The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

[sweepthefloor]

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

I almost fell asleep at dinner listening to his story so I said: How ‘bout we just go to the car, I will suck your dick in the parking lot, and then we can call it a night?

I pretty much choked on my own laughter with his cock in my mouth at the same time about the voodoo doll.

Oh! The x sex anger is an effective technique as he talks and thinks about her, and the rage brews in his body that forces my head onto his manhood, and robs my airway without mercy.

It’s how sneaky masochists turn sweet men into sadists by some form of trickery.

 

[sweepthefloor]

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.

Haha! I remember that ouch! I suppose both players win if they find themselves in the right position.

I prefer ice-over-cream, but I do love custard on ice too. I want a hard ball in my glove fast pitch, but I won’t forget about these hand games with you. Will you call me Miss Mary Mack? All dressed in black? With silver buttons? All down my back? These are dangerous games that I bet I am very good at.

 

[DeepGreenEyes]

It’s how sneaky masochists turn sweet men into sadists by some form of trickery.

Sometimes sweet men are also sadists.

But I admire your chicanery.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Sometimes sweet men are also sadists.

sweet + mean?

 

[sweepthefloor]

I do not know what is this, chicanery. I will find out now.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Trickery! Chicanery! With a synonym of skulduggery! What kind of words are these?
I would like to be skull-dugg-tricked. My head is so fragile.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

sweet + mean?

I think what he means is something that is best explained as a sweet and spicy sauce smothered meat nugget style Thai food dish. You know that kind that hits your tongue and syrupy sweet at first ...and then after you have committed it to your mouth and begin to chew the heat arrives. It makes you gasp as the peppers scrape away at your tender mouth and then lingers long after you swallow. It makes you breathe in a wheeew as you feel the sweat on your brow beginning to wedge out and slowly works to building a desperation for ice water.

I imagine you the type to tear up as it burns in your throat and then feverishly look down at the plate and then quickly take a larger second bite. I am quite certain you would chew with even more purpose to get to that sweet heat even faster and deny yourself water until your eyes are bloodshot and your lips are numb and you ACTUALLY can't take another bite.

Hmm, I seem to be hungry. Can I watch you eat?

 

[sweepthefloor]

I think what he means is something that is best explained as a sweet and spicy sauce smothered meat nugget style Thai food dish. You know that kind that hits your tongue and syrupy sweet at first ...and then after you have committed it to your mouth and begin to chew the heat arrives. It makes you gasp as the peppers scrape away at your tender mouth and then lingers long after you swallow. It makes you breathe in a wheeew as you feel the sweat on your brow beginning to wedge out and slowly works to building a desperation for ice water.

I imagine you the type to tear up as it burns in your throat and then feverishly look down at the plate and then quickly take a larger second bite. I am quite certain you would chew with even more purpose to get to that sweet heat even faster and deny yourself water until your eyes are bloodshot and your lips are numb and you ACTUALLY can't take another bite.

Hmm, I seem to be hungry. Can I watch you eat?

I am an inexperienced eater. Everything would be so much simpler if I could just eat my feelings. You can watch, but if I am taking a long time with my bowl of soup just know it's because I am making words with the alphabet noodles.

Sweet heat sounds good though, maybe I will have to try it.

 

[jomar]

...
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?

Threads

 

[sweepthefloor]

Threads

slips from the seams of sad dreams and poor decisions--me.
I still wear my under-garments inside out most days to deprive the stitching contact with my skin.
We should sleep in a bed of unraveled sweaters.
Or we can wear sweaters and sit on the floor and unravel each other till we are topless.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I just can’t trust a man that doesn’t come in my mouth. It’s the hidden rage. The frustration that leads to unpredictable futures. It’s the brutality of head with no safe conclusion. It’s a risk.

And I am thinking: This is the psychopath blue-print. He’s going hurt me. When a man refuses to lose ejaculatory control something bad is about to happen. I can feel it in his hands. He wants to choke me. He hates me, and doesn't even know it.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

I am an inexperienced eater. Everything would be so much simpler if I could just eat my feelings. You can watch, but if I am taking a long time with my bowl of soup just know it's because I am making words with the alphabet noodles.

