiness is the feeling that power increases-that resistance is being overcome.

I'd like to say this is not true. In the context of modern society, it would explain a great deal of our actions. I believe that money is nothing but that purely-power. It is the ability to keep your electricity on. It is the luxury of buying things after your needs are met.

Thing is, money isn't real. In fact, only eight percent of currency today is physical. The rest is digital. Just points really.

Yet Journ, me and all I know are affected by money's loss or gain yet we aren't in control of what money is or what it does or who keeps track of it.

I cringe at doing something I hate for stupid reasons but I cringe more at the fact that few understand how stupid it is.

Is anyone a ubermensch I wonder? Does anyone constantly constantly gain power? Are things easy for them to overcome? And if such a being exists, should we fear or revere it?

Seriously, I need to write Superman being a jerk.

Monday, May 23, 2016

A Journal By Some Guy 86

I like to think of it as proof of life Journ.

Honestly, I don't like filling this blog with too many of these Journals but I needed to do this one today(and before work even).

There have been two things I've been abstaining from since the 23rd of last month, porn and Facebook. Facebook I took a break from because it became too much of a distraction. It was like, Why am I ingesting all of this information? Is it helping? Can't I just find Dorkly and all that other shit on Google?

Not saying I'm quitting it altogether(I have genuine friends I like to keep up with)but I can't let it be a central part of routine online. I'm trying to get shit done.

Why did I quit watcing porn? A myriad of reasons Journ but it wasn't until I was high as Hell outside the night before did I realize why.

Porn, especially professional porn, lacks connection and intimacy.

And before you say, I love Amber Swallows though! understand that on a level I do too. I just don't really connect with seeing her fuck a guy and me whacking off to it.

I know some of my friends don't like The Carmichael Show(and I actually agree with them on some points on why I too find it cringe worthy)but the recent episode they had about porn raised a lot of good points.

One of things I hated about porn was scheduling, same as I do Facebook. It makes it Mundane I guess? The instant gratification alone kind of bores me. Most of the Internet is literally porn. It's not like I had to pay for it or anything. It was just there and when I was bored just there took up a lot of my time.

Back to the show. Naming porn stars. Types of porn. Shaming people for watching it. Having it be tawdry and yet so common place I suppose put the final nail in the coffin so to speak.

Honestly Journ, you know what I think about all the time watching porn? I wish I had an actual woman here. To feel. To touch. To moan with pleasure. Even when porn performers(because that's what that is performing, I mean, three positions always?)enjoys what they do, you know there's nothing between them and their co-workers accept money. I won't judge them for that; we all gotta do what we gotta do...

Just watching them kinda makes me bored and sad.

I think honestly, the only porn I could enjoy now is amateur porn and that's if I actually know the person. The possibility of being able to do the things that I see to the person that's doing them fires up my brain. Who knows? I might be stupid enough to make some myself.

And if I never do, I can always write about the dirty stuff I do or at least translate it into hentai.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

A Journal By Some Guy 85

A friend asked me a pertinent question Journ.

It's quite apparent I haven't been blogging like I should. The gap isn't felt globally but personally, it has left a yawning abyss of self loathing where it used to be.

Perfect way for a writer to begin.

Self reflection is existential masochism. Nothing says emotional flagellation like looking at yourself objectively and realizing you're a shit human being. Try it. I dare you Journ. The void is going to stare back into you. It will not be impressed.

This does make for good writing though. Knowing you're not the greatest person makes you aware that most people aren't. Flaws make us interesting. I mean, how many people do you know that make gossip about how good someone is doing? We like to pick and prod and judge because doing it to yourself is difficult.

Long winded I know but this is a personal slash I-hope-someone-will-pay-me-to-do-this type deal so forgive me my little soap box.

Which brings me to my next point: sex. Who do you talk about sex with?, I was asked. My answer: no one really. I usually blog or write about. It's like I'm having conversations about it all the time in a fashion. Stories and random bullshit because really, who reads this? Not saying anything about the people that actually do(I love you guys and thank you)but no one gives a shit about a shit person. Especially not on the web.

