The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

[sweepthefloor]

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.

Packing peanuts are funny. I could pack myself up in a box and use packing peanuts to keep me safe from truck to fuck when handle with care is no longer a delivery standard.

Happiness is a liquid center, and I get right to it.

Fuck the fork and pass the spoon me, firmly. I want to take a nap. I just cried my eyes out. That makes me sleepy.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

Packing peanuts are funny. I could pack myself up in a box and use packing peanuts to keep me safe from truck to fuck when handle with care is no longer a delivery standard.

Happiness is a liquid center, and I get right to it.

Fuck the fork and pass the spoon me, firmly. I want to take a nap. I just cried my eyes out. That makes me sleepy.

*tackle hugs you and then holds you tight* Crying can be good for us at times but tears are definitely something we spend, so rest if you took a spending spree and need to build savings again. I'll be some bubble wrap for a while, if it would help.

 

[sweepthefloor]

*tackle hugs you and then holds you tight* Crying can be good for us at times but tears are definitely something we spend, so rest if you took a spending spree and need to build savings again. I'll be some bubble wrap for a while, if it would help.

That’s so funny about spending tears and saving. The lovely man said: Relationships are like bank accounts and you can’t keep bouncing the emotions like beat checks. You get what I am laying down? I am not trying to bust your balls or anything, just saying.

Me: I don’t have balls remember?

If you are bubble wrap I am going to pop you till it drives everyone completely insane because they want to pop you too, and then I will be greedy and say: Get off my wrap.

*Also, I slept hard and wet my sheet with my mouth by accident.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Me: Remember that time in your bedroom at your parents house when you wanted to beat me with your belt and I said no?
He: No, I don’t remember that.
Me: Remember that time you banged me in the parking lot in your truck?
He: Yeah, I remember that.
Me: You were so jealous and possessive.
He: I wanted you close. Remember that time you ‘went out’ with your ‘friend’ and didn’t want me to meet him, and I went ballistic?
Me: Yeah.
He: What’s wrong? Something is wrong if you are calling me. What’s up?
Me: Remember that rocket ship at the playground?
He: I just wanted you close.
Me: Nothing is wrong. I am writing a novel and you are getting one page.
He: You cold bitch!

 

[sweepthefloor]

Do you?
Can you?

When they tried to reinvent this industrial wasteland I went from smoke stack to smoke stack witnessing the imploding demolitions. I camped out on the ladder rack of my truck, and took pictures. It was wild entertainment.
--
I don’t watch the news, so I don’t know. I hope if it is the ‘end of the world’ someone will message me and let me know.
--
I don’t want to explode and hurt the innocent fighter standing beside me who didn’t wear a hardhat and flak jacket to this dangerous battle. The war rages on and it is tough. It’s best not to injure your comrade just because you have a little TNT inside. That bomb can be dismantled in the bedroom, not on the front line under enemy fire.
If one wrong thought blows yourself off, you end up blazing guns and make-shifting belt tourniquets to control the bleed from your own shrapnel that nicked his artery. He says: We are fucked, let me die here. I say: Fuck you, no way, all we need is clean dry socks. And I pull out some surgical clamps from my pocket to save his life. I tell him: I surrender to you, the rest of these fuckers are going down. We are in a hot zone. I wrap his heart with my white surrender flag, and that is love. Nobody ever really wins but we survive together. The LZ is red hot but we are flying the fuck out of here anyway. Let’s go home.

And what do I know? I woke up with an empty sauce pot on my head and a water pistol in my hand, and my lover soldier was gone.

 

[sweepthefloor]

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.

I knew a loneliest monkey too. He is not lonely anymore. He is in deep love. We used to eat the sad banana together sometimes. I never did suck his cock, and I am certainly not going to jerk myself off with the slimy peel that I keep slipping on. I will just kick it.

You will win when you want to win so just keep eating those bananas with the pink glossy lips on. Let’s play the rosey ring around the banana game.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

That’s so funny about spending tears and saving. The lovely man said: Relationships are like bank accounts and you can’t keep bouncing the emotions like beat checks. You get what I am laying down? I am not trying to bust your balls or anything, just saying.

Me: I don’t have balls remember?

