Lit blog

[WickedEve]

Ya-know, I was betting that if you'd bought that uterus you'd have made a sizeable profit on ebay...

Uterus, LIKE NEW, One Day Only, Get it Now!
I could work with that.

 

[Angeline]

you guys are nuts!! yeah the wand goes in the happy place. hubby calls it a playpen now, tha pig

tt, i dont think youre eligible to join the happy wand club, unless you have acquired recently, a uterus.



NJ

He can have my uterus. I'm done with that puppy. Not the other bits though. I like having those.

I didn't know you had the ablation, Sis. You must have told me and I've forgotten. I'm really glad I had it done. And ee, well he's an au natural kinda guy, so he's mighty happy, too. And no baby scares, that's the best part. Even though Swirly's boy is totally beautiful and when I look at her av I have yearning moments, I think about the twenty years I've already put in and the twenty ahead. Nuh-uh!

 

[WickedEve]

He belly-crawled through the dirt, to the far end of the house. Shining the flashlight upwards, inches from his face, he saw it. First, it was only a tail and leg draped over the heating duct. Then the death grimace came into view. The mummified possum, hairless, bits of tail trapped in a web, was the only friend Hugo could find in the crawlspace beneath my house.

"It's a mummified possum!" he shouted up to me through the floorboards. "I just knew I was going to find a dead body under here!"

"Can you get it?"

"What do you mean can I get it?"

"Can you bring it out?"

"I'm not touching it!" Hugo can be such a pussy.

"Bring it out and leave it in the snow!"

"You're going to take a picture of it, aren't you?"

Silence.

"Yes."

I'm not really sure what caused Hugo's insanity that day. We called it possum madness, but it was more than that. It was 20 degrees and he complained about his frozen butt. He had been under the house most of the day, trying to make sense of all the cables, dangling and crisscrossing from one end to the other. "I've made paths!" My dad has old mowers and bikes and used water heaters and rusty rust jammed into every bit of space, except for the out-of-the-way corners. Hugo had plowed intricate Hugo paths through the dirt. No wonder he could appreciate the spider's work -- the final resting place for the possum's tail bits.

Fourteen bottles of beer in Hugo, fourteen bottles of beer. Take one... (Part of his madness was intoxicating.)

There was a fox in a box,
schnoodle under the sink,
shoved in a dishwasher,
down the toilet in a blink.

But now I have cable in my bedroom and the weather is warmer and the beer has run its course and been flushed away. The possum waits. Hugo will join him again, because I've changed my mind. I now want cable in another room. Hide, schnoodle, hide.

 

[Angeline]

He belly-crawled through the dirt, to the far end of the house. Shining the flashlight upwards, inches from his face, he saw it. First, it was only a tail and leg draped over the heating duct. Then the death grimace came into view. The mummified possum, hairless, bits of tail trapped in a web, was the only friend Hugo could find in the crawlspace beneath my house.

"It's a mummified possum!" he shouted up to me through the floorboards. "I just knew I was going to find a dead body under here!"

"Can you get it?"

"What do you mean can I get it?"

"Can you bring it out?"

"I'm not touching it!" Hugo can be such a pussy.

"Bring it out and leave it in the snow!"

"You're going to take a picture of it, aren't you?"

Silence.

"Yes."

I'm not really sure what caused Hugo's insanity that day. We called it possum madness, but it was more than that. It was 20 degrees and he complained about his frozen butt. He had been under the house most of the day, trying to make sense of all the cables, dangling and crisscrossing from one end to the other. "I've made paths!" My dad has old mowers and bikes and used water heaters and rusty rust jammed into every bit of space, except for the out-of-the-way corners. Hugo had plowed intricate Hugo paths through the dirt. No wonder he could appreciate the spider's work -- the final resting place for the possum's tail bits.

Fourteen bottles of beer in Hugo, fourteen bottles of beer. Take one... (Part of his madness was intoxicating.)

There was a fox in a box,
schnoodle under the sink,
shoved in a dishwasher,
down the toilet in a blink.

