The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

[sweepthefloor]

B is for Butter On Rice

.... Makes me want to write too. I like it. <3

My brother from another father and mother was found stumbling the streets with a ½ empty XXX label straight from the lab. I thought as I watched him from the screen-less window: Oh! Damn! What’s he up to? I better not swill from that bottle. And then I ate my peanut butter out of a jar.

It smelled like bad poetry! I love it! The first time we sipped it up in his attic on my 14th birthday we ate blackberry brandy and took off our clothes in a game of strip poker. The whole neighborhood! I guess group sex was not on the party agenda. He was so lewd and disgusting I don’t know how we became friends. I think it was his black curly hair hiding behind a school book splitting his fingers and licking in between (like he wanted to do that to me!), sitting in the back row of the classroom.

What did I do with him? I set him up with my #1 girlfriend. What I did learn from him: a closeness, his undying love for me, his black-eye, his dirt-bike, how to drive a truck, and my very first blow-job.
--

It was also the same year I burned my leg sitting on the back of a hot bike. Watch out for mufflers. I wanted to fuck that 17 year old so bad, but he wouldn’t have at it. I don’t blame him. I was a stick, nothing to fuck. I was all band-aids on nipples.

I remember that burn, and the summer sheets shearing off more skin with the slightest toss in the bed.

--Thanks Butterfly. I can’t take credit for moving you to write but I think you can take credit for moving me to write just now! So we can drink up, because surely this typing doesn’t have the ill-wanted effects of the real moonshine soaking our souls.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

My brother from another father and mother was found stumbling the streets with a ½ empty XXX label straight from the lab. I thought as I watched him from the screen-less window: Oh! Damn! What’s he up to? I better not swill from that bottle. And then I ate my peanut butter out of a jar.

It smelled like bad poetry! I love it! The first time we sipped it up in his attic on my 14th birthday we ate blackberry brandy and took off our clothes in a game of strip poker. The whole neighborhood! I guess group sex was not on the party agenda. He was so lewd and disgusting I don’t know how we became friends. I think it was his black curly hair hiding behind a school book splitting his fingers and licking in between (like he wanted to do that to me!), sitting in the back row of the classroom.

What did I do with him? I set him up with my #1 girlfriend. What I did learn from him: a closeness, his undying love for me, his black-eye, his dirt-bike, how to drive a truck, and my very first blow-job.
--

It was also the same year I burned my leg sitting on the back of a hot bike. Watch out for mufflers. I wanted to fuck that 17 year old so bad, but he wouldn’t have at it. I don’t blame him. I was a stick, nothing to fuck. I was all band-aids on nipples.

I remember that burn, and the summer sheets shearing off more skin with the slightest toss in the bed.

--Thanks Butterfly. I can’t take credit for moving you to write but I think you can take credit for moving me to write just now! So we can drink up, because surely this typing doesn’t have the ill-wanted effects of the real moonshine soaking our souls.

*hiccup swoon*

 

[sweepthefloor]

Number Slave

My face melted off today in the classroom. I sat on my hands, I twiddled my thumbs, and I kept very quiet till I couldn’t take it anymore. I sat around looking at the rest of my sleeping group and when the educator started asking questions: I blurted out all of the answers till I decided that I looked like a show-off and then I gagged myself again.

Little girls are to be seen and not heard, and then I sat on my hands again till the tips of my fingers felt funny, and then I inspected them. When the color returned to normal, I sat on them again and repeated the whole process.

Any questions?

Me: Yes! I have a question! When will our monitors and devices slave to the record? I mean it would be nice.

I thought: If I am going to dominate this scene so competently it would be nice to slave information directly- export data. I don’t understand why this can’t be.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Brown Bag Us

*hiccup swoon*

I might drink out of the same bottle with you, if you pass it to me.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Do you dream in rock and roll light shows, sweat and stale beer soaking your amygdala as you thrash REM brainsolos across your mosh pit of sheets and covers?

Just asking.

I like your neuroerotica. Can I get lost in your limbic system?
I tangle with the bed sheets all the time. It's a 10 round knock out, and I think I am the winner.

 

[DeepGreenEyes]

I like your neuroerotica. Can I get lost in your limbic system?
I tangle with the bed sheets all the time. It's a 10 round knock out, and I think I am the winner.

Limbic system is so fun to say, isn't it? Limbic system. Limbic system. Say it twenty times an you'll have no idea at all what it means. Of course, I don't know, really, nurse Janey, what the limbic system consists of. It reminds me of a cheap competitor of Lego.

As for thrashing, such exercise is bound to tone the dreammuscles.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

I might drink out of the same bottle with you, if you pass it to me.

Hmm, what a curious game of spin the bottle that could be...