If you are bubble wrap I am going to pop you till it drives everyone completely insane because they want to pop you too, and then I will be greedy and say: Get off my wrap.

*Also, I slept hard and wet my sheet with my mouth by accident.

Is it our brains that write the checks that seem to bounce? Or is it our hearts? I am no love fund baby, but it seems I must have set up an overdraft policy that funds in the most peculiar of ways at times. I have had a friend spot me a 20 here and again, that is for sure.

So did he take his balls and go home?

I'll snap and pop to your hearts content of course, but I have to confess that my rapping skills need a bit more work.

Drool is a sign of a fine nap, indeed. Congrats!

 

[sweepthefloor]

The Bank Of Love

Is it our brains that write the checks that seem to bounce? Or is it our hearts? I am no love fund baby, but it seems I must have set up an overdraft policy that funds in the most peculiar of ways at times. I have had a friend spot me a 20 here and again, that is for sure.

So did he take his balls and go home?

I'll snap and pop to your hearts content of course, but I have to confess that my rapping skills need a bit more work.

Drool is a sign of a fine nap, indeed. Congrats!

I imagine the heart is the checking account and the brain is the saving account with a deep hidden vault. If this is a stick-up and the heart gets robbed, the brain will pay the rent for a while.

“Everybody get on the fucking floor now. This is a stick-up.”

 

[sweepthefloor]

All I know is that he has balls. There was a time when I heard a slap in the middle of the night. Something about: Where is my packed lunch? That was the breaking point backhand. That is an elbow to the balls in the bedroom that makes the nuts crawl up deep inside, afraid to come down. There would be no more face slapping in that house. I liked her in a way, and then she left us years later without a couch, or a fork to eat with.

I figured in my own bed at the time: When I grow up, I guess if a man slaps me awake in the middle of the night looking for a packed lunch I will have to elbow him in the nut sac.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Or did I figure in my own bed head in the middle of the night: The lunch will be packed. I won't get slapped. We will all live happy-ever-after.

I really don't know.

 

[sweepthefloor]

And one time we had meat and I cooked it in the broiler with my friend. We ate it with our hands like little wild animals.

And where is my little animal friend? She died. Forkless me and head sutured she. It was like: I don’t have a fork, but I am not getting hit in the head with candlesticks: so come to my house for a sleep over.

 

[sweepthefloor]

It is funny about the balls cause at aged ½ grown up I had a lover that wanted me to kick him in the balls. He also wanted me to squirt his naked body with salad dressing in a spritz bottle.

I thought: I wish I had a salad to eat with that meat all those years ago, and here I am with the salad kick ball man.

I laughed like maniac mad inside because I had no idea what was going on. My lover never wanted to fuck me, and I didn’t think that was strange either. While he worked up a sexual frenzy I practiced my aim: when he started O facing I aimed for the pee hole.

It felt like carnival and the water pistol game where the goal is the hole, and when I reached enough dressing squirts to make it to the top he’d pop the balloon ball. He turned into something else, some other kind of thing being, and I watched with wide wonder.

If I had a role it wasn’t defined in my mind. It didn’t seem sexual to me, but that didn’t stop me from watching the man come dump on the oily plastic sheet on his floor.

Ew. Don’t touch me with your greasy salad hands, you’ll ruin my clothes. Get back on the mat.

 

[sweepthefloor]

The plants hang on hooks. I take them down to give them water every week and rotate them to a different window hook. This makes the plants terribly anxious: Where is she going to put us this time? Where are we going now? What is going to happen? We all look so similar, maybe she will get confused and I will get lucky and end up back on the same hook by accident.

When are these plants going to trust me?

 

[Sir_Winston54]

Your words twist the crevices and peaks of my grey matter and reverse their positions and make me see the world through different-colored lenses. I never know what will come out of the keyboard from your fingers, and pray I never anticipate it. The effect of your thoughts here is like unto an icy spray of water on beginning-to-wilt lettuce leaves, giving my mind that fresh crispiness of a second youth.

Thank you for finding us and giving us yourself.

 

[RedButterflySlut]

...
You will win when you want to win so just keep eating those bananas with the pink glossy lips on. Let’s play the rosey ring around the banana game.

What will the rules be? I say the only rule is don't stop spinning until your life has been enriched by the powers of potassium. And wonderful tubes of lipstick to make our faces into fantasy portraits.
No loneliest monkeys here.

