Undressed

I shed you
Snakeskin
Your dark caress
A silken gown
Hugging my curves
Spilling down the length of my thighs
Tender flesh, ripe for the searing
God knows how many times I’ve been here
Naked before you
Crawling
Hands and knees - raw and bleeding
Indecision
Fear
Lust
Greed
Agony and
Pleasure
The light of morning breaks against my skin
Bruised and cut from battle
I turn to leave; naked and fierce with just my soul
And your last cigarette

Shadow song

She was magic to him

The way the light would glisten from her lips

Refracting soul

When she sang

The wildness in her eyes

When she danced

She was magic to him

Unbridled joy in her laughter

The way she tossed her hair

When she spoke

Her every movement captured his attention

Burning itself to memory

Creating a legend

She was magic to him

She devastated all of his inhibitions

Crippled all of his command

A potency in her essence unrivaled

To him, she was magic

She was a story with countless endings

The longest night

She was the constant rhythm of a metronome

Until one day she wasn’t

She was magic to him

But she was none the wiser

The music stopped 

No dances to be had nor songs to be sung

Her magic died

Nights become days, days to months, and months to years

He dances in a magicless world

Devastated and crippled

Haunted by her legend

 

Dark Hallmark

https://steemit.com/thinking/@rantsandswears/honest-hallmark


https://steemit.com/dark/@rantsandswears/honest-hallmark-cards




So many more in the hamster wheel, so few moments to steal at work.
Stay tuned for more dark humor and inappropriate greetings.

Last Call

Last call

Down to my last 6 bucks

Got a tear in my pantyhose too

Nobody’s buying

Not tonight

Not anymore

There he is

At the end of the bar

Somewhere between

“I guess so” and “Can’t do another night alone”

Not much time for indecision

Lights will be coming on soon

All the songs are the same here

Night after night

They bleed into years

A fixture, they call me

I remember a time when they lit up to see me

Men stood from their seats when I walked

Into the room

Their boy-like eyes, glued to my ass as I danced away

But here I sit tap, tap, tapping my nails along this weathered bar

Keeping with a time only I know

A song only I sing anymore

Is the glass half empty or half full?

Who gives a fuck about the glass, when you’re living in the bottle?

All the boys and girls - gone and flown away

Left a sad old maid perched on a barstool

Lips painted red

And nails to match

Tapping away

A familiar fixture until someone yells

Last call

 

gravity

Words frozen on my tongue

Unable to escape

Seized in a prison of my creation

Thoughts like a dense fog

Hang pensively in the air

Heavy with the weight of good intention

And the shuffle of feet on streets beneath me

Bring quiet and ease; a stillness to my being

A familiar cadence

There’s a gravity pulling me in all directions

Always

Swallowing me whole

Write new chapters to my story each night

By daylight it all looks the same

I’m void again

Sunlight breaking across my face every day

For the first time

Buried beneath a million stories untold and unfinished

Tucked neatly behind all the words I’ll never say

That’s where you’ll find me

AI Sex-Bots

ATTENTION:  All persons in possession of a birth given vagina please step away from those yoga pants and that athletic gear you’re about to purchase. It’s no longer needed. Instead you can find my ass in the men’s section selecting a nice cotton/polyester blend of sweatpants - because here, they’re less likely to have the ridiculous elastic bands at the ankles; what are we 5? That’s right ladies; it’s time to give up. The race is over. We’ve put in our time and it’s finally all over. We’ve lost to artificial women. The robots have come and it’s about damn time if you ask me.

