Marilyn & His New Squeeze

cwphoto:

My days are always okay when I get to wear a dress.

I need to start wearing a dress. Cody looks pretty, but I’d look fucking ferocious. I’m like the most horribly demented looking crag queen since Divine. For those of you who don’t know who divine is:

I have to wear similar make-up one of these days just to break people’s minds. I hate this lack of fucking horrendous madness going around lately. Everything is so still and calm and I wanna see some shit explode and go wrong.

Me wearing a dress and makeup and biting people’s jugular veins should do the fucking trick, right?

cwphoto:

Should I continue this book?  Here is the sample chapter.  You tell me.

CHAPTER ONE
Construction By the Death of Hope

She sleeps on a mattress like a tyrant.  Like an emotive criminal in a calloused world.
And I try to pull feeling from my already damaged strings, though they seem to be unresponsive.  From the years of wear that crippled me with an apathetic tongue and a silent, eternally decaying mentality, I am now damaged and I am now faulty. 

“I can’t do this.”

It seems to be a familiar cry to me.  As if I’ve heard it from my own mouth and felt it within my own horribly stifled heart. 
Help is but an excuse for ability.
Help is sympathy and I’m terrible at it.

By night, I can feel the temperature shift from broken to construction.  Where the skies crack open and bleed a filth more pure than the one we’d grown used to. A filth that exhumes the buried and washes them away together.  Where the living continue to die but fight not the inevitable, for it’s coming and we know it. 

Instead, we sit and watch the rain explode against the warm pavement and wash everything away…everything but the two of us.  For we’re cement in a universe of liquid — the only defined integrity that I’ve found is in this moment. 

Where the sun rises differently, but to everyone else, exactly the same. 
How the familiar meets the unforgiving and they wage war on one another until the sun descends below the all-too-humane, filthy horizon.

Are you human?  Are you breathing? 
Can you check my pulse and revive me?  Do I need to be revived? 

Maybe the old me is dead. 

Maybe what I was never truly existed in the first place.

Am I dead?
Or was I just born…just now…just then?

These moments can be beautiful or they can be ugly.  It’s how you perceive the perception and accept the reality that we are both an illusion.  It’s behind your ears and below your nose. 

Let’s run away.  No ocean neglected.

For we’re all a sea. 
It’s a sad reality that most cling to shore for the safety of that which is shallow, but we can be the depth.  We can make up for them.

Teach me how to swim.  I’ll teach you how to cope.

Because of you, I can feel again.  And that is more real to me than you will ever know.

I vote yes, if it’s a democracy.