Sweet heat sounds good though, maybe I will have to try it.

What we resist persists. Feel what you need to feel, and just breathe.

For me, food is a wonderful amuse-bouche for life. It is not something I could easily forgo because I am stiff armed from being too stuffed up with emotion to eat another bite. Though it is kinda fun to wonder what happiness would taste like.

Please, no rush...take your bitter sweet time. I enjoy watching your mouth and tongue slowly spell out such slurp-able noodles for my hungry eyes. You are so delectable.

 

[jomar]

...
We should sleep in a bed of unraveled sweaters.
Or we can wear sweaters and sit on the floor and unravel each other till we are topless.

The two are not mutually exclusive, babe...

 

[DeepGreenEyes]

sweet + mean?

Sween. It happens. Like an albino.

I think what he means is something that is best explained as a sweet and spicy sauce smothered meat nugget style Thai food dish. You know that kind that hits your tongue and syrupy sweet at first ...and then after you have committed it to your mouth and begin to chew the heat arrives. It makes you gasp as the peppers scrape away at your tender mouth and then lingers long after you swallow. It makes you breathe in a wheeew as you feel the sweat on your brow beginning to wedge out and slowly works to building a desperation for ice water.

I imagine you the type to tear up as it burns in your throat and then feverishly look down at the plate and then quickly take a larger second bite. I am quite certain you would chew with even more purpose to get to that sweet heat even faster and deny yourself water until your eyes are bloodshot and your lips are numb and you ACTUALLY can't take another bite.

Hmm, I seem to be hungry. Can I watch you eat?

I just ate a whole steak with red pepper flakes, and I'm hungry for more. I like your metaphor. It explained the situation as well as one can.

I used to think a lot about paradoxes of sadism: If one is sadistic, and also congenial and respectful, it's good to have a metaphorical way of understanding that apparent incongruity. Thai food works well to compare oneself to. It's delicious, combines favors, and has the word phuket in it occasionally.

 

[sweepthefloor]

What we resist persists. Feel what you need to feel, and just breathe.

For me, food is a wonderful amuse-bouche for life. It is not something I could easily forgo because I am stiff armed from being too stuffed up with emotion to eat another bite. Though it is kinda fun to wonder what happiness would taste like.

Please, no rush...take your bitter sweet time. I enjoy watching your mouth and tongue slowly spell out such slurp-able noodles for my hungry eyes. You are so delectable.

Thank you. Maybe that is the problem: I am filled with myself. I stuffed myself silly. I really should try some food adventures. I eat plain Jane: salted butter on bread, lettuce with lemon, small bits of cooked meat sometimes, and a piece of chocolate. I never was a 'good' eater. I know why, but it doesn't matter.

I read somewhere you mentioned a blind lady crossing the street. Imagine the dinner plate: There is portion of happy at six-o-clock, a portion of fuck at six-fifteen, a heaping of fear at six-thirty, a mountain of trust at six-forty-five, a drink of pure spring lust on the right of the plate, and a desert of you in the ice-cream bowl on the left. The fork of practicality is in the right hand, and the angry knife easily cuts with the left hand. Now where is that tender spoon?

 

[sweepthefloor]

The two are not mutually exclusive, babe...

I wouldn't think that they were because after all that unraveling sleep will naturally occur. Deep sleep, unless of coarse the sweaters are made of wool. That makes me itchy.

 

[sweepthefloor]

“It’s not easy being human.”

When he walked into the publick place I immediately switched from gulping to sipping. It just wouldn’t be right for him to see me tanking the pints as easily as he does.

Me: Am I normal?
He: I never did know what normal is. The question makes no sense to me.
Me: Well, I never did love a man yet. The flowers from last weeks date are dead on the dash of my car. How’s your girl?

He: I like her, but then I liked them all. I don’t have the answers.
Me: Yeah.

He: It’s not easy being human. Life is full of suffering, but we are resilient. The pain rolls off our backs, and we are happy. I have known you all your life. I know you are happy somewhere inside. If you are normal I have no idea, that remains to be determined sometime never because it is irrelevant.