It’s not news or even new that AI has been out there that allows for our male counter parts to enjoy the comforts of home [so to speak] while not technically at home. Or maybe they are at home and if that’s the case then you’re marriage is fucked up and you have more issues than I can address in this little blog. Maybe you didn’t “give it up” enough and that’s why he spent 15k on a life sized Barbie doll that he can stick his dick in. How’s that working out for you now? Personally though, if it means I avoid those awkward 3 am dry humpings and playing dead - I’ll make Barbie comfortable in a spare room; sure why not? I’m not a prude AT ALL and I certainly enjoy sex as much as the next person but at 3 am, I want to sleep because I get up 5 am and for real, it’s super selfish of you to try to wake me up for your amusement; because chances are – you’re the only one coming to this party. I say that not because you perform poorly, but probably because you’ve been thinking about for it the last 45 mins while I’ve been sleeping. You’re primed and ready to go; I’m dead to the world. In fact I’m probably in an active nightmare about what my day tomorrow will entail and how many hoops set ablaze I’ll have to jump through. Maybe you’re doing me a favor. My God, it smells like a fart trapped in a car in this bedroom. I close my eyes tighter against the reality.

I was reading this article in a blog forum I was on the other day on how realistic these little living dolls are. Today I saw an article in the paper about one here in my own backyard; it was the next town over, actually. I made a note of the owner’s name. I plan to jack him for his doll and sell that bitch, or keep her for company; I get lonely sometimes. Realistic my fucking ass! This thing is perfect! I understand that that’s the point. As a woman I guess I’m supposed to be upset that it objectifies women and sets unrealistic standards. Newsflash: those standards have always been unrealistic and they’ve always been there. The advent of these dolls was not the beginning and certainly won’t be the end of it. You can’t blame the men banging these Barbies for that either. I don’t blame Tom for sticking his dick in a doll that doesn’t care where they go to dinner and has perfect tits. I don’t think less of him for keeping his girlfriend in a closet and taking her out when no one’s around. That’s bullshit, yeah… I do. I think less of you Tom. Have you tried Tinder, Tom? All this really means for me is that I can relax at night and eat the damn Oreos. I don’t have to feel bad if I don’t want to fuck you, even if I love you. If I’m single – well, shit…I might as well just throw in the fucking towel. If we all collectively throw in the towel, those of us with vaginas, we’ll eventually drive the price of these little hobby hoes down. Every household will have one and all of us can wear Target brand sweatpants and t-shirts like it’s the style.

What pisses me off is that it’s so damn one-sided. When do we get our fucking dolls, ladies?? Where is Tickle-Me-Timothy or Penetrating Parker?? I would pay good money for a male sex bot guaranteed to deliver. Orgasm every time or your money back. Malfunction? Send it back to the factory if a reboot doesn’t do the trick. A hard re-boot of course, never soft. These male bots should be advanced enough to “detect” what angles and positions work best for each woman and adapt - seems fair. Re-iterate; I would pay good money for this shit. There should be a way to program Timothy and Parker with a handful of typical responses i.e. cuddle time, smoking afterwards, getting up to get us something to drink or handing us a towel. It’s time we got a fucking useful toy too! Anatomically designed to each owners [yes, owner!] specifications. I want to put them away once I’m done too; I’ll dig you up when I need you again. I’ve even thought of a great slogan for the manufacturing company. “If we build it, you will cum”

This is just the beginning ladies, this is going to be huge [and some of your bots will be as well I bet] I just know it. Thanks for reading; now if you’ll excuse me, I have sweats and Oreos to purchase. 

http://www.sandiegouniontribune.com/communities/north-county/sd-me-harmony-doll-20170913-story,amp.html

Haiku

Parchment paper heart

Held up against the suns light

Hairline tears blemish 

Matchbook memento

Damp cocktail napkin roadmap

The longest walk home

Zoning

Will it though? Will my comfort zone really kill me or will it prop me in front of the boob tube wrapped in a Snuggie double-fisting chicken nuggets into my face hole? Maybe it will kill me if we're playing the long game and we’re measuring cholesterol and triglycerides.  I don’t usually play the long game. I have the attention span of 6-year-old with ADD. Is that not PC? Is it not even correct anymore? Is it ADHD? You know what? I don’t care. Oh, that’s so harsh! Yeah, well I’m a cold and uncaring bitch who just spent 10 minutes arguing the merits of Hot Pockets with someone on the internet until they stopped responding. Presumably to cry. Honestly, if my comfort zone has its way, I’ll rock a pair of sweat pants and a tank top braless for two days minimum without so much as one single fuck given. Wanna know what it looks like when my comfort zone takes over?

