Latest Entries »

Being an Un-Bird

Advertisements

Hello World, 

I found something wonderful. Imaginative. Beautiful. That captured my heart and springs laughing somber tears to my eyes.

I was having a discussion with my internet pen pal and we came to a conclusion that three thing make the world go round. Money, Sex, and Sleep. Period. If you don’t have a three than your incomplete. We didnt add love, because its entirely cliche or maybe perhaps love debunks all three. Oooohh I like that….

Anyway, sex being so important, a lot of energy goes into knowing about, experiencing it, getting more, getting better, being the best, cumming, etc. Honestly its tiring. Just damn tiring. It shouldn’t be so cumbersome and hard. It isn’t, at least not naturally. We make it so much harder than it has to be. Truly unnecessary.

Reflecting this perfectly is a note of some sort I found on FetLife by some bloke named, Skwyrtle. In it, he perfectly encompasses this backward mindset we have on sex and rages against it. In re- learning it, I’ve never felt more liberated and I hope to God, I can carry it with me into every bed I enter for the rest of existence.

Not A Test

“Sex is not a goddamn performance.
Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.

It should not require confidence.

Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.

Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.

You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.

It’s not about being “good in bed.”

It’s about being happy.

One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you.

Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.

Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be.

I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.

I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want.

It’s originality.

It’s passion.

It’s joy.

Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.

I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.

“Good in bed,” what.

You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.

Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.

This isn’t a test.”

-Skwyrtle (Reddit)

What is Burning Man?

Hello World,

I’ve slacked on blogging except for the random picture or two. Its not that I’m busy but I’ve becoming infinitely fascinated with FetLife. Its perfect as far as kinkster communities go. That being said, I totally spaced out. I want to go to burning man this year but I completely spaced. Sigh I missed something really beautiful.

What is burning man? Only the biggest congregation of livers. No, not the large spongy organ located in the right cavity of your pudgy body, that is your biggest ally against a spontaneous death by alcoholism.  A liver as a person who lives. As you may have heard, Everybody dies but not everybody lives.

Anyone can breath. Breathing is easy. It’s automatic. Its not even consensual. Your cerebellum is essentially raping your body and the rest of your brain.

And you thought rape was bad???

Burning man is an experience like no other than absolutely changes you. Not as fickle as love, not as permanent as death but still exceedingly monumental. It’s about creating something not only physical but also creating something profound internally too, then smoldering it into nothingness. Such is life. We bring nothing but our minds and our selves. We create, love, hate, feel, express. Then we die, leaving nothing.

That doesn’t make our lives were nothing. No, rather it means we lived our lives as they we’re meant. I’ll stop here before I go into more of a philosophic diatribe. I found this on the interweb. Something written by Molly Steenson. I like her, as should you.

What is Burning Man?

By Molly Steenson

Hurtling down the road to the Black Rock Desert, the colors paint themselves like a spice cabinet — sage, dust, slate gray. Maybe you’re in your trusty car, the one that takes you to and from work every day. Perhaps you’ve got a spacious RV, your Motel 6 on wheels for the next days in the desert. Or you’re driving your glittering art car, complete with poker chips and mirroring to do a disco ball proud.

The two-lane highway turns off onto a new road. You drive slowly onto the playa, the 400 square mile expanse known as the Black Rock Desert. And there you’ve touched the terrain of what feels like another planet. You’re at the end — and the beginning — of your journey to Burning Man.

You belong here and you participate. You’re not the weirdest kid in the classroom — there’s always somebody there who’s thought up something you never even considered. You’re there to breathe art. Imagine an ice sculpture emitting glacial music — in the desert. Imagine the man, greeting you, neon and benevolence, watching over the community. You’re here to build a community that needs you and relies on you.

You’re here to survive. What happens to your brain and body when exposed to 107 degree heat, moisture wicking off your body and dehydrating you within minutes? You know and watch yourself. You drink water constantly and piss clear. You’ll want to reconsider drinking that alcohol (or taking those other substances) you brought with you — the mind-altering experience of Burning Man is its own drug. You slather yourself in sunblock before the sun’s rays turn up full blast. You bring enough food, water, and shelter because the elements of the new planet are harsh, and you will find no vending.

