*Currently, I am incredibly (?) with slothfulness. That is not to say I am extremely lazy (though, don't be mistaken, I can be a useless toad when so self driven). No. I am artless, although this may appear (to simpleminded individuals) to be nothing more than the equivalent of a rash, to me....
it is a very slow death; it is the labor bed of the most revered of every hell pit; it is the mother of irrational tantrums; it is the father of my fake hope provoked; and less than thought out adventures. I swear, I fuck more when I'm less creative. "I'm bored! I'm without milk I'm without seed!" during half the relationships I've gone through I've gone to such lengths as bruising my upper arms with teeth marks as not to spit my actual opinions all over their desired passions. (MOVWDST) "this is the only thing I've had inside me all day!" they think I'm being sexual, on the contrary..... I'm being completely apathetic.
"Crying and fucking go hand in hand, you feel nothing but a lump in the process." I've said since the age of 14. I've been debating adding constipation to the list, or guilt. Guilt and sex....one and the same, for someone who has frequented sexual pleasure as much as I have, I sure don't like it. It has transcended beyond pleasure to me, but, not an act of art, not even a useless act, something to be compared to clipping your toenails. I receive a slight satisfaction and maybe a slight feeling of productivity or accomplishment. Truth is, I'd rather cook a good meal than fuck these days, at least some fruition comes out of that. I'm looking for stimulation. Have you ever seen a man or woman lose their ability to create? To execute the action that lends to love?
I have one answer to that, "get the fuck away... I can set fire to myself with one hand thank you."
*By Abbie Collins transcripted by Adam Strange from a notebook, posted with permission
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