 

[sweepthefloor]

Limbic system is so fun to say, isn't it? Limbic system. Limbic system. Say it twenty times an you'll have no idea at all what it means. Of course, I don't know, really, nurse Janey, what the limbic system consists of. It reminds me of a cheap competitor of Lego.

As for thrashing, such exercise is bound to tone the dreammuscles.

It's not a cheap competitor. It's the original snap-together blocks of our emotion. This doesn't mean I understand what it means either. It is funny to say.

I want to sleep more.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Hmm, what a curious game of spin the bottle that could be...

Round and round and round she goes, where she stops, only she knows.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I decided to meet him for lunch quickly at the market down the street, in a friendly way because I already knew I was not attracted to him sexually.

We ate some pizza. I listened to his story very carefully. We walked around and sat down on an empty table. Men do take these things much harder than women. It’s been two years of separation and he hadn’t even gotten himself fucked yet.

I told him: You just got to do it. You have to go out there and take what you want. Don’t be so pleasing. The world is yours. Look at all these women! You need to get your dick wet without worrying about the woman. Just push your manhood deep into her throat till you come, and she has no choice but to swallow it. I am telling you, it works. Chicks love that shit.

We walked some more and then to my car. And he put his trembling hard body up against me and kissed me! I didn’t want to be kissed but I didn’t have the heart to reject him after my big take what you want and be confident speech.

He said: You are just so soft and pleasing. You put the spices on my pizza for me!

He almost cried. It’s true, I did do that but I didn’t mean it.

He asked: Am I to skinny?
I said: Don’t ask such ridiculous questions. You-Love-You for who you are and the girl will follow up the love. That is how it works.
He said: When I gained some weight the military put me on a regimen.
I said: Will they put me on a regimen so I could lose some of this cute little squish right here?
He said: No.
I said: Why not?
He said: I won’t let them.

Then he shoved his tongue down my throat again. When he finished violating my mouth he said: What’s your name anyway?

hahahahahahaahahaha

 

[sweepthefloor]

I said: I am not telling you.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

Round and round and round she goes, where she stops, only she knows.

*reaches down and tickles the bottle until it twirls*

Breathlessly we watch in delicious torment as it sings out "clunkity-tink-clunkity-tink-clunkity-tink-clunk."

Oh my.

*blush*

 

[sweepthefloor]

*reaches down and tickles the bottle until it twirls*

Breathlessly we watch in delicious torment as it sings out "clunkity-tink-clunkity-tink-clunkity-tink-clunk."

Oh my.

*blush*

There is always the option of bravery: just stop the bottle with blunt force exactly where you want it to stop and say: I win.

 

[RedButterflySlut]

--Thanks Butterfly. I can’t take credit for moving you to write but I think you can take credit for moving me to write just now! So we can drink up, because surely this typing doesn’t have the ill-wanted effects of the real moonshine soaking our souls.

Your teenage years sound like mine- brothers created by love and not blood, the scorching closeness of that bond, and the knowledge that no period of silence will tear it apart.

Memories of burns seem to make the strongest impact-
I had a summer job in a hot kitchen when I was fourteen. I burned myself removing food from an oven, the mark still shows when I'm in the sun too long. It blistered, hot and big and gross, I was gone a month. They treated me like glass when I returned, frail and delicate. The illusion of my responsible nature was broken, they remembered my age and the supposed fragility of my youthful condition- but the young aren't glass.
They're great masses of lava and unpredictability, desires bubble up and are cooled by insecurity.
Walking volcanoes, threatening to loose control
We don't age. We just learn how not to burn others.

He asked: Am I to skinny?
I said: Don’t ask such ridiculous questions. You-Love-You for who you are and the girl will follow up the love. That is how it works.

I love this

 

[DeepGreenEyes]

It's not a cheap competitor. It's the original snap-together blocks of our emotion. This doesn't mean I understand what it means either. It is funny to say.

I want to sleep more.

Let's get a stick. Put on the calypso. Everybody limbic.

Why do I see almost everything you write as if I'm sitting in a movie theatre? Your vignettes are an independent film threadstival.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

There is always the option of bravery: just stop the bottle with blunt force exactly where you want it to stop and say: I win.

I don't know dear Janey...I think that surrendering to chance is far braver. The torment of not knowing who will win or what will happen is the exhilarating nature of games and I think what compels us to want to play. Winning is a sort of death and not really something I am in a hurry to claim, or the main reason that I like to play. Actually, there are many games where I would feel much more fulfilled in defeat. I know watching you win would definitely make me smile victoriously.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Your teenage years sound like mine- brothers created by love and not blood, the scorching closeness of that bond, and the knowledge that no period of silence will tear it apart.

