I’m going to get philosophical first. Brains before pussy. That’s how I roll. Often I wonder why I like the things I like. Take for example Andy Warhol, I like Mr. Warhol. The more I read of him. The more I think I am like him. I do not intend it. I think we just have similar thought processes.
Maybe?
Does that make Catastrophe my Lou Reed? ‘Cause it be awful if he were my David Bowie…he’d write a song called “Lola Batling” and play me in a movie.
If he were my Lou we’d just do things and some whack job will shoot me. Sad that’s the better option.
…Suck it, I’m a music journalist first, sexy girl blogger second. I have these thoughts.
We move now, to the sex part.
It starts with I’m in love, and THAT’s a fucking huge problem. My emotional state can not support this especially since he is…not in a position to even console me, let alone love me.
Truth be told, I love Jak, Ivi, Him, the bff, I’m lost. It seems each chamber of my heart is taken. I need the support, I have needs like other girls. I have never loved but once this way. Death has made me a normal girl needing men. NEEDING love and needing to be protected. I have never been this. My role is to be the unattachable fuck the protector of the weak.
Death has made me reach out for hands.
Wrapped in safety. Their safety. They who now share the chambers of my heart. It is strange. I’m capable of this kind of love.
Richard Hell said love comes in spurts. Well, mine, comes in sets. Mine makes me a slut, to some. A goddess of carnality to others.
Do not punish the wicked.
(Him and the bff alias have been changed for the foreseeable future, sorry delicateness demands this.)
I must update the cast page.
I view sex as art. This site is my gallery. Coarse? Maybe.