I often check the statistics for my website. I like to know how many people are logging in on a given month, and what countries they are in. But what intrigues me most is the search terms they use that bring them here.  The most popular one is “smells like pussy.” (see Post: I Smell, You Stink).

Smells like pussy. Smells like pussy. Smells like pussy. There. That oughtta bring me alot of traffic.

Other popular search phrases are “boiling semen” (see Post: Funny Camping Story), and “toe cleavage” (see Post: Something Resembling a Shoe Please). I am delighted that people with creepy sexual fetishes are drawn here, to a site that hosts a film that deals with the pain of creepy sexual fetishes. I must work harder at being misleading.

Today I considered that maybe my relationship with my archive

is akin to my relationship with men.

I choose to be intimate with things that hurt me over and over.

The way he casually crossed his legs after sex disturbed me.

He was too comfortable for a one-night stand.

I wanted him off my bed.

I keep trying and sometimes I am given a smile or some notice and I think maybe I’ve been accepted but then a wave of disapproval crushes me.

I feel I am feeling I feel like I don’t fit in

I feel like an outsider. all these non artists

I feel judged they don’t notice me or laugh at my jokes they do not get me

They do not love me

Sometimes the office is so cold icy stoic mean angry ugly inside and out

I am so uncomfortable at my desk job

Facebook is creepy.

I am uncomfortable among groups. Don’t like crowds. Love being by myself. Sometimes enjoy the company of one specifically selected person at a time.

I am more confident sharing my feelings directly with one person I can be certain is understanding.

Facebook brings up all those high school feelings like cliques that I was not invited to be part of but wanted to be part of.

What bothers me about Facebook is that it is an open platform for people I know to criticize me or make me feel bad. I realize that these same people could applaud me as well, but that feels uncomfortable too. Now you think I’m paranoid.

You are probably judging me because I am writing in this blog that anyone can read. Precisely. The nice thing about this is that maybe no one is reading it. Or maybe two people have read it. But I don’t know them and maybe they don’t know me and there is no communication. I like the perceived anonymity of my blog.

They have no respect for your time. They are time wasters. I am an accomplisher. My time is very valuable to me. I spent years wasting my time doing drugs and having unpleasant indiscriminate sex. My anger flares when I am left waiting. Being late, holding someone up, is a power play. I will not let you control me with your bad habits.

The only thing that can be done is to sew up my nose. Literally, that’s what the doctor’s have told me. I had polyps removed from my nose in 1996 that were preventing me from breathing properly and ever since then I can breathe, but now everything that has a scent travels instantly up my cleared nasal canals and physically burns. Depending on the chemical in the scent, I either get a blinding migraine or I lose my voice or my eyes and face blow up with hives. I call it allergy cause people understand that. But really my body is intolerant of carcinogens. Perfume, cigarette smoke, household cleaners, scented candles, pesticide, febreeze, laundry products, anything that has artificial fragrance. I even need to wash out the laundry machine before I use it, cause if the person before me used a fragranced detergent and I wash my sheets in the same machine my skin will break out in scabs and sores. I think it’s my body’s natural reaction to warn me against things that are dangerous. It even warns me about stuff with men – I can smell when they are lying – literally. Unfortunately I tend to ignore the warning.

he does not hear me
in my eyes he sees himself
I am traumatized

a kiss on the lips
I lock the door to my room
is he really dead?

I once had a father named Abe

who treated me like a hot babe

he lecherously stared

while he photographed me bare

so my home felt like Abu Ghraib