You’re here to create. Since nobody at Burning Man is a spectator, you’re here to build your own new world. You’ve built an egg for shelter, a suit made of light sticks, a car that looks like a shark’s fin. You’ve covered yourself in silver, you’re wearing a straw hat and a string of pearls, or maybe a skirt for the first time. You’re broadcasting Radio Free Burning Man — or another radio station.

You’re here to experience. Ride your bike in the expanse of nothingness with your eyes closed. Meet the theme camp — enjoy Irrational Geographic, relax at Bianca’s Smut Shack and eat a grilled cheese sandwich. Find your love and understand each other as you walk slowly under a parasol. Wander under the veils of dust at night on the playa.

You’re here to celebrate. On Saturday night, we’ll burn the Man. As the procession starts, the circle forms, and the man ignites, you experience something personal, something new to yourself, something you’ve never felt before. It’s an epiphany, it’s primal, it’s newborn. And it’s completely individual.

You’ll leave as you came. When you depart from Burning Man, you leave no trace. Everything you built, you dismantle. The waste you make and the objects you consume leave with you. Volunteers will stay for weeks to return the Black Rock Desert to its pristine condition.

 

But you’ll take the world you built with you. When you drive back down the dusty roads toward home, you slowly reintegrate to the world you came from. You feel in tune with the other dust-covered vehicles that shared the same community. Over time, vivid images still dance in your brain, floating back to you when the weather changes. The Burning Man community, whether your friends, your new acquaintances, or the Burning Man project, embraces you. At the end, though your journey to and from Burning Man are finished, you embark on a different journey — forever.

Time in Numbers

I found this somewhere on the interweb and thought it was pure loveliness. Whether it is the black and white of it or the community of it, or the motion stillness everywhere except for her hands. Whatever it is, I think it absolutely fascinating.

Smoke, Drink, Fuck : Part 1

Hello World,

I have a confession to make. And by confession, I mean I want to brag about the whirlwind adventure had/been having. After the event of 18M (read blogpost 18M), I sorta had a mental break.

HhaHAHAH..I sounds okay now but it was pretty bad. It’s not that I consciously or unconsciously decided to self-destruction but it seemed inevitable especially considering the heart-breaking exam result I received.  18M was a sad and sober blog about the subsequent reaction of getting my abysmal exam result. Now here’s what happened in the weeks after.

I wiled out. As in it was fucking ridiculous. On Wednesday I got my result. My heart broke, then I, ever-resilient, began to make contingency plans on the next exam, med school deadlines, different prep material, what does AAMC have to say, what does MCAT have to say, what have past aspiring med school student written about it.

All the while as my rational mind made plans to bounce back, my irrational mind simultaneously made its own plans, where would I drink to oblivion, how soon could I pick up several pack of cloves, which random persons would I shag. Like most contrary decisions, one side must win over the other. Heads or tails.

Who was I kidding???My rational side didn’t stand a half a chance. If anything the contingency plans made by it was just to prepare my mind for when it did come back to normal, as it is now. I write this blog as a somewhat accurate record of the last month. As I’m quickly forgetting it. Unfathomable, as no one should forget that much debauchery.

First things first, I got sexy. It’s one thing to be depressed. It’s another to be dedicated to self-ruin. I was the latter. I am nothing if not vain. I must at least look fabulous if I going down in a shower of fire and brimstone.

I went to the pick up a pack of cloves at the smoke shop downtown when I met a devilish handsome gent. We conversed, laughed, and flirted. He fed me a chocolate covered strawberry from Edible Creations right there on the street. It tasted as scrumptious as he looked.

It figures he was he manager of a stock market business nearby and asked me to come back and see him sometime. He walked me back into his building to grab a business card, wrote his phone number and offered me his parking spot on the circle.

I knew I wasn’t going to call him.

I was too messed up personally to date someone so close to perfect. Till today I haven’t called him or even went back to see him, though I’ve thought about it countless times. Soon though, maybe even today.

I decided to go to Nicki Blaine’s to get sloughed. As with anything I do, it should be aesthetically done. If I’m going to get blindingly drunk and forget, I’m not going to buy bottles of barefoot and drink in my home. Hhahah. No, never that. Rather I’m going to the swankiest, undervalued bar in town, smoking slowly, drink deeply and contemplate my life.

