Thursday, April 27, 2017

Stabbing Pain, Stinking Nightshade

I have read a handful of Hemingway stories. I know that having a limp means that I have a rotten soul, am a tremendously greedy lover, probably can't get it up. 

Nomads would have left me for dead - used tiger bait. Out to sea they would have chucked me into the waters as a blob of pre-chum shark floss. Gypsies would have stewed me down in a bloody cauldron. A witch might have only passed, cackling on her henbane fueled broomstick. I have wearied of my injury, can only imagine how anybody reading here must feel by now. 

Injuries are boring, unless there's a good clip to watch online at the moment they happen. Though, those clips usually make me feel a bit sick to my stomach, like watching somebody marvel at the immensity of an object that can fit inside another person's anus. People send me the most disturbing things, assuming perhaps that my mind is drawn to such maverick sexual eccentricities. I am repulsed by much of what I see, and I'm no prude. I laugh mostly at the details of my own abstractions, the fictive scenarios I draw myself into. To watch some girl fist herself is too literal to bring me many smiles, where it fascinates others. There are websites dedicated to the endless visual pursuit of it.  

People are much weirder than we ever knew, and now they're set to perpetually outdo one another. Soon we will know if there is a limit to the anus' elasticity.  Soon.

An injury lacks the customary illicit component, though - or, mine does. It's just the nauseating result without the humorous adventure that led to it. 

Fuck it. Maybe I'll see if I can get a Heineken bottle to make contact with the sphincter of Oddi, just to spice things up a bit on the crutches. 

Oh yeah, I'm on crutches now. I'm ambulatory, in a sense, again. Trusses meant to liberate me from otherwise being lame.