Please remember, only the ones that you like. And utilize an inflection of utter reverence: "I navigate my lips along the landscape of your skin, and the sweet tang of it betrays the siren call of tuna sandwiches."
Express this in writing; use an inkwell. These particular men love the romantic nostalgia of decades past.
Supposing that I like a black girl. I find her beautiful. Now, will it be racist to call her chocolate?
Walk into your bathroom, meditate on your reflection and ask yourself, why would you feel compelled to fetishistically refer to this lovely girl as an edible, or as a commodity burdened by a very present affiliation with slavery and child labour?
Would you conduct yourself in the same way had she been of Eurasian descent? Meringue? Sour cream? Behold her as the human being she is; call her by her name.
My mate and I walked continuously for about 5 km today, and it was only then how we realized how ‘pale’ and sun-deprived this winter left us. Despite my utter cosmic insignificance to that star, in the bright of day, silhouetted in black and brittle-complected, I was a blackhole.
I’ve been invited to a fetishesque masquerade deal this evening, but I’ve interacted with so many humans this week— …I don’t think my recharge will happen quick enough.
I’m getting ready for an interview in a few hours: full time in-house graphic designer, yes, hello I volunteer as tribute
All the piercings are coming out, and I’m wearing an HH wig I made to professionally counterbalance my purple hair so that I could scope out my new environment; my true, sinister Hot Topic sales associate form safely hidden away. But I was looking up some information, and I found a recruitment specialist who said:
I’m an HR pro. I have interviewed for directors of departments, all the way down to warehouse staff.
The artistic people we hire (webmasters, graphic designers, photographers) dress kinda like you’d expect emo kids to dress.
In a cybercafe typing out my essay for a story about a woman, her wife and their daughter who live on a terraformed colony with other women whose predecessors fled earth because a bioengineered plague mutated and culled out the male species 30 generations ago for my online sci-fi class while listening to a sweet fuckin Perturbator playlist
clichés on clichés on clichés
I want to cry at the perfection of this moment, but my tear ducts only activate on a crash-priority override
Okay, so you answered about smoking, but E-cigarettes? Much more futuristic, and a large diy/hacker subculture. Cooler?
I’ve considered them favourably from a purely superficial interest. I’m still looking for scientific journals that document their health impact, but I’m not calibrated for beta testing. In the meanwhile, I’ll admire from afar.
I just finished writing this analysis on the collision of sex, gender roles and commercial exploitation for a story about a matriarchal alien race that utterly annihilates the strange Federation men who try to exploit their planet
original prompting text
On Dexatal it is different, for there the peoples, the ignoble male creatures, breed for physical prowess, leaving the development of their sciences, their philosophies, and the contemplation of the abstract to a select few. The greater part of the race fares forth, to conquer, to lay waste, to struggle and fight as the animals do over a morsel of worthless territory.
This was such a struggle to write about—I mean, thematically, it’s easy and the vengeance is tasty, but I have no respectable domain over thought processes with cycles greater than 2 minutes right now,
but I finished it.
And now I’m going to congratulate myself with a thick slice of 2am cheesecake and a good heaping of the blackberry jam I made tonight.
All of that belongs to someone who makes me want to create entire worlds just to house her fashion sense and creations. She’s like this whispering muse who tempts me to rouse from my sleep at 3 am when I must be awake at 7 am JUST to fill pages of sketches and ramblings like some mad prophet trying to regurgitate his latest vision of star conquering warrior queens and the men who fall to their blood soaked knees.
I just erupted into stupid giggles reading this. It’s so cloak-and-dagger. I love it.
Whether or not you have a secret person. Keep them that way as long as youd like, I know it is incredibly difficult to let the whole world know about your private life. It is even more difficult to let the world know about someone who may not be public themselves.
While the human variable isn’t really applicable, I admit that my incorrigibility as a private person results in more self-censorship than I’d like. My drafts folder is currently sitting pretty at 988 items, and I’d say a good 40% of that number is text posts—often created when I’m contemplative or emotionally impulsive.
Sometimes I want to meditate deeply on personal things like the abstractions of my intimate human experiences, but …I can’t. Some of the personalities here are so flagrant, and I wonder how they do it. I’ll work on the other stuff though. Heh, great prompt for a rambling digression. Thanks for the sentiment, Grey_Head.