When my comfort zone takes a hold of me I start ordering Chinese food to be delivered and tip the dude supa fat because I’ve ordered enough to feed a small village and I NEED for him to keep his mouth shut and leave quickly. When I go to answer the door, it’s clear that I haven’t been outside in a couple days. My skin is pale and my eyes are taking too long to adjust to the sun. Our exchange is taking way too long and he is making me nervous. Take my damn money and give me my Mu Shu and steamed dumplings!! The inside of my comfort zone smells like old pizza boxes and fruity pebbles. When I slow dance with my comfort zone we watch a whole series of something on Netflix, feel guilty about it, clean the house, go grocery shopping [still in sweat pants] make three different meals and feed friends then start the whole cycle over again. Oh, the shame… I never invite my friends over though; they’d see how I live - that would be crazy. On second thought…maybe my comfort zone will be my demise.

As a person recovering from addiction issues, I understand the rationale behind the image. I used to live with the thought that I would die from my disease and I was accepting of that towards the end. Early on I battled you, and her, and him, and them. It was all of you with the problem; it was never anything that I had to address. That was my comfort zone – blame. By that rationale, my comfort zone will in fact kill me. If I were to continue blaming others for my issues, my mistakes, my disease, my atrocious parking, my poor choices…I would surely die. I would meander through life a clueless fuck – the most dangerous kind. The kind of idiot that you encounter in the grocery store or gas station and think “damn, how do they make it through life?” or “they hit their head on every step on the stupid ladder on the way down, didn’t they?” That kind of comfort zone is deadly for me. The kind where I’m blameless, you’re my hostage and I’m downright dangerous.

At some point I think it would be good to sit down and really write about what it was like in my disease. Tragic, disgusting and hysterically funny. Seriously, I have had some ‘piss your pants’ funny situations happen while I was ‘out there.’ Granted, most of the pants pissing happened in blackouts, but hey; semantics.

Comfort zones look so much more like a Pottery Barn catalog for me today than when I was drinking. Back then, they looked a little bit like someone spliced a Fredericks of Hollywood catalog with a Jim Beam Commercial and threw some Carl’s Jr. in there for good measure. Note to self: remember to explain drunken packing and how I ended up with a suitcase full of lingerie and zero suitable clothing.

I’ll end with this because I just got a text from a fellow mother about how my ten-year-old is sharing inappropriate sex jokes with his peers about 69ing. Way to go kid! Comfort zones won’t kill you. What will kill you is your inability to shake yourself free of them and grow into new ones. Comfort is good. Complacency and refusal to grow is what takes out.

All Apologies

I hope that your self-righteousness keeps you warm at night

That your uncanny ability to never be wrong in any given situation

Is a comfort when you’re all alone

But indulge my curiosity; you owe me that – and I’m quite done playing nice with you

Is it lonely ordering for just one?

Just you. Always you.

You and your pride.

Tell me, when you go to ask a question and see that no one’s there

No one to listen to you chirp

Does your ego swoop in to warm you?

What occupies the space your heart once held?

Oh, how I’d like to score your name from all memory

Chalk you up to some astrological anomaly; Mercury in retrograde, or some shit

Or a terrible hormonal imbalance

Without logic I allowed you inside my walls

Unguarded and without reason I danced the dance

I took you at your word

I let your words become my reality

I bought your bullshit ticket for a ride on your fucked up crazy train

And rode that bitch till the wheels feel off

But you wouldn’t know anything about that would you?

So preoccupied with yourself and your needs

Too consumed with mollifying my unease

Calming my distress

Reassuring me of what a good and solid man you were

In an attempt to keep me around

How’d that work out for you?

You strangled the life out of it

Kicking dirt in my face the whole time

Now you see the wicked side

Of me

As I’ve see the ugly and hollow in you

Care to dance or are you saving this one for your ego again?