Funnily enough, I had never visited Nicki Blaine’s before this period of my life. I’ve decided to call it, my fugue month. Befitting as I recall almost none of it. Nicki Blaine’s, if no one has ever told you, is one of the loveliest bars in town. It’s downtown, right off the circle and completely underground. It’s designed to look like a 1920’s Prohibition Bar. It’s one of the only smoking establishments in town after they passed that ridiculous smoking ban in the beginning of June 2012.

I ordered a dirty gin martini and lite up my first cigar in almost a year. The relief. The euphoria. The bliss  of that first hit. The burn. The smoke. The ash.  There really arent words to describe that perfect moment that seemed to stretch infinitely.

One became two, two became four as the nicotine high oozed into my system, loosing me up. Ditching the martini, I opted instead for whiskey on the rocks. Not the Jack Daniels shit either, but whiskey that was absolutely choice.

God, its good to have money sometimes.

Feeling the need to breathe suddenly, I abruptly got up, paid and left. When I hit fresh air, I made a snap decision. I was going to have sex today and lots of it. And I did.  Hhaha, it was mad. Crazy. All this year I was basically being decidedly celibate and now I just wanted to shag my problems away. I called someone, lets call him Ashton, I had been talking to all month and had never done anything with him.

Now Ashton is a complete oddball, in hindsight I would have been better off keep choosing a random sexy stranger than him, but I digress. (I’ll drop a blog on him later called, First Paint My Nails Then Sex- He Says). I was okay for the first shag of the year but not terribly memorable.

The next couple of days were an absolute blurr. I went out clubbing, drinking, smoking, normal stuff right. Then came the fourth of July. I went downtown to see the fireworks with Ashton. A mistake I paid dearly for. The problem with Ashton is that he is cold. Awkward, esoteric and textbook introvert, he was fun sometimes but for the most part more trouble than he was worth. His behaviour was so appallingly frigid that night, that I ditched him after the fireworks and went out clubbing downtown.

Blu was the only club poppin downtown, so i glammed up in the car and took a gander. It was basically latin night with cute mami’s, vip of shorty Columbianos and Pitbull on the speakers, so I hung around, had a drink , danced and eyeflirted with potentials. That’s when I met Angola. When I mean met, I mean I ran into his muscular chest. He smiles,  bought me tequila and we were off.

Angola was a breathe of fresh air. Sigh…. (shudder)…Tall, muscular, handsome, generous, warm, friendly and sexy. He was confident without being cocky, rich without being arrogant about it, and funny in a foreign way. He came from Angola, so he was African and yet he spoke Portuguese. I saw stars. He was perfect. He invited me back to his place. I almost screamed, YES. Hahahahhaha.

I was parked outside of the club, so I drove behind him following him to his place. As I tailed him, I was damn near foaming at the mouth. I kept envisioned how good it was going to be. It was crazy. I wanted him SO BADLY. I never want anyone that so badly, but I wanted him. It was practically fiendish. His confidence promised nothing short of the best lay of your life. And it was. He was the best. EVER.

His place was masculine. Clean. Utilitarian in black and chrome. His king size bed was covered in black silk, Louis Vuitton bed sheets. Black. Silk. Louis. Vuitton. Bed Sheets. A perfect mix of machismo Latino and intelligent African with the party-boy mindset of a IU college kid. He was exactly what I was looking for and I wanted him. All to myself. An impossibility if there ever was one. It would be the same thing if some guy tried to stake claim over me.

You’ll die trying

I began to see Angola sorta. hahhaha. Each day that passed, I drank more, smoke more. With each weekend, I partied harder and became a helluva lot more lusty. I’ll stop here. Leave the rest for Part 2.

 

 

18M

Hello World,

This blog post is supposed to be decidedly sad. 18M is a monument to failure. In what could only be the most upsetting result to an exam I’ve ever received in my life, I essentially failed my MCAT.

So many emotions to feel, not enough ways to feel them. Like the great Tina Fey once said, I wish I could trade my heart for another liver, so I could drink more and care less. I  truly wish this was so. When I got my result is was sometime in the last week of June. I was hoping against all hope that my result would be somewhat decent but dreading that I was, in fact, an imbecile.

So here’s how it played out, I think….it really all blurry now as its now the first week of August.

Wednesday I got my result. I waited silently through Thursday. Friday, I smoked, drank and fucked.

