My Sex Machine

Saturday, August, 30th 2008 at 1:38pm

Mott,
You say I spend too much time on the mundane and not enough on the major stuff. The problem is, mundane things have to happen and major stuff doesn’t. This house needs about 700,000 hours of cleaning, and if I don’t start putting in more hours on getting it done, it will never be done and my mom will waste away the rest of her life not getting anywhere and her and I will never spend any quality time together and her things won’t get sorted until she dies. I’m starting myself out with an hour to three hours a day getting things done in the area of the house that is mostly her domain. Then I still need to put in at least half an hour cleaning my domain, which includes my bathroom.
After cleaning, I like to read for half and hour to an hour to relax and readjust my mind again. After that, it’s time to get to some creative work. Either drawing, editing or designing. (Over simplified, but then.) After two or three hours of that it’s time for lunch (I forgot to mention breakfast happening before and during the cleaning time.) Let’s be generous and say Breakfast and Lunch together take up one hour. There are only so many hours in the day, as we all know. Everyday I write, if not an entry, then an e-mail or an instant message or a post to forum or a poem or a on a story, and that is generally for about an hour. Let’s see, cleaning 2hrs, reading 1hr, writing 1hr, eating 1hr, creative work 3hrs. We’re up to eight hours now, and none of things mentioned were unproductive. I generally spend the half hour after Crusipher leaves getting dressed and all of that morning stuff and the same for the half hour before he get’s home, bringing us up to nine hours, and he’s only gone for eleven hours. (Ten at work, one in transportation.) Somewhere in the day I lose that last two hours talking to my mom or playing a video game or going grocery shopping, cleaning myself etc. All in all, I think I’m spending my time quite well at the moment.
And now, it’s going on two o’clock, and I’ve spent over an hour writing, so now it’s long since time to clean, eat lunch and then work on my board game.


Saturday, August, 30th 2008 at 11:24pm

I want to tear my hair out. I want to punch something. There is no comfort. There is no fix. Fuck it all to hell. I shouldn’t have bothered keeping myself in check today because what’s it even Motter!