Now being fucked silly Journ is a humbling and joyful(I'm totally referencing Kaminari Denki's pic here). First it has to be goddamn motherfucking magic for sex to knock off I.Q. points. Like, I was trying to open her door to leave and for the life of me, twisting a knob turned me into a raccoon with a Rubix cube. Ironically, if not that then perfect timing, she actually said Hmm I fucked you stupid.

You know Journ, I'm not the best at sex ever. Never gonna be idiot enough to even begin to believe that but I do pride myself  on being, I dunno, competent? Like some of the things I do are sinfully sophisticated.

But I almost ran into a guy in the middle of the night as I was looking at him. Was I giddy Journ? No. I wasn't, just fucking dumb with endorphin. Goddamn drunk. Went to the Wawa's . Had to remind myself after I paid for gas that I was gonna have to pump it because I was damn positive I'd forget.

And I didn't but I did forget to take the gas cap off. You need to do that too.

The other time, I swear on Einstein, I could feel a la k of blood in my brain. Thoughts slowed to a crawl. Trying to get my bearings and failing miserably at it. I said, blood not letting brain think good or something to that effect.

She got three times out of me. Hopefully I get those points back or I'll never make it to MIT.

I'm pretty sure the flood of feel goods have to do with me working out. Something about blood circulation or some such thing. For myself I know, that after a workout...

Like I need a workout buddy that's as ready as me. We workout together. Motivate each other and shit. Critique exercises. Then we get a quick shower and then, a quick nut.

Wow. I can dream though.

Why do I think of such perverted things Journ? I believe it 's normal enough but I have long planned out fantasies and shit. I'm not gonna mention the Red Hand(where would one get a glove and tie died to match?)or work.

Fucking work.

One of the few redeeming qualities about my job is the women you get to see on the daily basis walking in and out. The guys that were with me awhile ago checked out women all the time. I of course am circumspect in my observations.

Thing is, I gotta keep my freak on a leash. Literally in some cases. I think about it like this; its pretty much a given that if I see a attractive woman, my intentions are to fuck her initially. And though I know nothing of women nor their daily struggles, I think it's safe to say they meet a guy like that daily. So I never think that me wanting to fuck a specific woman should as special. It's not unexpected. I'm a guy.

And so I don't bother. Some attraction shouldn't be acted upon. I can't be with every woman I see. That's unrealistic, stupid, and ,dare I say it, disrespectful. Besides, I get off on mutual attraction any way .

Because there is no better sex than when the lust is shared by both.

I have to start drawing my hentai soon! I've been drawing Pokemon everyday in the meantime(story for another blog)and I've actually been doing decent. It's all about shapes, angles, and perspective it seems. Hands still suck. Feet not so much but...

I wanna draw naked people doing stuff! Shit! I'm feeling so fuckin' impatient about this Journ! It's like I can't bend Earth yet? I'm the damn Avatar. What the fuck?

Same friend, I tell her the only reason I know about Overwatch is because of the hentai.

I don't apologize for that because she seriously has some good stuff. You're welcome in advance Journ.

Or League of Legends for the matter. Again, no need to thank me.

And it's like, shit, I can be drawing better things than that. If only I had the power! Tumblr would be mine I swear. I'm gonna have to get a separate sketch book so I can, uh, experiment and stuff.

Also writing. Something quick and sleazy, like fucking behind a porno store.

Do they even have those still? I mean, internet...

And the only reason I really got into Boku no Hero Academia?

Tsuyu. Asui. On Gelbooru. Not even lying.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

A Journal By Some Guy 84

I just LOLed for real Journ. I literally haven't blogged for a month. Like, if you checked your dates, this post will be a month and a day behind the last.

And adding insult to injury, yesterday was my birthday.

