Archive for July, 2013|Monthly archive page

Wankers on My Phone

In bullshit on July 22, 2013 at 7:09 am

I spent ten hours sleeping today. I was sleeping like a drug addict. I spent about two days awake, maybe. I was awake all weekend. I could look at my personal diary and see when I woke up, when I went to sleep. My life has become the sort of life where I must keep track of when I slept. For the first time in my life I really do not sleep well. It’s not that I can’t sleep or that I don’t enjoy it, it’s more that I sleep so deep and so hard that waking up is really painful. In fact it is the most physically painful thing in my life, save for the sunshine.

So I was awake for two days and then I slept for ten hours. And at some point while I was asleep I got a text from a dude who has been a big fan for ten years, maybe longer. We have had a few sessions and I shot a video with him once. He sends me all this unsolicited shit. He is constantly texting me and asking me when I am going to be in his town, if I want him to send me some new boots. Sometimes he send pictures of me that I have never even seen before. It borders on stalkerish.

Once when I was really in a bad space financially he told me he would do something nice for me and he sent me a care package in the post. It was full of canned meat. Different kinds of spam and mini-sausages. If it was meant to be ironic it was awesome but if he really assumed I would eat canned meat he was clearly mistaken. I have chronic financial troubles and often, usually in the summer, I’m kind of low on food — but I have a really sensitive system and I’m kind of heath conscious. I’m not obsessive or anything but I don’t eat fast food, canned meat, or potato chips. My bad food tends to run the gamut of pancakes and eggs, amazing delicious organic freshly killed pork, and beer. Yes, all at once. I have a real weakness for it. So why he sent me spam I suppose I will never know. I hope it was irony. It made me giggle and in inspired a photo shoot. I mean, who gets snail mail spam? Junk mail sure, but spam? Wow, just wow. So for the spam he will always hold a special place in my world. But I really dislike getting the frequent text messages asking about my return to his city — a city that I assume I will live in at some point, a city that I love to visit, a city where all of my bad habits are allowed to run amuck. A good place for me to go if I am ready to give up on everything. So when will I be back — as soon as it is feasible for me. You want to send me footwear? My mailing address and shoe size can be found on my blog. Don’t ask if I want boots, just send me some. Text saying you sent some boots, not ‘do you want some boots.’ What the fuck is that — wanna treat little doggie? He bought me one pair of boots, one time. They were shitty cheap thigh high boots with a heel that was not the 8 inches or more that I enjoy. The boots stayed unworn for years until I finally gave them to a young woman in a college dorm room at three in the morning a about a year and half ago. I hope she still enjoys them.

But I do not enjoy getting unsolicited texts about potential gifts that will never come. If I have the patience I just ignore the messages, but often ignoring them just inspires more of them, so I send him STOP TEXTING ME, and it usually generates one more text of ‘sorry’ before he stops. But he will text again as soon as his little crooked dick gets hard.

Today I told him that I am going to change my phone number.

Then a few hours later, while I was working on hour ten of my dead girl sleep I got a phone call. I didn’t recognize the number but I answered it, hoping it was money. The guy on the other end of the line told me he was in NYC, wanted to know when I would be there and then asked me if I offer brown showers. I just hung up on him. I was in a fog and I don’t want people calling me to ask me shit that is easily discovered on the internet. I assume that he was not looking for a poop right away, so why not send a polite email?

As soon as I jung up on him he called me right back. Why can’t you figure out that I hung up on you? I answered and told him that there was no reason to be calling me at this number and I hung up again. Then a series of texts came in, pointing me to what I assumed was the page on this blog that explains my rules regarding brown showers. So, why the phone call dum-dum?

Then I was awake. I was awake and aware that I had passed out for ten hours. I was on top of my blankets cause it is too fucking hot. I had horrible charley-horses in both legs. After screaming at my legs and doing deep ass lamaze breathing for way too long for legs to be cramped up, I tried to get out of bed. This inspired a series of further charley horses, I bumped into the fancy ass wrought iron handle on a dresser, and became a rage machine simply uttering obscenities at the top of my lungs.

I fucking hate waking up. It sucks so fucking much. But when it has been combined with texts from mr boot man, and mr brown shower it sucks even more. Why are these wankers bothering me? I suppose because they can. Maybe they really wanted to see if I would talk to them, give them free attention, blog about them.