The plants hang on hooks. I take them down to give them water every week and rotate them to a different window hook. This makes the plants terribly anxious: Where is she going to put us this time? Where are we going now? What is going to happen? We all look so similar, maybe she will get confused and I will get lucky and end up back on the same hook by accident.

When are these plants going to trust me?

Nothing likes getting changed, does it? Grass is greener on the other side- but we fear it might be filled with DDT to kill the mosquitoes and parasites.

Your little plants will grow lovely, tall and wide, stronger with the change.

People talk about having a green thumb. My thumb is infected with death to all pretty flowers and potted plants, I'm a walking disaster waiting to kill everything that requires nurturing. I speak softly, sing quietly and wear dresses- there's this awful misconception that I'm careful. The feminine are supposed to mend things.
Couldn't be farther from the truth. I'm a wild bull, or maybe a startled swan crashing through the card-house dreams of everyone around me. 52 pickup, but I'm already flying away.

I admire your plant-ability.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Your words twist the crevices and peaks of my grey matter and reverse their positions and make me see the world through different-colored lenses. I never know what will come out of the keyboard from your fingers, and pray I never anticipate it. The effect of your thoughts here is like unto an icy spray of water on beginning-to-wilt lettuce leaves, giving my mind that fresh crispiness of a second youth.

Thank you for finding us and giving us yourself.

Thank you. If I can crisp your lettuce with my ice color water it will be fresh and pretty in the plant vein. It is vascular.

The funny thing about youth is that if you keep your first one, you don’t need a second one. I heard that before, or I just made it up, I am not sure.

My thoughts are self bonded and the font is immobilized with a halo-like-device. I beat the letters up till they scream. I try to chase them away. They want out but they don’t know where to go. They have been held captive for so long they get confused and sneak their way back into my head bondage. When I see these letters arrange themselves in their usual sentences I get out the whip and backspace them. I guess they like punishment because they keep coming back for more. Don’t they know it hurts me more than it hurts them?

I have been doing this since the third grade. I pitched my journals on the side of the road one time because I was hitchhiking with much luggage. I wondered: Will the prisoners that clean up the highway find this and enjoy the read, or will they cry? Will they rip the pages out and stuff them into their underwear as contraband?

After that I started writing to made-up convicts: Dear Prisoner, I know you don’t know me but read this true story and add your own novel in between the lines. Surely this is written with invisible ink, and we all have our own special revealer marker that shows us ourselves inside whatever we read. What do you think about that? Also, I have questions: How does the television work? I don’t understand. There are so many things that I don’t understand.


I threw those Prison Diaries in the trash too. The scary thing about this secret diary is knowing that when it comes time to trash it, my wrist will hurt.

 

[sweepthefloor]

.....

People talk about having a green thumb. My thumb is infected with death to all pretty flowers and potted plants, I'm a walking disaster waiting to kill everything that requires nurturing. I speak softly, sing quietly and wear dresses- there's this awful misconception that I'm careful. The feminine are supposed to mend things.
Couldn't be farther from the truth. I'm a wild bull, or maybe a startled swan crashing through the card-house dreams of everyone around me. 52 pickup, but I'm already flying away.

I admire your plant-ability.

I am good at tending to people. The plant thing is new to me. I used to be a succulent kind of girl, they don’t need much love. Is this like relationships? How many plants have to die before I get it right? These greens are still alive.

It is easier to play 52 pick-up compared to building a card house. I imagine true lovers enjoy building the house, destroying it and then building it again. Who will be the builder and who will be the picker-upper? I want to be the picker-upper on my hands and knees sorry for wrecking it in the first place. Maybe one day you won’t fly away.

 

[sweepthefloor]

“I want to get to know you.”

There is not much to know but we can have sex for three minutes and pretend that is not true. Then we can cuddle for five minutes, and if you are not sleeping by then I will rub your back for ten minutes. If you are still awake I will tip-toe to the kitchen and make you a sandwich. If that doesn’t make you sleep you can pretend that the sandwich was awful even though you ate the whole thing and then slap me around for another fifteen minutes. I know, it is confusing this getting to know you stuff so maybe we should just forget the whole thing.

