Tag Archives: TTH

Christian Nymphos (Things That Hurt)

I think this is going to be a regular section here in my anonymous blog: Things that hurt. I feel the need to create this section because, for reasons that seemed fucking sane at the time, I’ve torn my whole life up by the roots and recamped myself in the middle of JerryFallwellBurg. (WTF? Why am I putting links in a blog that’s designed to be secret? Because I have the world’s worst memory? Perhaps.) Seriously, this place is 67% white, according to Wiki. I’m white. But that’s not the point. The point is that we are crazy fucking people and there shouldn’t be this high of a concentration of us in one place.

But I Digress.

JerryFallwellBurg fucking hurts. It hurts to exist here. It hurts to be surrounded by people who are this fucking brainwashed and actively seeking to continue the trend. Seriously, the news that Obama is actually the targeted winner of the upcoming elections by anyone who has a rational view of the world came as a complete shock to me this week, once I was able to stop nurturing my poor broken heart enough to start paying attention to the news again.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s still broken (Chris, you fucktard, I hate you, and I will exact my revenge). But the distance helps.

It was a shock because I’m living in JerryFallwellBurg. I think it may actually be more like 85% or 90% white. I think they’re hiding the black people in the same tank that they’re hiding the agnostics and poor people and people who know who Peter Sagal is. You know what, I’m just going to copy and paste.

The racial makeup of the city was 66.63% White, 29.70% African American, 0.26% Native American, 1.28% Asian, 0.04% Pacific Islander, 0.63% from other races, and 1.46% from two or more races. Hispanic or Latino of any race were 1.35% of the population.

Seriously, WTF kind of place is only 1.35% Mexican? A creepy creepy fucking place. There’s bunkers around here somewhere. There’s gotta be.

Anyway.

Heh. That’s such a cheap tag trick. I’m surprised is still works.

Things that hurt:

Christian Nymphos, whose authors cheerfully proclaim, “We are women with excessive sexual desire for our husbands!” offers candid how-to advice on anal sex, fisting, and “masturbating for your husband.”

Also, fittingly enough, in this first section of Things That Hurt, I’m going to go ahead and say: I like anal sex. Yes, it can be fucking painful, but it can also be really great. Ok. Done. Moving on.

Fisting makes me want to vomit.

And Christian Nymphos gives my heart or my sensibilities or my whatever-it-is-I-engage-the-world-with the same feeling I get when I wake up in the middle of the night with a Charley Horse in both my legs: Something has gone horribly painfully wrong and it needs to Go Away Right Now.

On a side note: The Gone Away World, recently published by Nick Harkaway through Knopf, is one of the best fucking books ever. Buy it. Now. Done.

And also, go read The Sexy Puritan published on slate.com by Tom Perrotta, who is the author of The Abstinance Teacher and Little Children, both of which are fine novels worthy of your attention.

Four Months Later

Everything has fallen to shit.

I’ve lost Rachel.

I’ve lost Chris.

I quit my job.

I’m living in my Mom’s basement. I’ve been here a week. Eight days.

I haven’t been high or smoked a cigarette in eight days.

I’m trying to find a job.

I’m so depressed that it’s an effort to get out of bed. I never used to understand how people could go on government disability for depression. I do now. If I would admit to a doctor how bad it is I could get supplement checks. I’m unstable as fuck.

Neither Chris nor Rachel even knows where I am. I left town in the middle of the night. Rachel won’t give a shit, I know. Chris might.

There is a plan. A small thin plan. I’m going to swallow my pride and let my parents carry me for a while. I’m going to finish my education. I’m going to become a web technician/designer. I’m going to have a small little house out in the country. It can be a rental. I won’t care. I’m going to grow my own weed and make webpages for money and listen to podcasts live my life how I want to fucking live it and I’m going to be left the fuck alone.

I’m waiting for my stepfather to come home and go to bed. I don’t have a dealer here but I did bring maybe three little bowlpacks with me. My favorite podcast updated today. It’s a sporadic one but it’s so worth the wait. After Davis gets home I’m going to go out to my car and smoke a bowl and listen to the show. I’ve got Nyquil and beer. I’m going to have to get a job. Get a job. Find a dealer. Survive.

Get rich quick through pain and suffering.

It’s 1:27 a.m.; I have to get up for work in three and a half hours.

I can’t sleep.

I’m too busy thinking about Chris and Amber. Yes. That Amber.

Chris.

You broke my trust and I know I broke yours. If someone were to randomly ask me if I thought you loved me, I might say yes, of course; if I were to be asked again two minutes later, I might say, maybe not, I don’t know. I can’t tell these days. It’s not entirely (if at all) your fault, I know. So many circumstances beyond of our control. And I really, really can’t tell the difference between my neurosis and fact. Which is nothing new.

And if the answer turned out to be no, I know I will break in half, split open and fall apart, just like the last three times I loved someone who changed their mind. And like I’ve told myself before — after so many times being torn open and scarring over again, you’d think it would hurt less. Amber. Allison. Allison again. Rachel.

You would think. But, no. Fresh hurt, every time.

Haven Kimmel said about drugs, the first time is the purest. Every time after that is just nostalgia.

Heartbreak, on the other hand — it hurts. It keeps hurting, continues hurting, finds new ways to hurt. Everything hurts. I should find out the source of that fuel, that persistent renewal and distill it, use it to create a new drug that never stands a chance against tolerance. I’d be fucking rolling. Big. Pimping.

But even so. Even if the answer is yes — the fact remains; we both have the same fatal flaw: we’re going to fuck whomever we want to fuck, consequences be damned.

Damaged goods aren’t nearly as functional or valuable. Eventually I won’t even want to love anymore. Eventually even if I wanted to, I’d forget how.

Wait. Wait. Just wait. October. Answers will be here in October. But October isn’t Godot. Answers are an abstract — just an acknowledgment of consequences — the double jeopardy round of real life. October will eventually come and go, and somehow I’m pretty sure I’m still going to wind up stranded.

Amber.

Really? Seven, eight years? Now? Now I find out that you loved me then, and despite

fucking everything

that’s telling me to run, your charm is in my skin; even after two nights, and I want to hold your body close to mine and kiss your neck and know your taste. I am so fucked up right now Bam Bam, you don’t even know — if only because I’ve been working so hard to keep you from knowing.

Who are you? What do you want from me?

You’re a goddamn, dangerously volatile, intriguing, magnetic disaster. I’m going to apologize in advance, but surely you’ll understand — I’m going to keep you at a distance. I am not going to let you crawl inside of me again. Or not for a long, long while at least. Because frankly, I can’t swear that I’ll be able to resist you.

You are a miracle, but that is not all.
You are also a stiff drink, and I am on call.
You are a party and I am a school night.
I’ve lost my door key, but you are my porch light.

You’ll never know dear, just how much I loved you;
You’ll probably think this was just one big excuse.
But I stand committed to a love that came before you
And the fact that I adore you is but one of my truths.