 

[sweepthefloor]

There is no hiding the inner happy. It radiates like nuclear weaponry. The decontamination station is useless. I want to surrender inside the neon glow hole of my soul. And I want to take you with me, to that place. Let’s sleep together and shred these hazardous material suits.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

“It’s not easy being human.”

When he walked into the publick place I immediately switched from gulping to sipping. It just wouldn’t be right for him to see me tanking the pints as easily as he does.

Me: Am I normal?
He: I never did know what normal is. The question makes no sense to me.
Me: Well, I never did love a man yet. The flowers from last weeks date are dead on the dash of my car. How’s your girl?

He: I like her, but then I liked them all. I don’t have the answers.
Me: Yeah.

He: It’s not easy being human. Life is full of suffering, but we are resilient. The pain rolls off our backs, and we are happy. I have known you all your life. I know you are happy somewhere inside. If you are normal I have no idea, that remains to be determined sometime never because it is irrelevant.

He's lovely.

 

[RedButterflySlut]

“It’s not easy being human.”

When he walked into the publick place I immediately switched from gulping to sipping. It just wouldn’t be right for him to see me tanking the pints as easily as he does.

Me: Am I normal?
He: I never did know what normal is. The question makes no sense to me.
Me: Well, I never did love a man yet. The flowers from last weeks date are dead on the dash of my car. How’s your girl?

He: I like her, but then I liked them all. I don’t have the answers.
Me: Yeah.

He: It’s not easy being human. Life is full of suffering, but we are resilient. The pain rolls off our backs, and we are happy. I have known you all your life. I know you are happy somewhere inside. If you are normal I have no idea, that remains to be determined sometime never because it is irrelevant.

Sociological study. A bunch of monkeys are put in a room with a ladder. On the top of the ladder are delicious bananas, but when a little monkey goes to climb the bananas, the rest of his friends get a mild zap. Monkey with banana comes down unknowing that his friends got hurt, they all beat him up. They stop going up the ladder. One generation later, none of them go up the ladder and never have.
That's normalcy.
The ability to blend in, unnoticed. The knowledge that there are other people like you. Reality is painfully subjective, half the time we don't even have reasons behind what we do.

I read your journal and I feel a little more normal, two monkeys staring at the ladder.
My best friend is sometimes my lover, in the past he would tell me about his boring girls in-between putting his cock inside my mouth. I'd tell him about the boys that filled me with disappointment and cum. I asked him if I was normal.
He told me I wasn't damaged enough for him.

 

[sweepthefloor]

When The Lovely Love

He's lovely.

He’s a novel I could write.

One night while sleeping in my little bed a man appeared as a shadow climbing through my bedroom window. I was too small to recognize his familiar outline. He knocked over a plant. It happened so quickly, the fear, and the shelter of the bathroom door: “Open the fucking door. I am not going to hurt you.”

This is love that beats down doors and climbs up fire escapes breaking into windows demanding what-is-his. In the middle of the night he loved her, and she loved him back.

And I spend my days waiting for the lovely love, and wondering why I am not loved as I know it.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

Thank you. Maybe that is the problem: I am filled with myself. I stuffed myself silly. I really should try some food adventures. I eat plain Jane: salted butter on bread, lettuce with lemon, small bits of cooked meat sometimes, and a piece of chocolate. I never was a 'good' eater. I know why, but it doesn't matter.

I read somewhere you mentioned a blind lady crossing the street. Imagine the dinner plate: There is portion of happy at six-o-clock, a portion of fuck at six-fifteen, a heaping of fear at six-thirty, a mountain of trust at six-forty-five, a drink of pure spring lust on the right of the plate, and a desert of you in the ice-cream bowl on the left. The fork of practicality is in the right hand, and the angry knife easily cuts with the left hand. Now where is that tender spoon?

Oh dear me, you have been feeding yourself generic people chow! Eating packing peanuts will also quiet hunger pangs, but it will not nourish you.

I did see her and seeing her again would not make me cross. She was so lovely.

From what I know about you, I wonder if happiness could taste like a creamy hard caramel with a liquid center. I wonder how long you could suckle and deny yourself what was locked inside?

I will have to ponder the other sides you are describing though. I don't know what I should feed you yet... but I do know I would feel impatiently distanced with a fork and would default to using my fingertips to serve you.