Another confession blogslaves, I basically hadn’t have sex since the October with this Turkish London bloke. And hadn’t smoked a cigarette with intention in almost a year. Drinking is nothing special but not when I break out the 16-year-old bottle of Lagavulin. I’ll explain the aftermath of 18M in a blog post I call, Smoke, Drink, Fuck.

Why I am telling you this?

For two reasons for two sorts of people.

First, to aspiring medical students. It’s taken my nearly a month and a half to get back on the horse but hell I’m on it. And I’ll be damned if I let anything keep me from my dream. Not some bitch ass test and definitely not my staggeringly depressed temporarily insane mindset. After I got my result I scoured the internet looking for articles on what to do now, now that I didnt pass. What did I get? Zip. Nada. Zero. Nil. Except of course and I’m loosely paraphrasing it but basically,

You’re an idiot who couldn’t even get into a med school in the Caribbeans. Do the test over.

 

Failing the MCAT is NOT the end of the world, it only feels like it. I felt like a failure, a loser, a moron and I told my best friends so, and they comforted me as best they could. So ashamed I was, that I couldn’t even tell my family. Their expectations of me would surely be high. I am the genius of the family and here I couldn’t even pass the entrance exam to Medical school.

I began to doubt my intelligence. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for Med School. Maybe my grades were a fluke. Maybe I should be an artist. I enjoy art more than anything after all. Or maybe I should be a writer. I rather good at that. You begin to cog-diss yourself. Then fear, doubt, rejection, loneliness, and every ugly, dark emotion crawls from sad shadows of your heart.

Here’s where it gets good again.

I decorate every year for my church’s harvest. As per usual, I usually do a giant decorated vision but there’s  never enough or any helpers. Around 3 am in the morning, I was still at it. The harvest would start at 11 and I wasn’t anywhere near done. Suddenly my little nephew comes in, still in his work uniform. When he told me why he came, to help me as he had done in recent years. I walked up to him, hugged him for a whole two minute and I promised to by him a jeep when I become a famous surgeon.

There. Right there.

In my hearts of hearts, at the very bottom of my tired soul, in the furthest recesses of my mind, I still believed I would be a surgeon one day. Still wanted it badly.

Powerful. Influential. Accomplished. Excellent in my field. These are the things I want to be. Need to be. Sure I loved art but would it challenge my mind to find new technologies to improving medicine. Yes I loved writing but would it gladden my heart the way research does.

Being a surgeon isn’t something I want to be, its something I need to be to feel any modicum of success and contention in this life.  All this I just figured on Sunday. Not three days ago. Mind you its really today as it took me two days to recover and put but what I’m trying to say here is that,

Find the reason you want to be a doctor again. Hold onto it. Never let it go and it wont let you go.

Secondly for me. I am no longer ashamed, nor should I have been. So I didn’t get the score I want. SO. FUCKING. WHAT. I’ll do the exam again. Simple. I’ve seen the exam now. I know what to expect. What they’ll ask. What I need to study. What I dont. I will get better books. Do a dozen practice exams. Enter a Kaplan course.

I will do what I need to do to get where I need to go. I will not let this exam or even myself be a stumbling block to my glitzy future.

To this, I swear it.

Hi World,

As per usual, there will be nothing usual about this post. It would seem that just as I was becoming somewhat popular I would go AWOL on my own blog for a month. There are several reasons that could explain this irrational behaviour.

First and least likely, was that I was sick of blogging. I scoff at that reason because I am really never sick of blogging. I love to blog and I love this blog. I generate tons of ideas on a daily basis, some duds, most half-formed, a couple of gems, and one or two that have the potential to be abso-fucking-lutely  beautiful.

There’s also the a chance I was as having a wicked case of writer’s block. See above for the impossibility of this reason.To give more credit to this reason, I’ll allow that I perhaps didn’t have the drive to write. I often need inspiration to write, a driving spirit, a need, a burning passion, energy is leaps and bounds, boundless time, something, anything, that spark that we call life.

Second possibility was that I’m a complete LOSER. 

It was just yesterday, JUST YESTERDAY!!!!, that I realized I’m a terrible underachiever. Imagine. It’s inconceivable but definitely true. It explains everything, my procrastinating on important deadlines for work, school, everything. I figure if I miss the deadline then it wont matter if I fail and/or rejected by them. Instead I just handicap myself from succeeding. I feel like I’m going to be sick. I’m that person!