But now I have cable in my bedroom and the weather is warmer and the beer has run its course and been flushed away. The possum waits. Hugo will join him again, because I've changed my mind. I now want cable in another room. Hide, schnoodle, hide.

20 degrees? Hah! Ha. Ha. Ha.

(I was skeered to read to the end of your post. I thought I'd find a dead possum there.)

 

[WickedEve]

20 degrees? Hah! Ha. Ha. Ha.

(I was skeered to read to the end of your post. I thought I'd find a dead possum there.)

Oh, laugh it up! I know you're craving to be in the warmth of 20 degrees.

 

[normal jean]

.................

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Speaking of possum tails (lol)

A couple of years ago the dogs were On About Something back in the woods, so I went to check it out. There was a full-grown possum, curled up and looking rather stiff, and I assumed that they'd managed to kill it, although I saw no obvious injury. The dogs are mighty hunters and while most of their conquests are the moles they dig up, leaving enormous pits all over the yard and tossing the tiny corpses around like tennis balls, every once in a while they manage to get something a lot meaner, like a possum.

I sent the dogs back up to the house and got a shovel, thinking I would just carefully move the corpse into the woods at the very back of the property and perhaps the dogs would leave it alone. He did seem quite stiff... But I wasn't quite ballsy enough to just pick him up by the tail.

Only later, after I'd carried it off and set it gently into some underbrush, did it occur to me that perhaps that possum was doing what possums are reputed to do - playing possum. When I went back the next day, sure enough, he was quite gone. It's possible that the coyotes dragged him away, but somehow I doubt it. I found myself quite grateful that he didn't decide to come back to life while only four feet away from me at the end of my shovel. They're not amiable, the possums. My mate calls the possum a "ratasaurus" - they really are like mammalian dinosaurs...

Then there was the time I spanked a possum with a New English Bible, but that's another story.

bj

 

[WickedEve]

bijou, normal jean? Is this possum week on the forum? :caning: <--- that's a possum he's beating.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

bijou, normal jean? Is this possum week on the forum? :caning: <--- that's a possum he's beating.

Apparently it is. I expect to see a brilliant possum acrostic from champagne any minute.

hm. what rhymes with "possum"?

bj

 

[Angeline]

Oh, laugh it up! I know you're craving to be in the warmth of 20 degrees.

Yesterday the high here was 24 and the local tv newspeople were joking about it being a heat wave. So yes. You betcha!

 

[Angeline]

Apparently it is. I expect to see a brilliant possum acrostic from champagne any minute.

hm. what rhymes with "possum"?

bj

blossom.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

blossom.

So keep goin'. I'm not the brilliant form poet around here.

What I notice:

As if he is born preparing for death,
halfway to corpse already, the possum
lives within decay. He eats the dead,
disposing of abandoned flesh,
and his body mimics their
disintegration: the hair is already
gone from his tail, his body
swollen as if flyblown,
and his teeth bared
in skeletal rictus
as soon as he is born.
He's a prophet of our eventual state
a walking corpse,
hissing like a banshee
red-eyed
immovable as our own fate.

 

[Angeline]

So keep goin'. I'm not the brilliant form poet around here.

What I notice:

As if he is born preparing for death,
halfway to corpse already, the possum
lives within decay. He eats the dead,
disposing of abandoned flesh,
and his body mimics their
disintegration: the hair is already
gone from his tail, his body
swollen as if flyblown,
and his teeth bared
in skeletal rictus
as soon as he is born.
He's a prophet of our eventual state
a walking corpse,
hissing like a banshee
red-eyed
immovable as our own fate.

Neither am I. It's Judo. That huzzy can write a sonnet in five minutes. I am not joking.

But ok.

