This is Edith Jones.
That's the user name.
Which is strange because all indications point to the writer's name being Allie. I don't understand.
Dueling Edie blogs. Who will endure?
Also thanks for making me click on each entry because it might shelter adult content. Wouldn't want to make those fascinating Writer's Blocks too easy to get to. Thanks for nothing.
Are you more of an optimist or a pessimist?
Who cares, seriously
I'm usually the one looking for the silver lining - trying to find a good side to everything. It doesn't always work, but I do try.
This is not always true. Right now I'm in the throes of mid-winter depression and I find it very hard to be positive about anything at all. For example: I'm always going to be this depressed, I'm never going to feel happy again....it sucks and it's really hard to fight through depression.
WHO
CARES
You know how people claim most of the internet is porn?
Well it turns out that's not true. In fact, less than 5% of the internet is porn. If I had to guess what mostly dominated the internet it would be shit like this.
But (and here comes the silver lining part of me) depression has always lifted before, and I need to remember that, and besides, the days are getting longer and before I know it, it will be spring again, and I'll be going to Cuba in the end of March, so I just have to keep trudging forward and spring will bloom inside me again, instead of the winter storms that are in my brain at the moment.
I try really hard to be an optimist. It sucks when it doesn't work.
An exercise in patience is what this blog is. Let's review the ways in which this is bringing my piss to a boil:
1. having to agree I'm 14 or older to read this. Ignoring for a moment I'm coming to a post that's written in such lurid detail were it a movie it would be deemed pornographic I seriously question who in their right mind would bother to put a warning up on a blog literally no one reads.
2. having to click on each individual entry after I've already agreed that I'm 14 or older, further agreeing that I, in fact, didn't lie. Why does it have to be like that? What, am I secretly 13, want to (for some reason) read what some 48 (!) year old cunt from Canada has to say about the writer's block, lie through the first warning then somehow get scared on the next layer of protection?
I imagine there are nuclear weapons installations that have fewer barriers to their payload than this shit.
3. to what end do I expend this effort? To read shit like the above thought? Why? What makes this even worth commenting about? I guarantee any chuckles gained from this entry will be me going off topic for the sake of entertainment.
Oh right, blogs.
Would you consider having plastic surgery?
Oh boy, here we go.
Am seriously considering collagen injections in the ring finger of my left hand as after more than three months, there is still the imprint of my wedding ring markedly visible.
Let past failures be branded on your skin.
I don't mind aging, white hair and wrinkles aren't something I worry about, but I do hate the fact that bare-chested I have all the sex appeal of a National Geographic photo about the indigenous tribes of Borneo. Apparently there is surgery that would make my boobs point forward instead of at the floor, and if I had more of a disposable income I might have my boobs "perked up" a little. It's something I've considered, but probably won't do, but from time to time I wish I could do it right now.
Mood: contemplative
Great. That is seriously a misuse of the term "contemplative". I usually see that in relation to monks or figures of great will and wisdom contemplating the deepest issues of space and time. Somehow I doubt breast surgery counts as a deep issue, let alone of existence.
I actually think I have managed to write a piece without swearing.
Fuck I'm stuck on double spacing now from this piece of shit blog and I can't figure out how to turn it off. God this is fucking wonderful. What's the tag for double space? Is it div? No? What the actual fuck? WHY DOES EVERYTHING SUCK?
There, fixed it.
I gotta be honest. I'm kind of losing patience with Allie.
Yesterday evening after work I sat on a park bench in front of the supermarket and watched the sky as it darkened. There was a moon that was trying to fit into its half-moon jeans, but was a little too heavy for them, and was being a half-moon with weight issues.
When you ascribe human characteristics to inanimate objects it's very important to make sure your audience knows what the fuck you're running at the mouth about. What are half-moon jeans? Could you possibly be describing a gibbous moon?
JUST SAY A GIBBOUS MOON. EVEN IF NO ONE KNOWS WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT THEY'LL PROBABLY KNOW WHAT A CRESCENT, HALF, NEW AND FULL MOON IS AND DEDUCE WHAT A GIBBOUS ONE LOOKS LIKE BY VIRTUE IT'S THE LAST FUCKING COMBINATION.
God.
People walked by, in and out of the store, car lights headed my way, or waned into the distance, carts clattered, chatter filled up my ears and then faded, a mother yelled at her children, a dog barked frantically, a horn blasted a couple of times, and in the distance traffic hummed quietly, a background sonata to the foreground melody.
Cut this. It adds precisely nothing.
I know you're trying to create a picture in my brain but you opened with a cold start so I need a reason to care and you're really not giving it to me.
I watched the clouds pass across the moon and skirt just below or above it, and sighed at the formation of a halo around it, an invariable sign of snow. But it did not snow last night. There wasn’t even a heavy frost. Sometimes what we expect does not happen, even if the Farmer’s Almanack tells us that it’s going to.
Zzzzzz
I was, like many teenagers, optimistic about what life had in store for me. In many ways, I’m happy about what life has brought my way. I was planning to marry (in no particular order) Prince Andrew, Prince Edward, Andy Gibb, Rex Smith, one of the Bay City Rollers, David Bowie, Bono, and probably there were other passing fancies as well. I was going to be a rock star wife who never needed to work. I was going to work as an interpreter at the UN in New York City or Geneva. I was going to do something exciting in London, England, in East Africa, in Australia, somewhere else.