And now that I am awake and fully caffeinated, stretched out, and ready to remain awake for something slightly under 72 hours, I’m reflecting on the days communication.

Who did I enjoy hearing from? A good friend of mine — Tara Emory (go to her website and pay her — PAY) and a niteflirt comic who calls me rarely but is totally sweet and wonderful. I love being paid to talk to people who appreciate my time and talent. I do not love wankers on my phone. So, I’m seriously thinking about changing my the number I have had for over ten years. I’m not really sure I should, but I’m sick of every asswipe on the internet having access to my personal number.

Yes, most sex workers have two numbers. I don’t want the cost of two mobile phones. I don’t want the cost of this mobil phone plan. It is horrific. And who calls me? Does the phone do me any good at all? Not sure. I think I’m gonna try leaving it at home, ignoring it, not using it as a gps, putting my music someplace else, not fucking touching the stupid mobil gadget. Do they even make ipods without phones in them anymore? And do I care? I don’t walk around with earbuds in. If I’m on a plane I do drugs, wear ear plugs, pass the fuck out, and request a wheelchair. If I’m walking down the street I like being aware of my surroundings. I listen to make sure I’m not wandering into some fucked up dangerous shit on the street. Radical I know.

The last time I was wandering down the street looking at my gadget as a gps to help my drunken ass catch the last train home I fell in the street and smashed the glass all to hell. It is still broken. And I only recently stopped having constant pain that was associated with that particular fall. I fall all the time. I don;t need something in my life that is going to make me fall more often.

So, I’m toying with ditching the mobil phone. There are so many better ways to talk to people. But, what about when I’m trying to find someone in a crowd? Maybe I’ll try writing down their mobil number and asking a stranger to allow my to use their phone. Strippers are always asking me to use my phone.

The few friends I have — I could give them a better number to reach me at. Maybe one that does not cost me over a grand a year to maintain. The more I think about it the more it seems like an obvious choice to ditch the baggage of the mobile phone. But do I want to be that one person who does not have one? We all know that person and they are kind of annoying, right? Oh but wait, I love being an annoyance. Fuck yeah.

I’m so ditching my phone.

White Trash — Trailer Park — Super Party!

In BDSM, bullshit, Comedy, drama, perverts on July 21, 2013 at 11:01 am

Yep! That is what we are having here this week folks. The sort of week that really makes you value your elitist anti-social book fetish.

Where to begin?

A while back I mentioned how my neighbor was trying to build a fire pit — maybe you recall, it’s not that crucial as the landlord (obviously) told her HELL NO! Well this neighbor vandalized my cars this week, and didn’t even deny it. She blamed her kids — classy right. Both of the cars that I have parked in the tiny lot she has been digging holes in pained by pink glitter nail polish. Other cars painted, you ask — NOPE. Just my perfect candy apple red BMW and my Swedish brick. It ruined the beemer. Fucking ruined it.

And she screams and she yells at all hours of the day and night, to anyone who will put up with it. Her babby daddies, her mobile phone, the postal carrier, anyone. Then she leaves a note on my door in the middle of the night accusing me of locking her out. I assume that means she got high and locked her baby inside again. Not my fault. I have been avoiding her, using the other entryway. Oh I really don’t want to meet up with her, ever. But sadly, I’m just going out on a limb here with this one, but I’m kind of under the impression that I am going to have to take her to small claims court.

Oh joy! The place where people let their inner Jerry Springer guest out to play. A place where people utter “I want my ten dollars” while spitting into a podium mike. Mmmm. Can’t wait.

But it’s not just the neighbor that makes this party so special, no there is also the 97 degree heat with 90 percent humidity — all week. I spent my rent on a couple of air conditioners. I might just take them back, pay the rent and repeat the process the next time a heat wave comes to attack me. But we had to hit four Home Depots before we found any AC left in New England. So maybe I’ll just keep them.

I miss the desert air. I long for decent tortillas. At least in Southern California when someone is digging a whole in the parking lot, painting cars with glitter nail polish, locking their baby inside, and screaming like a tweeker everyone assumes the crazy bitch is methed-out of her mind.

And I can see the first of the month coming. I’m sure my landlord would rather have cash than AC units. So, I have been sitting here in the ice cold AC wondering how I’m gonna pay my rent. Well, really I had to stick up a plastic divider so that the part of my home that gets really hot would not just heat the place up, sucking all the life and joy out of the AC. Now every time I want to go to the kitchen I have to remove my cozy little beanie, my bathrobe, my slippers and run into the sweltering foul unwashed for days in the hot sun kitchen — then dart back out, hopefully remembering whatever I went in there for. And hopefully remembering to remove my winter gear before going past the plastic. And I have been too stressed out to eat, well too stressed out and too fucking broke. I went to work once this month, then the heat came. I got sick. I fell down the stairs. I had a migraine and Lorelei snuck out while I tried to sleep it off.

I have been trying to get my office clean enough to web cam in. Thinking I’ll try this whole domme on the internet thing cause it really reinforces my natural tendency to avoid people. But I can’t figure out how to decorate. I think that I lost my ability to decorate a room sometime after I painted my mom’s kitchen jet-black with a sponge the mid 1990s. I have the inclination to make textured palm trees with animal print velour and green paint. I’m not sure it is a good idea but once I do it, undoing it will be a joke. So, yeah, why not cut and past fake fur to my walls — I mean this is a white trash trailer park super party!

Oh and cause I’m special, I got to watch a guy eat a banana out of his poop hole this week. I wish I were joking folks. Sorry if you were chowing on a potassium stick. At this point you might be throughly confused. It went something like this:

Guy on niteflirt wants to cam. We plan a time to turn them on. I ask him to have some toys. He brings two of the huge hothouse cucumbers — you know the kind they wrap in fucking plastic. The big fuckers. He takes one out and slides the whole thing into his ass. Right up, all the way, no whining no nonsense: in, all the way in. He is able to do a little hands free sphincter action for me. I’m amused. Sure he is an old squish white guy, but that takes some serious ass control. Took the whole thing up there and pushed it in and out — hands free.

He sat down and tied his boy parts up with rubber bands — the kind you use for hair, not the rubber once that snap (I love it when they snap). Then he pulled out some supermarket variety pack of paint brushes. He opened the package and jammed one of them right down his urethra. Oh yes he did. He sat there fucking his pee hole with a paint brush for a good long wile. I had him turn it around and use the bristly side. Epic!

Then he asked me if I wanted him to shove a banana in his ass. I didn’t even know he had bananas. he got out a whole bunch of them. Peeled one and slid it in before I even noticed he had removed one from the bunch. It was so fast I would have thought he was trying to hide drugs up there. Then he peeled another and — up she went — his bunghole just ate the entire banana.

He got out an eggplant and sort of teased me with it. He tried to shove the eggplant into his ass. It would not go in easily. He put the eggplant aside. Then he pushed the bananas out onto what looked like a towel on a couch. It was this sad little pile of barely yellow mush. (Do you hear Gwen Stefani in your head right now too?)

“EAT IT” I told him. He leaned in and scarfed the warm, squishy fruit.

A minute passed. He said he didn’t feel good. Asked me if he could call me back —and away he went.

Wow. I love it when I get to witness some sort of spectacle of perversion that makes you wonder about simple things in life — like abstinence only education, like ‘virgins’ who have bareback anal sex, like men who eat fruit straight from their poop shoot.

I’m really and truly amused that he called me. In a fucked up way it really cheered me up. I spent half the morning laughing.

Language and Laws

In Lorelei Erisis, politics, video, whores, Widow Centauri on July 16, 2013 at 4:59 am

The Entitlement of Day People

In bullshit, friends, fun, traveling, whores, Widow Centauri on July 14, 2013 at 10:36 pm

If you have been reading my blog and are wondering what they hell is up with my pissed off attitude lately I’m here to answer your burning itchy question.

A bunch of shit is irking me. It’s not really your fault, dear reader, though I’m sure that my random diatribe might suggest otherwise. Don’t get all butthurt, enjoy my outrage for the spectacle it is.

Let me break down some of the seriously white problems I am suffering from

It is summer time. I hate summer time. It is hot, business is slow, the sunshine is out there trying to kill me.

Maybe you had forgotten that I am very ill, or maybe you thought it was a joke, some strange plan to mess with your heads — nope I am really and truly very very sick. Thought I have managed to get my symptoms somewhat under control I am constantly living from minute to minute, hoping that the sun does not shine in my eyes, hopping that when I have a DR apt that I will feel well enough to leave my home (which I did not this week).

I’m having something of a flare up with my health. Given that the multitude of tests and scans I have undergone have failed to find anything I am doing what I can to avoid things that make me sick. And when I say sick I mean sick. Sometimes I end up barfing my guts up from exposure to the sunshine.

Sometimes I binge drink and barf from the booze, but mostly I have been avoiding alcohol, avoiding sunshine, avoiding anything that resembles fun. Even going to clubs takes a toll on me. The noise, the smells, the back breaking shoes, no matter what I do I seem to end up in pain. The question is how much pain can I tolerate and how can I best mitigate it.

Because of my current health flare up I had to forgo my long anticipate trip to Las Vegas. I have been wanting to go and hob-nob with some super-hookers, but given the fact that I went on a family adventure to jazz fest, then I spent time in California defending and finishing school, and then I had to make another trip back to california where I just let the nervous breakdown I was having hang the fuck out (I was mostly black out drunk the whole week I was there).— I have had too much sunshine and can not continue under the guise of summertime. I must avoid going outside until the leaves change.

Maybe you think I am being mellow dramatic, maybe you want to label me a vampire, or a goth, or just dismiss my symptoms as some sort of psychological thing that is not real. And this is where I say FUCK YOU. Would you treat a person with a visible disability as though they were faking it? Would you mock them, joke about their condition, ask them to infect you? Nope, you would not. So stop taunting me and asking me to bite your neck.

The social expectation for decorum would prevent you from mocking a friend with one arm, someone with diabetes, or an elderly person with mobility issues, but somehow social niceties escape a lot of people when they discover that I can not go in the sunshine.

And I want to go in the sunshine. Sometimes I really really miss being able to act like a normal person. I’m sick of having to wrap myself in a burka, a massive sunhat, full shoes, wrap around shades, spf 100 — just to cross the street. It is exhausting. I’m really getting frustrated.

I hope you can see the matter of fact way that my illness is effecting me.

Sometimes I can push myself, but I always pay for it with days and weeks of not being able to move, vomiting, dizziness, sometimes I just a little stream of light in my eye will blind me for a moment preventing me from seeing things and walk into walls, trip over chairs, fall down stairs. It really sucks.

It sucks that I can’t be in Vegas for the Desiree Alliance conference, an event where I expected much fun would be had. While I was packing I wanted to know if the hotel had laundry facilities, but in looking at the site I realized that the conference area and the suites are not in the same building, they are separated and require a long and leisurely stroll in the vegas sun.

I knew that would put me in the hospital. I don’t like being a patient in the hospital. I’m a horrible patient. I get all scared, I cry. I’m a big baby when I am sick.

So I called, and tried to bargain, and I managed to find that there are ADA rooms but that they are not close to the conference area. No matter what room I ended up in I was gonna be in the vegas sunshine, frequently. And that was just not gonna do. I had to make the hard choice to stay home. My heart is heavy and I spent some time crying.

This is my life.

Can I go out there today? Is the sunshine going to fuck me up or might I make it quickly from building to car, to building. Never at high noon.

Often the sunshine coming through the cracks in the drapes feels like shards of glass in my eyes. It feels like my third eye is being gutted. My whole body aches. I am queasy.

So you wonder why I seem a tad bit hostile?

I missed a medical appointment I have been waiting six months to get because I was simply too unwell to go out into the overcast afternoon. I had to forgo a long anticipated event where maybe, just maybe I would make some friends and share some camaraderie.

My life is a constant struggle to get from day to day. I never know if I will be able to go outside, if things will be just fine, if I will end up in the ER, if I will find myself in a situation where I’m alone and too sick to cope. I’m sure I must look like a drug addict to the average eye. My medical records are clean. Squeaky clean. I don’t have anything. But I have a bunch of symptoms. Sometimes I can just push the pain and frustration into my yoga, into my writing, into some place where I hope I never have to confront it, but currently the madness wants to come out and play.

So I hope you have not been too mortally wounded by my last few posts here. I’m going through some heavy shit. I’m at a point where my life is changing, and though I assume it will be better, I realize that everything could fall apart without any warning at all.