Acrostic Dead Possum Sonnet

Death's rictus: ghastly smile beneath the eves.
Eve's porch transformed, a horror chamber there,
Awaiting. Hugo's manly hand retrieves
Dry bones, and here a bit of rodent hair
Pleases his lady fair, who wicked grins
On the dooryard, eschews the nasty rust.
Silencio dead possum! Your final sins
Suspended in the dirt, your dust to dust.
Only last autumn when late sun was nigh
My you'd frolic, then crawl beneath the boards.
Here you lay now (or maybe it's you lie),
Egyptian, mummified, you, your musty hoardes.
Remember seasons pass, once Spring's blossom
Eternally returns: a dead possum.

 

[WickedEve]

Here you lay now (or maybe it's you lie),

oh, my, my, my. You're out of the poet club.

 

[Angeline]

oh, my, my, my. You're out of the poet club.

Oh sure. The rest of it's great and I wrote it in ten minutes with the tv blasting in the background, and you pick on the one sucky line.

Have you ever noticed that my most insane sonnets somehow always involve you?

 

[WickedEve]

group

edited

 

[WickedEve]

Oh sure. The rest of it's great and I wrote it in ten minutes with the tv blasting in the background, and you pick on the one sucky line.

Have you ever noticed that my most insane sonnets somehow always involve you?

Why are you putting me and the word insane in the same sentence??!!

 

[WickedEve]

edited

 

[Angeline]

I started thinking about what I share here at lit. I forget sometimes that lovers and friends and strangers are holding me, fucking me, hating me, pitying me, adoring me while they read me. What must they think of me. Am I cool or awesome or pathetic? Do I care what they think? Why do I feel this compulsion lately to write and to share and sit here on this thread, naked and ugly and beautiful?

You're a good blogger. Also a good person. That comes across in your writing all the time. The insane part is negotiable.

I never knew you bounced though. lol. Just another beautiful facet of the ugly, naked, beautiful, insane wonder that is Wicked Eve.

(Don't pick on the u-word. I only said it because you did.)

 

[WickedEve]

You're a good blogger. Also a good person. That comes across in your writing all the time. The insane part is negotiable.

I never knew you bounced though. lol. Just another beautiful facet of the ugly, naked, beautiful, insane wonder that is Wicked Eve.

(Don't pick on the u-word. I only said it because you did.)

We're all ugly and beautiful in our own way.
Since I turned 40, I've had this one nose hair with a mind of its own and I often wonder what it would be like if zombies ate my ex-in-laws. That's my ugly but hey, what am I gonna do about it?

 

[ohhh_livia]

there is this man i lust for. he invades my dreams, both nightly and if i am lucky enough to capture him in a daydream.

iknow he visits me, something like transcendtal travel, what is that word,..hmm, when one uses his or her mind to transport himself out of the body and "go"...


he starts with neck, i often suspect he was a vampire in a past life, his lips are soft yet commanding, just the sound of his breath escaping captures my attention, he holds me still, as if i were dead, and presses so close to my own flesh that i feel as if we may never pull our beings apart.

his cock twitches against my leg, it is swollen and slightly sticky, but this is just wishful thinking, just wishful thinking, and i tell myself this every morning when i awake, naked and with damp sheets that are in every position but tucked and smooth.

i need him, i want him, the touch of a master's hand, the touch of something that feels more like life to me than what i have been feeling for years.

i ache to sleep, so he might come and i realize i might be wasting my life on a dream.

that's okay, for now at least

sweet dreams

 

[Tzara]

Am I cool or awesome or pathetic?

Yes.

As is us all. You just write better than most of us, and are way more honest. That last implies that first, kinda.

Yes, Senator, I assert my Fifth Amendment rights.

 

[WickedEve]

A couple of nights ago, I had another long, meaningful talk with my 10-year-old daughter, Hanna. I began, again, with the ridiculous, "In the beginning, God made Adam and Eve..." Hanna rolled her eyes. My friend, Kelly Kay, threatens to poke out her daughter's eyes when she does that. Well, they eat roadkill baby deer, so I just assumed she was a barbarian. Now I understand!

Poke! Poke!