It like my favorite movie, Moonstruck. I’m Nicholas Cage’s character Ronnie. I am a metaphorical wolf that bites off his own foot to save myself from the wrong love ( in my case possible rejection and failure). So having bitten of my own foot, I am now cynical, resentful and unbeknownst to me, a dastardly underachiever. No wonder that scene from the movie kept replaying in my head. My mind was trying to tell me something.

Well….having realized this yesterday, I wrote this blog today. Take that brain!

How adorable is this????

Third and most likely (and by most likely I mean to say, THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED), Something truly traumatic happened to me. It wasn’t the end of the world but it felt like the end of my world, you know? I’ll explain it all in two blogs I’ll call,  18M and Drink, Smoke, Fuck.

So much has happened that really can’t be captured in one, two, five or even ten blogs. As such, I’ll be dropping a series of blogs updating all the goingons of what has being going on in the last month.

Truth be told, its been quite the adventure. I took hold of my sex life and decided to owning being a wanton hussy,  took a fruitless journey to New York in back in 36 hours, met amazing ppl on the way there and back, partied like a rock star, and identified the three main problems that preventing my success, (funnily enough they are all by my own hand).

Mostly though, I am incredibly happy in a subdued way that I am even writing this blog. I feared I would forsake this blog as I have forsaken past endeavors. Yet I love to write and the more I write the more complete I feel. So thank you to all my blogslaves, you complete me.

Yours faithfully…. (in a polyamorous way),

J. Msobk

If information is the present era’s hot commodity, then rhetorical skills are power.
If we assume that, then the current trend in education, where hard sciences are taught at the expense of humanities, should result in entire generations of helpless drones; People competent at operating the machines, but incapable of any human interaction except following orders. – Alex Cesarz

“Only in quiet waters do things mirror themselves undistorted. Only in a quiet mind is adequate perception of the world.”

Contention

Perfection.

How To Assange

How I Imagine I Hitchhike

Hello World,

I am a professional procrastinator. I know my craft well. As such I make no apologies for not keeping promises to this blog as, Come on, who am I kidding????

However one thing that has weighed somewhat heavily on my mind are two categories in RandomCertaintyInTheWorld. The first being Unparalleled Series. It was one of the first categories here at RCITW. A compiled list of ten people I think are badasses. I think I got up to five and completely forgot about it. I still have the drafts sitting in my box but just haven’t had the motivation to do them.

I wonder and sometimes worry that some of the people on the list will die before I post the blog. This would fill me with profound regret. As we never really appreciate people until they are gone, whether we know them personally or distantly. One such person on my BAMF list is Sean Connery.

The dude is at least 80. He could die today and I would be standing there looking dumb with my dick in my hand ( Again, blogslaves, I am a girl so that dumb for two reasons)…. I would then join the hundreds, thousands and tens of thousands of bloggers pouring their guts out about how they loved the many when only a handful dropped a blog about his epicness whilst he was still lived.

I dont want to be that blogger. I hate that blogger. A lot. – J. Msobk

The second categories in RCITW that I have all but ignored is Project EVE. Project Eve is a wonderful idea that could be very easily executed if only I had more time. Inspiration for P-EVE is readily available since I joined the Facebook Group: A girl’s guide to taking over the world.A lot of what that group is true and liberating in the sense that, its a relief knowing your not the only person who think that.

The group is feminist without being sexist. They bring to the surface the obvious problems concerning inequality between men and women without being overtly preachy. The goal overall is NOT for women to treated better than men but for all individuals to be treated equally.

Imagine!!! What a crazy, outdated thought!! For all people, regardless of race, gender, sex orientation, etc to be treated as equals. That’s Ridiculous! Unconscionable!! Unimaginable!!! Inconceivable!!! Is it? Of course not. It’s completely and utterly correct and needs no forethought. It is a necessity and the fact that it needs to be fought for to me is the saddest thing in the world.

Back to the P- Eve, the first post in the category was an address to myself challenging me to write more blogs about inspiration women for the benefits of young girls looking in need for exceptional role models. Since then I may have only dropped two or three things in there. That’s not just sad, its double sad. 

One such blog I’ve wanted to drop for a time is about activist, director,  illustrator and author Marjane Satrapi. I watched her movie, Persepolis, in 2009 and since then fallen madly in love with her. Too bad with all my love, I have not the motivation to make a decent blog about her. See, love doesn’t conquer all.