You'd think shitty blogger that I am, at least I would've made a blog about it on the actual day. Nah. None of that. Birthdays from now on are Sloth Days. Don't expect me to do shit I don't want to do.

Fuck that Journ, that's my time.

Oh. If you're not on a Gravity Falls marathon, then I don't what to say to you. I mean...fuck Hirsch you're killing me! It's over?! It can't be! How dare you leave me with such profound melancholy?

It's so good. Like cheesecake or great sex or better still, eating cheesecake after great sex.

It's all so kinda dark. I hate to say it but I'm actually impressed that Disney took a chance on it. There's also the Rick and Morty nod which makes it extra surreal.

You'll pardon me if I meander a bit here Journ. It's not so much that I have to update you on what has happened or that I have much to say. It's more in the line of me having little to say about many things.

I was talking with the Clone one day. It meandered from setting up espers, pact beasts, and deities in the game to work. Not wanting to dwell on it's more intolerable aspects, I asked if a woman who works there had a boyfriend. My brother corrects me. She's married. She has been looking at the both of though. Her being in a committed relationship somehow intrigues me. Thus, I question my own morality. I might just write a story about it.

Trap music is garbage. Personal opinion here but listening to Trap Queen left a bad taste in my ears. If they could only vomit sound.

This is what's popular now. I am disturbed. I want to rap again. My flow is pretty good. My content is questionable at times.

But a friend yesterday made it simple for me. You've got to sound good and you've got to have something to say. That is something I can grasp. The thing is Journ, I can't be like these other rappers. I have to find my own thing completely separate from what's going on now.

It's like having a rubix cube for a sword. Pay attention.

I'm finding putting the head into extreme angles pretty daunting. They say you can picture it as a box. That helps a little but not much. It's basically made of two shapes. A cone and a sphere. Moving around the sphere is easy. Even the cone is a shape easily managed. The two overlapping is a puzzle.

But I keep failing at it and will continue to do so because the goal is worth it. Until I can officially go back to school for it, teaching myself is the best I can do.

And as a side note, how meta is drawing what you see? As a sentient being, you're basically the universe observing itself. But to observe yourself and then to create something completely different from what is observed.

Are you then not only the universe observing itself but a universe reinterpreting itself?

Sometimes when I dream I know it means something.

But the why of it eludes me.

In the last dream I was on a farm. Or something akin to one.

Do you know Journ that sunsets are horrible for those that wear glasses? You get more glare than necessary.

I was shading my eyes. There were kids frolicking with dogs and a pet pig I think. They were in uniforms but not like the school variety.

I sighed. School was over and so were their other lessons. They had no reason to be in uniform still. They should be home with their parents and yet...

They called me something. What I don't remember but they heard I'd be here with the-the cattle? I felt there was some sort of animal involved. They had found me though and they wanted...a story? I'm not quite sure but they all gathered around...

Which reminds me. Someone once told me I'm destined to be a leader.

There are times where I feel the urge to do so. For what reason, I don't know. I would think it selfish to lead someone for my own ambitions purely. I also think it equally unethical for me to lead purely because someone wished me to.

At the same time, I'm not built to blindly follow anyone or anything. I think I might be incapable of that save for a life or death situation.

I try to question my logic for I know that by virtue of being human, my logic is inherently flawed. If I do such for myself, why not others? It's not a matter of distrust. It's just logical. Humans are self interested by design. The way we think is clouded by our desires.

So what did I desire in the dream? What do I desire in reality? What is the logic of desire in either scenario?

Every time I dream, I lead. People trust me. Somehow, I've proven myself capable. In reality, I have not done this and in a fashion, I don't really desire to. Leadership is hard. It's lonely. You're Sacrifice. You have to make a choice even when all of them are bad. That's not something I'd wish on anybody.

I suppose Journ you could weather it if you didn't give a fuck about people. You know, if their disdain or disapproval didn't mean much to you. Oh wait...

Now I was drinking last night. It was my birthday so fuck it.