"Well, you see, Hanna... um... men and women, well... women my age and most any age like to have a special man friend, unless they don't like men at all. But your mom likes men. So when you came into my room and saw me cuddling Hugo, it was because a special man friend likes special attention." I paused for her reaction.

poke poke

Hanna informed me that she was the only who should receive cuddles. We talked, we cried, she wrote a poem! We hugged, we bonded, we were closer.

"I'm okay, Momma. Hugo is just a toy that you're playing with and you'll eventually get tired of him and throw him away."

poke po... what?

"Grandma told me that men are toys and you're just having fun with your new toy. So it's okay. You'll get tired of him."

So we talked a little longer...

The next day, I told my Hugo all about the mother/daughter tears and hugs and poetry. He also had a talk with his son. There was a spoon stuck to the floor, nine dirty socks under the bed, screaming and yelling, teen attitude and dad frustration, and not one lick of poetry!

"I don't know, Hugo... Poke his eyes out?"

 

[Angeline]

A couple of nights ago, I had another long, meaningful talk with my 10-year-old daughter, Hanna. I began, again, with the ridiculous, "In the beginning, God made Adam and Eve..." Hanna rolled her eyes. My friend, Kelly Kay, threatens to poke out her daughter's eyes when she does that. Well, they eat roadkill baby deer, so I just assumed she was a barbarian. Now I understand!

Poke! Poke!

"Well, you see, Hanna... um... men and women, well... women my age and most any age like to have a special man friend, unless they don't like men at all. But your mom likes men. So when you came into my room and saw me cuddling Hugo, it was because a special man friend likes special attention." I paused for her reaction.

poke poke

Hanna informed me that she was the only who should receive cuddles. We talked, we cried, she wrote a poem! We hugged, we bonded, we were closer.

"I'm okay, Momma. Hugo is just a toy that you're playing with and you'll eventually get tired of him and throw him away."

poke po... what?

"Grandma told me that men are toys and you're just having fun with your new toy. So it's okay. You'll get tired of him."

So we talked a little longer...

The next day, I told my Hugo all about the mother/daughter tears and hugs and poetry. He also had a talk with his son. There was a spoon stuck to the floor, nine dirty socks under the bed, screaming and yelling, teen attitude and dad frustration, and not one lick of poetry!

"I don't know, Hugo... Poke his eyes out?"

Lol! I've had that conversation. We're always on the edge of tmi when we try to explain these things to our children. Just give her a few years. My girl, who will be 16 next month, is going through those wild swings of self-loathing and who-am-I that all teenaged girls have. We have hours-long talks where she tells me she's a) ugly, b) weird, c) never going to marry because who could possibly love an awful thing like her? A few nights ago I told her to cut this shit out because I will never think she's bad or ugly (she's adorable) and she will find the love of her life eventually and he will love her back and I will say I told you so when it happens.

But I do notice that these conversations always somehow wind down to "but things would be better if I only had __________ (fill in blank with new jeans, these shoes I saw, pink highlights, etc.). That's how I know she's really ok.

(PS I still haven't heard! )

 

[RhymeFairy]

Lol! I've had that conversation. We're always on the edge of tmi when we try to explain these things to our children. Just give her a few years. My girl, who will be 16 next month, is going through those wild swings of self-loathing and who-am-I that all teenaged girls have. We have hours-long talks where she tells me she's a) ugly, b) weird, c) never going to marry because who could possibly love an awful thing like her? A few nights ago I told her to cut this shit out because I will never think she's bad or ugly (she's adorable) and she will find the love of her life eventually and he will love her back and I will say I told you so when it happens.

But I do notice that these conversations always somehow wind down to "but things would be better if I only had __________ (fill in blank with new jeans, these shoes I saw, pink highlights, etc.). That's how I know she's really ok.

(PS I still haven't heard! )

Sometimes, well hell, most times ... I live in my own world. I don't know how or when it happened but a few years ago it just did. I see, work, kids and cleaning everything ( mmm, mustn't forget the sick part either )...

I often forget there are others out there going through the same crazy ass stuff that I am. That's what I call a reality break. Thank You ladies for sharing your children with us/me. As a single mom it helps to see how other "deal" with "things" , lol ~~