  

You have to have a plan...

I demand a do-over on my high school days. That’s right, I want to go back to having acne prone skin, an unhealthy obsession with Robert Smith of the Cure and being virtually invisible to anyone with a penis. I want to spend my days dreading 3^rd period (PE - because I’m fat and it’s hard to walk with a book bag let alone run) and the only time of day I’m comfortable is lunch because I spend that time smoking with the stoners at the car wash across the street.

*sings “Working at the car wash (oh oh, yeah yeah) at the car wash, yeah (ooh ooh ooh) at the car wash”*

Why the hell would you want to inflict that kind of torture upon yourself again? Well, sit right back and I’ll tell you a little story…

I was talking to my friend today; we’ll call her Anastacia [that’s that bitches real name too, lmfao] and we were talking about the NASDAQ. I’m fucking with you guys; neither of us knows shit about all that, maybe she should come back to school with me. Anyhow, we were talking about life and more specifically a job she was prospecting. She said that she still didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life. It gave me pause but not for too long because that ship sailed for me about the same time that my breast milk dried up. I can get really depressed if I think about it too much. I’ve got a nice little student loan debt and nothing to show for that shit but a record of ‘on-time’ payments courtesy of wage garnishments. If I knew then what I know now; bullshit! I’d probably still be a know-it-all asshole bitching about how I’ll never use fractions in the ‘real world’ and chopping up lines on my desk with my ruler in Geometry. True story.

I was a complete fuck off in high school. The only thing that I really applied myself at was illicit drug taking and concert attendance; both of which I excelled at, I might add. I’ll never forget the time I dropped acid and the poster of The Cure I had on my wall came to life. Robert Smith left the poster and walked toward me; and it was right then and there that my fascination ended. There’s nothing quite like watching his face melt while tripping balls to strike fear in you every time you  hear Lullaby. I remember being told attendance and attention at school was important but I was not impressed. In hindsight, I can say I wasn’t challenged. I was bored. I would give my right tit to go back and be bored as fuck. My options today are limited. I’m not saying I don’t enjoy what I do and my place of employment; I’m honestly blessed and I know it. I also know that I am capable of much more. My earning potential [this is where I don’t tell you how much I make] could be much higher and far cushier. The threat of living off Top Ramen is real should I for some reason lose my current job. If I lose my job, it will be because I’ve forced Tim’s head into a toilet filled with his own urine or because I failed to effectively utilize my inside voice – meaning I’ve said some heinous shit out loud instead of inside my head, unknowingly of course. Of course…

Today’s students are much more disciplined. They are better prepared or maybe they just have a better grasp on reality. Times are changing. The job market is more competitive. 15 yr. old me was certain I could hack it out there as the next Courtney Love. I also thought I could be a freelance writer and photographer. Then I believed I’d be a lawyer. You know what you need to be a lawyer? A mother fucking education! I kept looking in my Cracker Jacks box for my degree but all I got was a joke, a temporary tattoo, and one time a decoder ring. No degree. I never spent time thinking about what I wanted to be when I got out of school, I just wanted to get out – alive. Spoiled little gluten intolerant assholes today get to use me as an example of what not to do. They see how shitty people like me turned out and when I step left, they step right. In all fairness I am probably saving countless young women from abusive and one-sided relationships, unhealthy coping skills, bad habits and practices and financial ruin. Just watch what I did and still do and do the exact opposite ladies! You’re welcome.

Other people may have had some sort of clue when they were in high school about a life plan for themselves. I just wanted to not go to jail, not die, be famous and be filthy rich. I don’t think I was asking too much. Oh, right – I wanted to be prettier and smarter than everyone else too, but not a stuck up asshole. Life plan? No, just some down to earth goals that should have been totally attainable. But here I sit, with a busted up pair of headphones on while listening to music, writing this on a computer that doesn’t belong to me, checking my bank account, making sure that there is enough in there for the Department of Education to take its cut of my paycheck for a degree that I don’t have. So…can I go back to popping pimples and being ignored at Prom???