I don't often come around my friend's house because my work schedule is garbage but I'm going in late today so I could sleep off a hangover if need be.

So we're talking, which is to say, he's doing more talking than me. Which is cool because I'm not chatty anyway and the air is foggy.

The conversation somehow meanders to me. He goes on to say I should feel myself more. I kinda agree in my noncommittal fashion. Then he says how many women I could have if I did.

Now Journ, I'll let you in on a secret. During any given interaction or observation, I detach myself and observe it. It's kinda like I'm watching what I'm watching. A little me sitting in a control room drinking coffee and being skeptical.

Could I Journ? I wonder sometimes if it's my imagination that women are staring at me. I cannot imagine why. Seriously. My brain kinda goes fuzzy to think of it. But what if?

Plus, if I do rap and it goes somewhere logic forbid, I'd have to work on some kind of image right? It stands to reason.

I never consider how I look. Again. Brain fuzzies. It's like the little me isn't diverting brain power to that. I mean, I would like a female friend to take me shopping and dress me. Why? Because I have no idea what I'm doing fashion wise. Again, no brain power allotted.

Pay attention Journ. Things are connected.

When I write, it's basically creating something out of daydream. To me, a daydream can be more intense because you're somewhat aware of it.

A character or a story for me is born this way. The other parent is waking reality. Something I've seen or experienced being reinterpreted and paired with something fantastic.

I told a friend recently that I have new ideas for stories and what have you daily. I have no doubt that she believed me but I don't think she understood the profundity of that admission.

While I was listening to music with my friend, he was kinda freestyling a bit. Me? I was writing words in my head and repeating them so I wouldn't forget.

A story like Twin Peaks is stuck in my head. A romantic comedy. Sort of like a K-drama I think. In fact, one of the main characters looks Korean. The other lead is an African American woman. It sort of felt right that she be that way. There is weirdness abound but it's not so much horrifying as it is mysterious and awkward. So far fairies, a sphinx, an alien with a broken ship, and a vampire are involved.

I've been thinking about the practicality of exoskeleton for awhile now. I run into two problems always. Powering it and how bulky it is. It's not feasible to think of an exoskeleton moving in precise tandem with a user, as by definition it has to move around the body. I love Iron Man but technically none of that holds weight in reality. So far, I've sacrificed the notion of an exoskeleton that moves all together at once. If it moves in parts at certain times it's more believable. Maybe you need to leap off a building. Preparing a skeleton to do just that could work. Also, the thought of synthetic muscle fibers in tandem with a skeleton has promise as an electrical current stimulating it might use less energy..

The next bit of smut I put out is going to be inappropriate because that's just where I am now. I mean, if you can't do somethings in real life and not have consequences, why not write it out? I don't exactly know what her name was but she was a character in The Underneath stories I wrote. She's perfect for it. I mean, the last scene I wrote her in had all her orifices filled. I know men and women shame women for being sexual but I find that shit liberating. I mean honestly, you want your woman to do this and that for you, where do you think she's gonna learn it? Suddenly, for you, she's a porn star? Just like that? Unrealistic how we as men are lauded for our whoredom but women are supposed to be whores who were never whores? Oxymoron.

And I'm thinking of putting a coalition of sorts together which I suppose goes back to leadership in a fashion. It's more of a business promotion thing I believe. I'd like to help out local businesses and charity if possible but, I've no idea how to go about it...

Ideas Journ are always bouncing around in my head, begging to be made into reality. At thirty three, I'd think I'd have come to some epiphany about life but I haven't. I believe because life is a daily epiphany of sorts. You have to remind yourself why you're here and what you're doing. Perhaps that always stays the same. Maybe it changes. Maybe I try to go after women more now. Maybe I just keep respecting them as human beings. Perhaps some joining of the two.

I only know to follow my bliss. Writing and drawing is bliss and so, I follow these things for now. Sex is also in there along with anime. That'll work until it doesn't.

In the mean time, keep in mind...