Sunday, August, 31st 2008 at 11:36pm

Twenty-four hours ago I was miserable, as my few short sentences expressed. Crusipher stayed at work on Tuesday night to do a tattoo. On Friday or Saturday night, I forget which, when he got into the neighborhood on his bike, another nigga on bike came at him, and Crusipher didn’t want to stand down, so they “swung off” and the other guy was left on the ground. Crusipher didn’t want to leave to go directly home incase anybody was watching, and yet again didn’t make it home until 4am. And now, last night, his boss and her man took him to a bar. He didn’t make it home until nearly five in the morning.
The first of these three was almost entirely excusable except for one thing; he had asked me that morning to dress up for him, and I had put candles out and everything, so by the time he called me at 11:05pm, I was sitting on the bed waiting expectantly for him, all dressed up. And since he said he’d only be an hour, I waited. I waited until 1:00am to undress and blow out the candles.
The second wasn’t really his fault, but he shouldn’t necessarily engaged in battle with this stranger. What if he had a gun or a knife? What if he’s in a gang and the gang decides to retaliate? So on and so forth. Yet, more disturbing is that this neighborhood is presenting itself very strongly as an unsafe place to be. What’s nuts is that we’re only three blocks away from Richmond, which is a beautiful area with large green lawns, gardens, circular tiny parks, and crisp, clean houses with friendly inhabitants. The one block directly before Richmond is decent, filled with middle class working type people. And the block between that one and ours is pretty bad, and by the time you get to our block it’s drug dealers, gangs, middle school drop outs, hookers and so forth.
Unfortunately it only gets worse in the other direction for the most part. Only going directly from my house to Richmond takes you out of the ghetto in three blocks, every other direction takes five blocks or more. This means that there is no run-around route to get to the house, meaning that every single day he rides his bike through the two blocks of ghetto to the house is another day someone might notice he comes through at the same time every night.
Last night was pretty much inexcusable. He did call to let me know, even though he doesn’t have a phone at the moment. (His phone, which was in terrible condition anyway, disappeared a few days ago. I’ve called to have it turned off and ordered another one out of our savings.) Other than calling me, the only other positive point is that he says with vehemence that he wish he didn’t go. He came home completely wasted. He didn’t even make the least amount of sense and I didn’t bother making any conversation at all. He fell asleep quickly and slept like the dead, all except for his snoring.
Crusipher tells me that he doesn’t want to go out anymore, and that it’s pointless and all of that. Pretty much agreeing with me on all points of the Motter. His hair thinning is a helpful motivation for him, if not our relationship. I think that time, as I’ve hoped in the past, is wearing on him. There is only so long you can deny the truth staring you in the face. There is only so long I can be by his side, supporting him and loving him and doing for him before he has to admit that I am the most loving and compassionate girlfriend a man could ever want.
I’ve concluded from these new developments that not all hope is lost, but that a weary eye and strong shell are still required if I’m to keep my sanity. And even more than that, I must remember caution. Too many arguments have been my fault. Sometimes I’ll express an opinion, and it won’t make sense to him, and instead of backtracking and explaining again in another light, sometimes I take his denial of what I said and get angry that he feels that way, without ever taking the time to realize that we’ve only misunderstood each other.
At the moment he’s playing Final Fantasy 12 on the play station 2 beside me. I’m sitting on the bed too, with the table pulled up close to the bed with my alienware laptop sitting atop it. I prefer this to anything. Only one foot distance between us, easily closed with a lean for a kiss or an affectionate touch, which happens often, initiated by either one of us almost equally.
So many times I’ve almost given up, but some of the key things are called back to me. Why give up if he’s still trying? And he’s definitely been trying these past two or three weeks. Have I mentioned I stopped keeping the chart? The all-knowing chart that lists what days what happened. The chart allowed me to say things like, “hey, you’ve drank twice a week, every week, for four months” and other such things. It also included if he held me at night, if I cooked for him, if I slept naked beside him, if we had sex, if he made me tea, etc.
I kept this chart up for months and months, but you know what? It didn’t help. If anything, it made things worse. At best, it was interesting, and a few times Crusipher looked at it and it helped him realize something, but overall, it wasn’t reflecting the most important thing, which were the emotions of those days. It may be more productive to simply put a level of happiness and satisfaction that we each feel towards each other for the day.
Hm, it seems I might be getting my writing back. I think I’ve spent too much time away from home over the last month. Well, I can’t say that I guess. What I lacked in writing I made up for in exercise.
Will says to me:
“While yes the whites are sort of to blame for a lot of things, you should be a little more fair and note that other races are no better. In fact, humanity as a general whole is terrible, terrible, terrible, terrible. Overall, the Human Race as a whole is disgusting and yes, they are doomed. Well, we're doomed.
“However, you should take solace! When we're gone, the wounds we've inflicted on this Earth will heal and the scars will fade. The universe will go on without us, as all things are transient and not everlasting. I mean, what do we as people live for? Why do we have this complex mind? This uncanny and unique ability to reason and create? I'll tell you: It's an evolutionary specialization.
“That's it. We can try all we want to justify our existence, but in the end we really are nothing more than animals. The gall that people have in trying to prove that we're more than that disgusts me. Though deadened by millennia of so called "civilization" our instincts are still there. Every murder, every sexual assault, every corrupt act of greed, every single terrible thing imagineable can all be broken down to instinct. The same can be said for the "good" that we do. In the end it's a dressed up desire to ensure the survival of our race as a whole that we care for one another.
“But hey, you know what? I like being human. I like being this animal that tries so, so hard to justify why it exists alone in a vast nothingness where the very laws of physics ensure that we will NEVER venture beyond the edge of our Solar System.”
I can agree for the most part. I do take solace in the world healing itself after we’ve screwed ourselves out of existence. I want to be everlasting and to be remembered, but the probability is that I won’t be for more than a few blinks in the time line, so why should I sorrow for that? Most important is that after I die I remember this lifetime and say that I did well under my circumstances.
“The only thing with enough power to change the world is money. You can either get rid of it, or somehow come into control of vast quantities of it. Either way, so long as there is money and the minority of people that control the vast portion of it, nothing will change,” Will tells me.
I suppose I agree with that to a large degree. Though love has much more power, it can’t work on a large scale like money can, and money can encourage love by providing the right environment.
“There needs to be a vast force that transcends the material. Without that, mankind is doomed. Plain and simple,” Will says.
“I'd say it's much deeper than that,” I counter. “More important than the money itself is the intelligence and compassion of the person who is obtaining it. Unfortunately , compassionate people have no reason to go out of their way to become rich. Compassionate people may as well start a family and love their family and children and act as a good husband by not working too much. It takes a certain level of heartlessness to become filthy rich. That's why it's filthy to be so rich.”
It’s one-twenty in the morning now, and Crusipher and I are settling down in to watch the fourth episode of eleven lied. Mott recommended this anime to me, and so far it seems really awesome. It’s very graphic, both sexually and violently, but that’s just a plus to a seemingly good plot. Not that I know much about the plot yet, mostly at this point I know the premise and the basis for the main characters.
It’s three-twenty-one in the morning now. Crusipher and I watched three episodes of Elven Lied. I’m not sure what we’re going to do now, probably talk and then sleep. I’d like to have sex, but we’ve already done that twice today and I wouldn’t want to risk getting sore. He seems to think I never want to have sex with him. *sigh* It’s kinda hard to be thrilled every time when it’s at least once a day that we have sex. At least I don’t have to worry about a lack of that in my life!
What I find interesting is the increasing number of women who can’t get laid these days. I know at least four guys that I can think of off the top of my head that are with girls that want to have sex with them all the time who they barely have sex with because they’re “not a machine” or “need the upper hand” or aren’t “that needy” or some other handful of excuses I’ve heard. I, thankfully, have a sex machine.