As your dessert I would work hard to try to be cool, creamy, and sweet, thank you for not seeming to mind my tendency to melt.

If held firmly in the right grip, I bet you would make a lovely spoon.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Sociological study. A bunch of monkeys are put in a room with a ladder. On the top of the ladder are delicious bananas, but when a little monkey goes to climb the bananas, the rest of his friends get a mild zap. Monkey with banana comes down unknowing that his friends got hurt, they all beat him up. They stop going up the ladder. One generation later, none of them go up the ladder and never have.
That's normalcy.
The ability to blend in, unnoticed. The knowledge that there are other people like you. Reality is painfully subjective, half the time we don't even have reasons behind what we do.

I read your journal and I feel a little more normal, two monkeys staring at the ladder.
My best friend is sometimes my lover, in the past he would tell me about his boring girls in-between putting his cock inside my mouth. I'd tell him about the boys that filled me with disappointment and cum. I asked him if I was normal.
He told me I wasn't damaged enough for him.

That sucks for the monkeys. It’s not normal to stop trying to get the banana. What’s wrong with those monkeys?

So we are two monkeys staring at the ladder, we are normal, and we want fucking bananas, and we are going to get what we want. Today you get on my back and we go up as one, and tomorrow I will get on your back. That’s three hands on the bananas and one hand on the ladder at the top. Oh wait! We need a free hand to gesture: “Hey, Fuck you!” to the people with the white coats on.

My best friend is sometimes my lover, in the past he would tell me about his boring girls in-between putting his cock inside my mouth.

I like this sentence.

Not damaged enough for him? Do you love him? If l loved a man and he told me that I would be like: Ok, if that’s what you want... And then I would get all crazy, slash his tires, rip up pictures of his ex girlfriends, shred his clothes with scissors, cry, punch him in the face, break a few dishes, serve him burnt toast for breakfast, tear off my shirt and scream: HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW?

 

[waaitg]

And I spend my days waiting for the lovely love, and wondering why I am not loved as I know it.

A chorus from REM's eponymous song echoes inside my mind:

It's the end of the world as we know it.
It's the end of the world as we know it.
It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

Is it armageddon if it is only our own world that implodes while stranger range and rearrange themselves excluding us?

Does this allude, for us to conclude that the prudes disapprove of our lewd, nude, selves while the shrewd spew platitudes during the news?

Do you?

As for me, I lack the ability, so visualize or see why the mystery of you or me may matter to anyone, for they gain no pleasure no fun, when all is said and done.

We all seek love as we know it, but can we really know what IT is when all we seek is an idea? The best I have been able to do is determine is what love Is Not. I don't know if I can do better than that.

Can you?

 

[RedButterflySlut]

That sucks for the monkeys. It’s not normal to stop trying to get the banana. What’s wrong with those monkeys?

So we are two monkeys staring at the ladder, we are normal, and we want fucking bananas, and we are going to get what we want. Today you get on my back and we go up as one, and tomorrow I will get on your back. That’s three hands on the bananas and one hand on the ladder at the top. Oh wait! We need a free hand to gesture: “Hey, Fuck you!” to the people with the white coats on.

I like this sentence.

Not damaged enough for him? Do you love him? If l loved a man and he told me that I would be like: Ok, if that’s what you want... And then I would get all crazy, slash his tires, rip up pictures of his ex girlfriends, shred his clothes with scissors, cry, punch him in the face, break a few dishes, serve him burnt toast for breakfast, tear off my shirt and scream: HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW?

It's a question of what you want more, to be accepted by the other monkeys or to achieve your dream- the banana. It's an unfortunate reality that we have to chose, but I have to say.
I need more potassium in my life. We can create a monkey-balancing act.

I don't love my best friend, except maybe in pity. It's hard for me not to have deep affection for the terribly lonely, and he's the loneliest monkey I've ever known. He chose to stay below on the ground, and it's not working too well for him.
I debated pulling an Ophelia to his tragic Hamlet, but the pay for madness is really low. All you get is a bunch of flowers, and dishes get really expensive.
So I slept with his (male) best friend instead. He was better, but he thought I wasn't normal enough. I just can't win.