There are some human moments that should never be spoken into existence. Such as and such as and such as and such as and such and all that it's about to be. How many how many how many how many how many??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
The Most Beautiful Short Film I have Seen: The Physics of Sorrow - Theodore Ushev
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Tomato Soup // Chicken Strip Club
“There’s a new club in town I hear” says Donovan, heaving a sigh of relief. “Oh yeah?” I ask, not because I care, but because I care about Donovan, and I only want him to be happy and he seems to be walking on air at this news. His eyes suddenly wide, he beams, exclaiming “THE CHICKEN STRIP CLUB!” I don’t know how to feel about this news, as if the tomato soup club wasn’t enough for him. Suddenly overcome by lassitude, I sank into the couch.
Though this time, I couldn’t stop sinking and I closed my eyes and sank for as long as I could. The heaviness that surrounded me, suddenly agile. A suffocating force radiated throughout my being, filling me with jubilance. As I raised my arm up to catch a glimpse of my omnipotence, I was overcome with anger, it was trying to escape me. It jolted my body in every direction and took me for its fool. Blissfully staining the inner cavity with goo, gunk, and grace. I tried to catch it, but it broke free. Without resistance, it was free to tango with the goats, pigs, and monks alike. A dance even the devil could do without. It was snapping at me, and in my moment of purity, I was brought back, back to Donovan, back to the couch, and back to the grand opening of the chicken strip club.
“Hey man”, Donovan sounded distraught. “What was that?” “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.” I replied begrudgingly. “It’s just that, for a moment there, you seemed at peace.” I stared at him blankly. “Well, that’s because I was thinking about going to the chicken strip club with you, Donovan.” His eyes sparkled, and he beamed. He was radiant.
Livsnjutare (n.) One who loves life deeply and lives it to the extreme. As an aspiring livsnjutare, she frolicked through the fields...
There exists a transitional period between space and time in which we exist in our most authentic form.
Transitional should not be confused with transactional.
To date, my relationships have been just this—transactional.
If you stripped away my clothes, you would find a corpse filled with wood chips, scorpions, my favourite perfume, and red paint—allow me to explain.
Wood chips? My favourite snack.
Scorpions? My preferred method of self-harm.
Perfume? Made with his semen.
Red paint? The colour of my ceiling.
I feel alive! I feel alive!
Each of these, I can exchange for something better, richer, sweeter—if liminality allows.
For example, in an empty hallway, I might choose to exchange wood chips for sea glass, because sea glass is fragile, and easier to digest. Much like echoes down an empty hallway.
If you pay attention, you’ll begin to feel the fibers of your being unwind and twinkle as semen trickles down your legs. The top notes have faded.
If you stray too far, you could end up in a field surrounded by nothingness. Here, a new exchange begins, my semen for your lust, an ode to Aphrodite.
Eventually, my corpse becomes so voluptuous, I begin to lose parts of myself. I am asking you, begging you, to please help me find them.
Not long after, begs turn into pleas, and when you plead, you are no longer wood chips or sea glass, semen or lust. Introduce the scorpions.
Oh, how they sting!
If I choose to plead in an empty house, I may choose to exchange these scorpions for something far greater, quicker, more potent—Ricin.
Now, I can set myself down, strip myself naked, and let it all pour out of me. I lose it all, and I am myself again, because I am euphoric, and I am free. My naked body caresses the stained carpets, and there it is again—that red ceiling.
In liminality I have it all, and I lose nothing.
I feel alive! I feel alive!