 

[waaitg]

I know, it is confusing this getting to know you stuff so maybe we should just forget the whole thing.

I have to agree with you. It's just some great big complicated dance number where no one wins except the audience.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I have to agree with you. It's just some great big complicated dance number where no one wins except the audience.

Let's tap dance. I like drumming with my feet.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Thinking is madness and I am locked up in some kind of institution. I don’t talk much because speaking is the slippery when wet bridge between the self we present to the world and the self that slides casually into insanity. I look at the list of phone numbers under Psychiatry in the directory, I thought about it.

I can imagine it: I will lay on one of those little couches and stare at the ceiling. The doctor will ask: How is that possible? I will tell the doctor: Love is what the person says it is, feels what it is when it is swimming around in our bloodstream. The assessment of love is just like pain assessment. It is not in the hands of the questioner to determine if love like pain is real or not. It is subjective and highly individualized. Is this not true?

 

[sweepthefloor]

How fast is the speed of sound? Will it be Mach Come if he squirts before the moan?

Deep inside the selfish me I want my name and picture painted on the side of a jet. When he asked me out I told him about this, but he said he’d end up ‘clapped in irons’ for that.

I like knots. He doesn’t know this yet but he thought about me while ripping up the clouds, and I like shredded clouds. I told him: I am just a girl. He asked me: You don’t have wings and a jet engine? I replied: I am not powerful at all.

Where is the eject button? Where is my parachute?

 

[Sir_Winston54]

Thinking is madness and I am locked up in some kind of institution. I don’t talk much because speaking is the slippery when wet bridge between the self we present to the world and the self that slides casually into insanity. I look at the list of phone numbers under Psychiatry in the directory, I thought about it.

I can imagine it: I will lay on one of those little couches and stare at the ceiling. The doctor will ask: How is that possible? I will tell the doctor: Love is what the person says it is, feels what it is when it is swimming around in our bloodstream. The assessment of love is just like pain assessment. It is not in the hands of the questioner to determine if love like pain is real or not. It is subjective and highly individualized. Is this not true?

Oh, please please PLEASE don't go to a pshrink! S/He might stifle or monopolize your thoughtwords, and we would forever be reft of them. Keep your in/sanity here where we can share it and enjoy it and absorb it.

How fast is the speed of sound? Will it be Mach Come if he squirts before the moan?

Deep inside the selfish me I want my name and picture painted on the side of a jet. When he asked me out I told him about this, but he said he’d end up ‘clapped in irons’ for that.

I like knots. He doesn’t know this yet but he thought about me while ripping up the clouds, and I like shredded clouds. I told him: I am just a girl. He asked me: You don’t have wings and a jet engine? I replied: I am not powerful at all.

Where is the eject button? Where is my parachute?

The military of the 21st century is much less understanding of the needs of its personnel to be allowed some shred of individuality. The WWII personnel, and a little later, even up to Korea and perhaps beyond, were among the last of the US military to have the luxury of their generals and admirals understand that human beings need to be treated like human beings in order to perform superhuman feats. Now it's all computerized, spreadsheet-organized, and templated until the individual who stands out in the least bit is whack-a-moled into compliance and conformity, or driven down into the ground until, unlike Punxsutawney Phil, they never rise again, even on February 2nd.

You may not have wings or a jet engine, but it is not true that you are not powerful. Your thoughts and dreams and words most certainly are, and *they* are your eject button, your parachute, your antigravity platform that takes your mind to heights others can only sit in their jet-fueled machines and watch with tears and envy in their eyes as they watch you go by on your way through the heavens.

 

[Netzach]

Shrinks have gotten a lot less barbaric. They can be of limited usefulness, and you don't have to have any lobes of creative force hatcheted out. You're no dum dum, I bet you have a billion litmus strips for determining if someone could actually help you figure out - whatever you want figured.

I will tell the doctor: Love is what the person says it is, feels what it is when it is swimming around in our bloodstream. The assessment of love is just like pain assessment. It is not in the hands of the questioner to determine if love like pain is real or not. It is subjective and highly individualized. Is this not true?

One of mine would have probably said "sure is."

 

[BiBunny]

In my experience, psychiatrists are useful, as are certain types of psychologist. "Therapists" and "counselors," on the other hand...not so much.