Moving on, I will try to drop the blog about Connery and Satrapi in the next few days, if I don’t, Will one of you blogslaves send me a message kicking my butt to get off my ass and do some writing. That would be much appreciated thanks. Other than that, I have only one more thing to say.

I’ve noticed a sudden upturn in the likes, comments, and follow in RandomCertaintyInTheWorld. Finally! Thank you new readers and blogslaves for the boost. I will keep posting blogs as much as I can in the hope of reaching more like-minded people, sharing ideas about the world around us and giving my somewhat twisted, possibly illegal but ultimately effective advice.

I lobe you, blogslaves and thanks for the follows.

Yours sincerely,

J. Msobk

Creator of RandomCertaintyInTheWorld.

Kiss My Ass, Melancholy

Hello World,

Whether you’re a long time blogslave or a new reader, you will notice the common undercurrent, and by undercurrent I mean blatantly displayed for your amusement and education, my life is a hectic collaboration of great and terrible ideas spun together to make only the best party ever.

However every so often I find myself in a rather sad state. I’ve noticed since I was a young girl, this sudden change in mood. Not at all like a mood swing, more like a sobering of perspective.

It not due to anything in particular, no overtly troubling problems in my life. Just a state of light to extreme depression called Melancholy.

At first I thought I had depression or something as I am artists of sorts. I believe I heard somewhere that most artist have some form of depression as good art take mild depression but great art takes severe depression.

I remember looking it up as a girl and botching the pronunciation and continuing to botch it until my phonetics got better getting older.

Anyway moving on before I completely tangent off , though I am a lively type person, I have my down days. Except unlike everyone one elses down days, my down days makes me contemplate my existence or a numbing feeling that makes death tolerable comes upon me for hours to days.

If then you’re reading this and think you’re a melancholic person, take heart as there is help. Well, no….that’s a lie, there is no help. You just kinda have to ride it out. Well at least, you’re not clinically depressed and not alone, as though its uncommon it’s not rare. See, there, all better!!!!

Melancholy literally means black bile, which doesn’t really sound too good. Hahahahaha. Here’s a tip if you want one. Don’t attempt to pick yourself back up with overly happy or preppy music, activities or people, it just serves to make you more crabby and bitter against the world.

Ride it out. Listen to moody music, sleep it off, have a good cry in the shower, listen to Adele. I’m come to think of melancholic bouts as the minds way of telling you it wants time off to reboot from having to constantly keep a happy and positive disposition.

So blogslaves, you know what my motto is. Go hard or go home. Really get into the sadness. If your single, go watch couples in the park andinternally fume. If you in a couple, tell him/her to get scarce for a bit.

If you’re the drinking kind, bury yourself at the bottom of bottle of your alcohol of choice. If you’re the music kind, listen to the type that sucks the light out of a room.

Get it out of your system, so you can quickly get back to your bliss.

J. Msobk lobes you blogslaves, even if your sometimes sad…..

 

“I have a problem: I need to fuck. I can’t concentrate on anything anymore. It seems like it’s everywhere and everyone’s having it but at the same time it’s impossible to obtain and I have doubts that it actually exists. I just want to smash my head against a concrete block until all the moaning voices leave” – Alex Cesarz

 

Hello World,

I run into inspiration daily on the interwebs, the Facebook, and life and what I always love is a quote or a phrase or a sentence that states an absolute truth. Sometimes it may be accompanied with a picture other times it may just be the text in a bold font.

I like them for their simplicity and starkness. I need not give you a lecture on what the statement photo on the left means. Why? Because….isn’t it obvious.

Flirting is extremely easy and yet a lot of people find it hard to do. Mostly likely because they think too much about it, the actually actions and the message they are trying to get across. There is no mystery is simply telling someone you fancy that you fancy them. Instead you steal looks at each other and make cute, funny or clever small talk whilst in your head you imagine a 150 different ways how you want to fuck them.

Well there’s an easier way to solve this, of course. Rather than focus on flirting with you but make obscure comments and unconsciously awkward movements, so that you’ll fall in love with my weirdness. More likely than not that is what will separate me from the hoards of other potentials who blatantly throw themselves at suitors in an obvious attempt at flirting.

I want to keep this post short so I’ll end it here but the moral of the post is to stay classy, blogslaves.

That is all.

J.Msobk

 

%d bloggers like this: