Don't you just love technology? The way it makes everything easier from keeping in touch to losing weight, all you have to do is invest a few dollars (or more!) and voila! If we were to chart human activities, nothing should surprise us at how simple it is to amuse ourselves ... Look at me for goodness sakes. I spend my free time talking about myself! It is only my fervent hope hope that readers may gain some beneficial instruction from my endless ramblings that kept me going.
And again, I have to thank technology for this outlet. Purging ourselves of our inner demons used to involve a priest, gallons of holy water and a tub of vomit. Not anymore. Hook yourself up to the Net, become an online Sybil and feel free to pretend that your overweight, stubby-no-neck body is actually housing a hoochie mama in black leather. Or the second coming of Brad Pitt. Take your pick, or substitute as desired.
I was left to my own devices today and developed a startling fixation on sex. I was reading a blog about how Kate Winslet was forever doing nudies and love scenes. Not that I'm complaining, of course. If a beautiful woman wishes us viewers to have an edifying look at what Mama gave her, then the only thing I can say is "Callo, Callay, Yahhooo, Hoorayyy!" Then my thread of thought picked up on Hugh Dancy's turn as a bisexual gigolo in a bizarre menage a trois with Eddie Redmayne and Julianne Moore. Oh the redheads galore!
Hmmm ... talk about them burning bush ...
Hell, to take this fixation and run it to death I, at the urging -- make that violent urging -- of a friend decided to defile my already reprobate eyes and irredemably filthy mind by searching out the many amateur porn sites that litter the cyberspace we sometimes traipse around.
Oh Good Lord! Some things should not be seen by those with hyper-active imaginations. As I was viewing the many trials and free tours accorded by these sites I was gobsmacked and left wondering: People get paid for this! And others pay to see this!
I am quite thankful that I am quite worldly, therefore seeing a bisexual tag-team isn't a gnarly an experience as it would've been for some. My complaint about the ones is see at one of the sites -- one Corbin Fisher -- is that the women featured are butt-awful-ugly!
One looks like tranny on crack. No joke, I'm telling you. Everytime she got flipped over I see her flapjack breast flop-fluppa-flopping around like raw flapjack pancakes. From what I saw I think the two guys tag-teaming her were enjoying each other more than her ... She might as well whip out the pink-Bedazzled dildo and whack them over the head to get their attention.
The pink dildo bit was just me, by the way ....
The skanky smutty artist in me was enjoying the sight of all these bee-YOO-hooo!-tiful people rutting around like lemmings before the grand plunge until it finally hit me just how artificial some of these sites are ... we have a gay-for-pay stud doing his first one-on-one with another guy ... and suddenly he's swallowing sword?!?! How do the viewers ascertain he's gay-for-pay? with a cert that proves he's limp till clams twitter-twatter at his face?
I think I just swallowed my own 10-litre bile ...
However, lest I projectile-vomit onto my laptop I deem it unnecessary that readers have to be subjected to the same pain I endured (ain't that nice of me?). Therefore I hope you enjoy the more desirable of photos culled from the hidden (ass)cracks of cyberspace.
*photo credits to whomever took them! :-P
Aaaah ...
Such is the sound that escapes from my parted lips as I try to puzzle my current predicament.
I would like to think -- that despite my aloof, callous demeanour -- I am not a person given to hate.
I'd like to say that I'm a rather amiable person. That I can be content -- if not happy -- in my current lot compared to the poor swabs around me and not feel the twisting stab as I begin to see washes of red in my field of vision.
Perhaps this resentment stem from my restless nature. Although I can be very patient, the dullness of monotony does not sit well with me. There are times past that I used to stab myself with my name-tag pin in class just so I won't keel over out of sheer boredom.
What does it say of a person who prefers pain over joyful ruckus in class to break the humdrum study hours?
I wish that this hope that one day I might be able to feel won't be just that. That while hope springs eternal I am only mortal. Even the most ardent of force must one day cease. It is the nature of things to wither and be replaced. Will there be hope left if I tire of waiting?
Everyday, I pick at my mental scabs -- countless scores of them -- as I beat and puzzle my way through this sparse expanse of my worldview.
Everyday.
I should be an old hand by now.
Silence.
Blissful silence.
Beautiful, blissful silence.
It has always been something I crave. The silence of peace. The solace of solitude. The sense of aloneness when you feel weary of the world--when needs must to place a barrier between yourself and the outside world whenever you tire of it.
Upon the surface, most would be forgiven for thinking that I enjoy the limelight. To a certain point, I would agree that I do enjoy the attention. I would also heartily agree that most audiences are fools. They believe the facade conjured and take it as truth. They insist the public and the private must be one and the same. They demand transparency and take you at your face value that that is all there is to what makes you a unique creature. Nothing is ever as it seems. We all wear masks. We all tell little white lies (Good heavens! You don't look a day above 35, Mrs Wong!) and big black ones (I did not have sexual relations with that woman ... !).
Sometimes the truth is exactly what scares us into such perfidy. Sometimes the truth is boring. Bland. We are sometimes afraid that the truth about us would diminish us in others' eyes. To a person who prides in being known as an Incomparable, Original and Unique this must rankle.
How painful it is to be regarded as--gasp!--common!
Therefore we put on a show. Whether they carry the glitz of Ceasar's Palace or the gritty edge of a Sundance nominee, we perform our little charades. Sometimes the canny viewers will guess at the truth and we abashedly come clean, or we layer another performance--an improv, if you will--on top of it. Before we know it, the smokescreen we had concocted became a point of fact to be appended to us. Our personality, our idiosyncracies--everything!--became a warped image of what we are.
It has now become a guessing game as we all attempt to unmask everyone around us. And it is a beautiful thing to watch. Even as I sit quietly in the far corner of the local coffee shop or a secluded section of a bar--or anywhere for that matter, I smile as I relish the amateur performances before me.
The incompetent boss who covers up her deficiency by obsessing over every trivial minutae. The young father glaring at his wife whilst the recalcitrant child struggles in his hand as he waits patiently for her to finish her shopping--then smiles indulgently at her when she comes out from the store. The backstabbing office bitch trying to cover her misstep with unimaginative small talk. The young man taking a second look at the girl two tables away as his date prattles on about her day. The late evening jogger gorging on food as if it were his last meal. The drunken yuppie enjoying being groped by his gay best friend. The voluntarily oblivious girlfriend who pleads ignorance about her beau's marital status.
Even as I take it all in, I am ever wondering if I am the lone observer here? Mayhap there is someone else lurking in the wings, noting my movements? My smug smirk as I watch other people stumble. Are they near enough to hear my muttered invectives? How would I look to them?
Bitter. Jaded and cynical. Enjoys observing anothers' fall, thinks himself so smart with his snappy comebacks and sarcastic asides. Covers his insecurities with bizarre behaviour--maybe he wasn't hugged enough as a child.
Is that the real me? or just the front that I present?
Is that why I treasure the silence I bind myself in sometimes? That for the few brief minutes, I can just be--without fear of saying the right things, of making other people laugh ... of putting on yet another show.