My only desire after reading this is, like the Flesh Tearers Space Marines, to impetuously crush my foes.
I was going to be a stewardess, arriving at a different destination daily, I was going to be an English teacher, a librarian, a university professor, a doctor, a model on the international runways, a cashier (because I liked pushing buttons), an auto mechanic, a mother.
Yeah but then you sold out and-- hey wait, I am one of these.
No, these things are all selling out.
Unless you are an astronaut or a vampire hunter you probably sold out.
By time I was 13 I had not yet had my period but I had named my children. I had planned my best-selling novels, my ground-breaking poetry, my success, my interviews on The Michael Douglas Show, my book tours, the men who would be fascinated with me at every turn, sweep me off to romantic places, exquisite dinners, walks along the Champs Elysees.
By the time I'm your age you might finally be getting to the fucking point.
Can you believe this is still the same entry?
I feel like the seasons changed in real life.
My hyperactive imagination never considered children who wanted nothing to do with me, two divorces, penury, sharing an apartment with a crackwhore, living with my parents at age 48; in my dreams I had a wonderful marriage, was a perfect mother, and rich beyond my wildest dreams.
Oh boy.
Bitter divorces? Penury (or "poverty" as normal people say)? Living with a crack whore?
LET'S NOT WRITE ABOUT THAT.
INSTEAD: THE GROCERY STORE.
I am not exactly living the dream. No one looks at me and says “gee, I wish I had her life”.
Remember Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous? I would never be on that show!
Most people don’t look at my life closely enough to see what I do have. I have so much to offer. I have so much strength, because survivors do. That’s how you survive.
Did I complain about the endless writer's blocks before?
Is there anyway to apologize for complaining and we can go back to that?
Let's skip down a bit--
The man I wrote about in this week's piece was real. He had been to Catholic seminary, but at this point in his life was doing a PhD in philosophy. He had an on-again off-again girlfriend whom he eventually proposed to, and they got married. D. was a brilliant, intense man, who brought great enthusiasm and focus to everything he did in life, whether it was his studies, the music he wrote and played, as well as his relationships with anyone.
I hope they say that about me one day. "Brilliant, intense and uncompromising."
It wasn't a problem for me, being the person in between when he broke up with his girlfriend/fiancee and when they got back together. I was crazy about him and was very happy just to be with him when I could be. I knew there was no future there and I didn't want one. He was what I think of as an old-world chauvinist, and he liked women who were decorative (which I was)
I'm sure.
I'm sure you were decorative.
and who were Catholic (which I wasn't), and I knew that I didn't want to be the somewhat subservient woman that he was looking to spend his days with.
Yes you're an empowered woman who is happy being the rebound girlfriend in a doomed relationship.
Despite his troubled love life and his willingness to hook up with another woman when his relationship went off the rails, he may well have been the most religious man I've ever known.
Nothing like the hypocrisy of the deeply religious.
I feel like I should have come across the really lurid post before now.
Oh I accidentally skipped it.
FUCKING CONTENT NOT SUITABLE FOR MINORS CUTS.
NOTE: This entry is distinctly erotic. It also should not be read by those who easily take offence.
I'M OFFENDED AT HOW SHITTY THIS BLOG IS.
He was a real pig in bed.
He really was. He used me as a place to stick his dick when he was horny. He didn’t care very much about pleasing me, although he was gratified when he did, and were it not for the fact that I’d brought lubricated condoms, his rough movements back and forth in my body would have been even more painful than they were.
EMPOWERED WOMAN.
This is based on a true story, incidentally.
As he began his devotions, my eyes caressed his naked body. “O Most Holy Trinity, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, I adore Thee profoundly. I offer Thee the most precious Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of Jesus Christ present in all the tabernacles of the world”. Inspired, I shed my own clothing and spooned in behind him, wanting his body, wanting his soul. My hands reached around him and I found what I was looking for. He bent his head lower, spoke faster, as I used my hands on him, and soon, still praying, he was inside me again.
This reminds me of a scene in a Warhammer book.
It ended happily: with both parties consumed by the conflagration of the vengeful.
“Amen” he intoned as he entered me.
Here it comes. Salamanders crash through the ceiling and everything is in flames.
Supporting himself with one hand, he crossed himself, then made the sign of the cross first on my forehead and then on my body, stopping to stroke my nipples at The Son and The Holy Spirit. He never stopped thrusting. The sacrilege inspired me to an almost-instant orgasm.
Here it comes. Let the holy prometheum burn it to cinders.
I gave a prayer of thanks of my own as candles lit in his eyes, affectionately glad at my pleasure, and I leaned my head back on his cassock and wondered if I were condemning him to hell.
This entry is dedicated to the memory of D.P., who was a pig in bed and was never ordained, but went on to have a family and a university teaching post before dying of cancer at the age of 37.
Dying of SPACE MARINES at the age of 37.
Well, mixing sex, worship and smoking I imagine he did burn himself out pretty quick. That's quite the multitasking. I thought I was doing well when I was doing school work, playing the juego and watching a movie all at once. This guy really takes it to a new level.
Ooooooohhh goodness. I'm not reading anymore of this nonsense.
I HAVE THINGS TO CRAFT IN FFXIV.
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