The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

[sweepthefloor]

I left a note on the icebox: Dad, see you in one week.

After travels the house was exactly the same. The sugar bowl was still empty, the milk was a week old, and there was no evidence of any coffee making.

My personal jungle was a little higher because the weeds don’t stop growing no matter where you are on the map. Time stood still but the earth kept turning. I was the only girl with the time. I still wear a watch.

And that watch died when I jumped into the sea in the dark to swim at night. It was a beautiful thing, the best souvenir, and the kind you can’t buy in the gift shops or huts.

My heart is wild—it’s running all over the world and I am leaving a beat trail wherever I go.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I come from my own personal deep space. There’s a jet pack in my chest, and I am looking for a power source so I can find my home.

Truly, I come from a regular place where the men work hard, and the women drink scotch. There’s junk in the yard.

The good thing about being crazy is that happiness is just around the corner in my head. And when the workers start their construction gig between the frontal lane and that limbic city, we can skip over to the old town located in the basal ganglia and sip drink the comfortable common out of the cerebral cup.


There is a fancy bruise on my arm. I would like to pretend that some man grabbed me and said: I love you. The truth is I don’t know where it came from. I am still fucking myself up.

 

[LoudFastHarley]

I really do love reading everything you write

 

[sweepthefloor]

I really do love reading everything you write

Thank you. I am not typing to myself this way.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I wasn’t going to run out—but he called. He said: Come over and make your hair curly. I wondered if he thought that he’s a pimp, and that I am some working girl.

It wasn’t like that, just another lousy attempt by him to be the fixer-upper. Need a pretty girl at your party? Call me. There were five guys and two girls in the room. I thought it was going to be a disgusting gangbang but then I realized that two of these men are my long time friends.

The television was on—I figured it was some kind of circle jerk, so I had one drink and left.

I ended up that night at my local, you know that usual place where the old men drown their sorrows at the bottom of booze bottles. I looked to my right and my left at the spirits on the bar, the hands that hold drinks steady, and the dead stares into space.

 

[Sir_Winston54]

You paint pictures in my head with your words. Thank you.

 

[sweepthefloor]

You paint pictures in my head with your words. Thank you.

I always wanted to be the painter inside heads. I used to paint boards. My Dad told me it was like painting my nails: you have to prep the nails first, file and prime them before you go on with the color and top coat, especially if you are going glossy.

And I figured that life was like painting nails and boards.

 

[sweepthefloor]

My name is pitch and I am trying to get rid of the things that invade the peace of emptiness.

Me: Dad can I get rid of these leathers? They are dirty and gross.
He: No, they are good leathers. Get rid of your own stuff.

The coffee is cooked and I am spring-cleaning. I have got to wash the windows of these eyes, and the foundation of my face is covered with mountains of infected stress.

 

[Sir_Spongiosum]

Permission

I was always looking for it to be given for I did not realise my existence granted it. I have permission because I am and now the world appears to me a very different and more abundant place.

* * *

I chose my name and it was waiting for me.

I am unlike all the others.

I am Sir Spongiosum.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I like the name waiting for you. And there we were found in the textbook that was lost in the confusion closet. If all the answers are right, we choose the best answer for us.

Welcome to our secret world in a secret diary.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I am sipping coffee from a fancy water glass. I could go to the recycling bin and wash a pickle jar, but I don’t feel like it.

All the dirty cups are in his truck. There are raindrops on rooftops and whiskey on sores, but I don’t drink that much anymore.

He’s just a normal guy with a terminal illness and I don’t know what I am. He fixes my car and I suck his dick, I guess this is some kind of relationship.

 

[SirVPL]

I am sipping coffee from a fancy water glass. I could go to the recycling bin and wash a pickle jar, but I don’t feel like it.

All the dirty cups are in his truck. There are raindrops on rooftops and whiskey on sores, but I don’t drink that much anymore.

He’s just a normal guy with a terminal illness and I don’t know what I am. He fixes my car and I suck his dick, I guess this is some kind of relationship.

It appears his terminal illness is you. You have become his addiction and his cure. As long as desire his pleasure he will desire you. Welcome your new relationship.

 

[sweepthefloor]

If we could just skip to the Belt Parkway I'd get them to the airport on time.

I welcome physical acts of pseudo love you for a minute and a jack, and after that it's a take down cause I don't have capacity anymore.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I am digging out chocolate chunks from the ice cream carton and dismissing the vanilla cream. It is a lot of effort and work to do this because I am injured and weak.

He’s been busy all weekend at the track with racecars and engines. He wants the relieving blowjob because everybody knows that the fuel is exhausting.

I can’t care for him. I am all used up. I am a dead battery in some cheap flip phone. I gave my energy to a young man dying and his wailing mother. I got nothing left.

If he would slap me I might work for him again. I am not going to say yes. I don’t have a willing smile. I am all tears and a fetal position. And nothing but brutal force will remove me from my blankets.

He’s got the bone but he doesn’t have the balls to beat me.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

Can I help? I have been told I make a great spoon.

 

[SirVPL]

Spoon...

If I were only the ice cream, or the soup. To feel the caress of you lips and tongue. Only one fatal flaw in this analogy... Eventually Ill b swallowed.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Can I help? I have been told I make a great spoon.

All I have to do is open my mouth? I am so weak.

 

[sweepthefloor]

If I were only the ice cream, or the soup. To feel the caress of you lips and tongue. Only one fatal flaw in this analogy... Eventually Ill b swallowed.

Don't worry it's not fatal at all.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I prepared for overtime—

My eyes closed and I had a husband in sleep. I went to work overtime, and when I came home late he was angry. He punched me in the face and bloodied my lip.

It’s these crooked teeth causing all the problems. I walked into the wall again. And then I woke up. I got dressed and went to work.

 

[SirVPL]

Unwelcomed brutality.

The punch was, maybe uncalled for. Being struck for some unknown reason. At least a submissive knows she/he has done something wrong. Then deservedly chastised for his/her mistake. Life experience remembered.

 

[LittleSparks]

Well that sounds like one shit dream right there.

 

[sweepthefloor]

And then there was last night—I figured that sitting in that old bar listening to the eighty years drunk talk about spies and the war stories was a good idea.

Sometimes the ear gives a greater joy compared to the mouth, but it all depends on the man and his needs. My mouth is closed but my head open.

And there I was with the sad eyes and sip looking for another story, a battle dream greater than my own. I beat down my own rage with exhaustion. I don’t have anyone to fight with. I am all alone in the ring.

 

[sweepthefloor]

The punch was, maybe uncalled for. Being struck for some unknown reason. At least a submissive knows she/he has done something wrong. Then deservedly chastised for his/her mistake. Life experience remembered.

It was a dream but I imagine that if I did have a husband, I would know that working unwanted overtime and neglecting my house would be an obvious crime worthy of brutality.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Well that sounds like one shit dream right there.

It was great! When life circles out of control a dream spins the web that captures me. I was falling but I landed in a net. The imaginary spider saved me from my own accidental jump to the death. There is no husband, there is no spider-- but there is an idea laid in a dream: stop fucking around or get a fat bloody lip.

It's a complex dynamic.

 

[Curious_in_Cali]

All I have to do is open my mouth? I am so weak.

Yes, of course! I will build you a nest of old blankets and fuzzy slippers and we can play baby bird. I am a great finder of the chocolate nuggets in the vanilla cream and will tumble them one by one past your tired lips and cradle your jaw with my gentle hands to help you chew. When you are full, I will be your eyes for you while you nuzzle within my warmest nooks and crannies and just sleep.

Maybe summer can be your spring this year, and the beginning of new and beautiful things will start to bloom when you wake again.