Yesterday I fell down the stairs. I thought I broke my ankle. Luckily I did not. Two days ago I was having ‘an episode’ where my spine sort of froze up preventing me from moving. It’s sort of like a temporary and partial paralysis. I could not figure if I should try to take something for the pain or what, but then I remembered that one of the best ways to cure my locked spine is to walk around in my stripper shoes. Really.

So I walked around in my eight inch platforms for a few hours and felt a lot better. Then after a day and a half I fell down the stairs. I landed in my stripper bag.

The falling and the walking into things seems to happen when my sight disappears with the light. Also, I fall when I’m suffering from an episode. Not always, usually before anything else happens. Like a precursor — I fall over and I know that I’m gonna get taken out of the game for a while. How long? Don’t know. Could be a night, could be a week, longest was three weeks solid, with bad effects for months and months.

And though I have a perfect setup to make my living at home, to tour and perform at night, to write and teach and do all the things I want to do, I am all bent out of shape cause I can’t do a bunch of day things. It should not bother me that I won’t be able to play with the super-nerds at the university of las vegas, or that I can’t commit to any sort of full time full sun anything. My life is stymied by this illness and it should be just fine. Except I want to have the option to do normal things. When people ask me if I want to go on a boat, to a barbecue, to a picnic in the park, I want to be able to say yes. But unless it’s a night time party, I can’t. This lack of daylight living seriously limits my friendships and really stresses the few friends whom I do have.

Yes, sometimes when I go out I act impulsively. Last time I went to california I was drunk the whole time. Yep, I was on a bender. Would I have been less sick and exhausted if I had refrained from the devils beverage? Maybe, maybe not, but I would have had less of a rock star time. Sometimes after months of not seeing anyone, not seeing the light of day, not being able to run errands, or go to day people events — sometimes rock star is all I have to work with. Give it all to me, NOW, while I am out here in the light of day. NOW! Then I’ll go home and regret it either way. Rock star in the daylight, or nun. Makes no difference on the other side. Either way I get dizzy, confused, sick.

And all you happy people who don’t have to live in constant fear of the sunshine, you might be thinking ‘just make the best out of it’ or some such cheery ideals. Yep, making the best out of it. The best does not always equate into being cheerful. It is hard to be cheerful when the bulk of the population roams around entitled and tan, oblivious to the fact that that horrific ball of gas in the sky is making some of us sick as all fuck. Businesses close early, even fuel stations close early around here. If I need to fuel up my vehicle I must do it on my way in at five in the morning, or on my way out at ten PM. Three in the morning is no time to pump gas, pick up groceries, do laundry, or hang out in a coffee shop. This part of the world shuts down at night.

I am constantly dancing around the mood, making sure I get inside before the sun comes up, making sure that it does not fry my brain, my skin, my eyes, my soul.

The whole thing gets really old. Sometimes I am bitter. Mostly I read a lot.

Independence, Freedom, Paulo Freire and Me

In culture on July 4, 2013 at 12:43 pm

I am not a huge fan of July 4th. Yes, independence from the english is always a day to be celebrated, fuck colonization. I choose to celebrate independence in ways that are not reflected by the culture in which I find myself living.

Instead of drinking too much and playing with explosives I generally tend to stay home and read. I avoid picnics and day people year round though today is THE DAY I avoid them even more than usual.

Today I am staying in and reading Paulo Freire. I can honestly think of no better way to honor a day that is ostensibly a day to celebrate freedom. Many people in this culture equate freedom with the day off from their tedious form of employment, with anti-terrorist patriotism, with shopping and the ability to ‘do whatever I want’ and it kind of makes me sick. Freedom is not something that I see much of from my jaded perspective. The freedom to think and read and be actively contributing to a more socially just world is sadly not something I see reflected in this culture.

Maybe I sound like I am brooding to you, though I assure you that I am not. I am taking the day to explore thoughts of what freedom is, what it is not, and what I might be able to do from my vampire cave to perpetuate actual freedom. Freedom from disinformation, freedom to speak, freedom to treat humans (and be treated) with dignity and kindness, freedom from oppressive hegemonic forces. This is a brutally unjust world we live in. I’m not really in the mood to drink too much and play with explosives in the name of freedom.

I do have nitflirt turned on though, so if by some strange possibility you are reading this and think “wow, I would love to pay her three bucks a minute to discuss freedom” — call me. (Yes, it is alright to laugh at the irony).