Memories of burns seem to make the strongest impact-
I had a summer job in a hot kitchen when I was fourteen. I burned myself removing food from an oven, the mark still shows when I'm in the sun too long. It blistered, hot and big and gross, I was gone a month. They treated me like glass when I returned, frail and delicate. The illusion of my responsible nature was broken, they remembered my age and the supposed fragility of my youthful condition- but the young aren't glass.
They're great masses of lava and unpredictability, desires bubble up and are cooled by insecurity.
Walking volcanoes, threatening to loose control
We don't age. We just learn how not to burn others.



I love this

I think that is an accurate description of growing up. That's so funny about the job. My first job was a paper route. *fling* There is some sort of satisfaction when: paper hits porch launched from the street bike. Or that feeling of waking up before school when it is still dark and seeing the bundles waiting for me to fold. The rubber bands! Monday is so thin you can fold, tuck and chuck without making a mess in the wind. I loved the job but couldn't wait till I was 14-- to get some real working papers. I divided my route in 1/2 and picked up the tail end out of my back alley. I suppose that slipping on rain bags is good practice for slipping on rubbers. Too bad I never thought of that then, I could have told my young lover: You dirty print. Oh! My inky hands. The evidence of face touching. Also, I regret not fooling around with my nemesis in delivery-- the city's other print delivery boy: It's a race! See you at school sucker! Don't tell the boys in gym class that I have a job, tossing paper better than you do!

 

[sweepthefloor]

Let's get a stick. Put on the calypso. Everybody limbic.

Why do I see almost everything you write as if I'm sitting in a movie theatre? Your vignettes are an independent film threadstival.

Why can I hear: Everybody limbic! And see all kinds of fun! Do you like movie popcorn? Do you like butter? Should I salt this thread for you?

 

[sweepthefloor]

I don't know dear Janey...I think that surrendering to chance is far braver. The torment of not knowing who will win or what will happen is the exhilarating nature of games and I think what compels us to want to play. Winning is a sort of death and not really something I am in a hurry to claim, or the main reason that I like to play. Actually, there are many games where I would feel much more fulfilled in defeat. I know watching you win would definitely make me smile victoriously.

I suppose you are right about the suspense. Sometimes, I want to win and sometimes I want to be beaten. It's very confusing. I'd be happy to make you smile victoriously, and I do win sometimes. Maybe I am happier in defeat just like you. There is no doubt that I am a good sport, whatever game I play.

Luckily, as we lined up for the losing low five: good game, good game, good game, good game in defeat: We still got our ice cream. I prefer the position behind home plate: it's never boring and I LOVE that sting in the palm of my hand. I miss it. Let's play.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Life might be like eating a box chocolates, but I think that fucker was wrong. It’s like eating boxes of cracker jacks, and love is finding the toy inside that you never knew you wanted. I got a mouth full of sticky sweet jacks, and I am eating my way to the surprise inside.

 

[sweetmoonbeam]

Why do I see almost everything you write as if I'm sitting in a movie theatre? Your vignettes are an independent film threadstival.

I totally know what you mean.

If I had any talent, I'd turn it into a screenplay. [nudge nudge]

But that sounds so weird. Oh never mind. I'll just keep reading.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I'll just keep reading.

SweetMoonBeam I don’t know how to write for screenplay. Sometimes I think about writing a story, but I can never figure out what the point of the story will be. There is no structure and no beginning, middle or end. And then I feel lost.

I am all knit one purl two in reverse, unraveling the content of this sweater life. It’s a snag that I can’t stop pulling at. I know I should tie a knot and save the sweater but I can’t. Shred one, pearl me.

My thoughts are the kinked yarn that’s pulled apart quickly. The yarn still maintains the shape of the stitch after the whole garment is ripped out, and that is what I write down: the big yarn pile. Hey! That was a sweater one time before! What happened?

 

[sweepthefloor]

The Bad Head Case

I have come to the realization that not every man that enters my mouth will be sucked to the finish line. The horror!

He said: My ex must have a voodoo doll of me. She is strangling my nuts right now so I can’t come.

 

[YourCaptor]

I have come to the realization that not every man that enters my mouth will be sucked to the finish line. The horror!

He said: My ex must have a voodoo doll of me. She is strangling my nuts right now so I can’t come.

If he mentions his x during sex. Run!!! Run like he just mentioned his x during sex.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

I suppose you are right about the suspense. Sometimes, I want to win and sometimes I want to be beaten. It's very confusing. I'd be happy to make you smile victoriously, and I do win sometimes. Maybe I am happier in defeat just like you. There is no doubt that I am a good sport, whatever game I play.

Luckily, as we lined up for the losing low five: good game, good game, good game, good game in defeat: We still got our ice cream. I prefer the position behind home plate: it's never boring and I LOVE that sting in the palm of my hand. I miss it. Let's play.

Winning...losing...it really is quite subjective. One of the games that I really struggle to figure out the winner of is the skin twisting stretching game of Indian rug burns. What do you think?

I do like ice cream and enjoy the company of a playmate that needs to feel their palm sting.