S Pink Premium Pointer Bio-Tagebuch (nur 3% Fantasie): September 2014
People used to remind me that "not everything's either black or white", but that doesn't mean they don't exist.
Because, where is all that grey coming from?

Freitag, 26. September 2014

Post-Orgasmic Post

I'll never be able to put my mind into words.
I mean, like, everything: how I see things, what I think about them, their connections inside my head, and how I feel when I think about them or maybe even just watch or listen.
It's kind of stupid to even try, and still ...

Only a few minutes ago, I finished "taking my mind off of things for a moment" - i.e. I watched some porn.
The cute young woman in the porn video (I guess she was in her late twenties. But who knows?) had a big scar on her chest, like the ones you have after a heart surgery. You could even see that it wasn't fully healed yet, because the scar tissue was still quite reddened. For some reason it made her instantly more attractive to me.
I feel easily attracted to damaged things as well as damaged people - they're more interesting. Perfection is boring. It's like in that one Therapy song, "Happy people have no stories." To a certain degree it also triggers a protective instinct in me when something is "not as it's intended to be".
The things that happened have made me feel bad about that. But why?
Why should it be considered a bad thing when you don't want any harm to come to the people and things you love? I don't get it.
... it's another reason why I mostly try to keep my distance.
... and another reason why I don't know what the fuck to do.

I think I mentioned a few times already that it happens quite often that I cry after an orgasm, when the wave of the highest of feelings tremendously breaks at its peak and forces its way down again. You can't hold it back, it has to be this way. It hurts, because deep down inside of me I feel like I'm losing something very precious to me. Try to imagine the one thing you hold dear the most, something you wouldn't want to live without. Now picture it getting ripped out of your hands and set alight, and there's nothing you can do but to watch it burn until the only thing that's left of it is the pain of the most tragic loss. And not only do I feel powerless, but also guilty, because in my case it was partly my fault that everything came crumbling down on me. Something substantial was brutaly removed within the blink of an eye, and now it's gone forever and left nothing but memories that turned to a pile of red-hot glowing coles which slowly burn through your heart. Every. Damn. Time.
I find it impossible to describe, for there are only so many words. And they all manage to paint just a small picture of a much bigger surface, and they probably won't ever be able tell you what's underneath it all, no matter in what constellation I put them. It just hurts.

I bet I repeated myself for the 100th time now. Sure feels like it. I'm a broken record, constantly skipping a beat and moving in close circles, unable to break out. No wonder that I can't find any answers to my questions in order to make the song play on. I'm just waiting for the power to go out. It's ridiculous, pathetic. I know that there is an awful lot of people out there who would tell me to suck it up. And some of them would surely be capable of actually doing just that. But I can't.
Instead I feel wrong practically all the time, no matter what I do or don't do.

Nervous, anxious, distorted, disoriented, lost hope, lost faith, lost trust, damaged, exhausted, incapable, unwilling, disturbed, scared, angry, depressed, sad, scarred, confused ... fucked up ...
... how is it even possible that I still haven't physically harmed myself or others? Well, at least not actively and intentionally. I don't cut myself or anything like that, but it's not like sitting in a room for over two years would've done me any good. I don't make myself bleed. My mind forces me to a different kind of self-torture. I don't need to remind myself that I'm still alive, and I don't need to test myself if I can still feel, 'cause those are the only things I can do anyway: thinking and feeling, and nothing else. I can't do.
What am I waiting for?
Why am I still waiting for it?

October 13th is going to be my 31st birthday. Then it's going to be one year since I began to try again, and I've already fallen back down ... again.
Does that make me a failure?
But I can't have failed for as long as I still try, can I?
But I'm not actually trying, I'm just sitting here.
Does that make me a bad person?
I never wanted any of this, and yet I feel unable to achieve anything else ... and when I do it won't last. Whatever it takes, I don't seem to have it. The one thing that's been working just fine all along is my gift to destroy anything that dares to come near me.
I'm sorry.

Dienstag, 9. September 2014

[insert fitting title here]

I'm pathetic.
... and exhausted.

I can't really do anything (again) that doesn't remind me of something. Something that used to be nice. Something what I once considered the best thing that ever happened to me. Something now turned sour, painful.
Last week I caught up to season 5 of "Supernatural". In one episode, Dean and Sam are getting played by Gabriel (the trickster) once more. He puts them into different kinds of TV shows and forces them to play "their" role, such as surgeons, game show participants and so on. It's one of two mostly funny episodes which Claudia showed me about 4 years ago when she introduced me to "Supernatural". (The other one was concentrating almost solely on Bobby ... I think he was plagued by vampires or something, and there was a possible-love-interest neighbour who was trying to get to know him while he tried his best to keep the truth about his job from her in order to not scare her off.)
Anyway, I was already having a hard time not to think about her while I was watching the show over the past weeks. And now ...
I have a similar problem with "Game of Thrones" (also a show which I wouldn't have come to know and love if it wasn't for Claudia). Almost every time I watch the show I have to think back when we were watching the first season at her place. My reaction to certain scenes pop into my mind, and then her reaction to my reaction and so on. Same thing goes for a considerable part of the music I hear. Even when I watch "Doctor Who" I can't help but to wonder if she watches it too and what she might think of it. Hell, I watch "Breaking Bad" and have to think about how she mentioned once or twice that she was looking into it but didn't get hooked.
The fact that I'm sitting here alone in a room, as it has been for over 3 years now, doesn't make it easier. There's nothing to distract me from my thoughts and feelings, which makes them all the more difficult to bear. Also, I want to share my joy with someone (literally) close to me. I want to talk about all kinds of nerdy stuff, and not just via social networks. I cry myself to sleep pretty much every day/night, wishing for nothing more than someone to just come and take me away from all this, or at least take away the shit that's going on in my mind.
Not gonna happen.

The M.O.M. keeps pressuring me more and more lately. Since I haven't been to the AMS (the Austrian social service department for the unemployed) for a couple of months, naturally the cashflow stopped. Now it happens every so often that the door to my room opens and I'm to be woken by a lovely voice, sounding, "I NEED MONEY! WHERE'S MY MONEY!"
Honestly, I'm at a loss for words at every attempt to describe how that ... person sounds to me. Try to imagine finger nails on a blackboard, combined with a bunch of crying babies, one of those rat-like little dogs that won't quit barking in an annoyingly high pitched tone, and the crew from "Jackass" puking their guts out. That's the closest I can get to painting you a picture of the accusation orchestra that I don't dare to call my mother. Exactly what I need, no?
A part of me draws some satisfaction out of the circumstance that she doesn't have a clue about what's going on with me, even though I'd sometimes wish to tell her straight to the face what a disgusting piece of shit she is. As much as I try, and as much as I'm boiling inside as soon as I just hear her breathe, I can't get around to hating her. I don't hate her. I simply don't care the slightest little bit about that woman. She could drop dead and I wouldn't care. And if the worst things would happen to her, I ... I'd be happy. ... Well, maybe I do hate her ... a lot. Enough to wish the rest of her life to be a living hell for her, and I'm gladly doing my part to make it so - albeit very passively, but still. I wouldn't wanna have it any other way with that abhorrent creature.
Some of you may be able to relate. Yet even I find it extremely harsh of a child to say something like that about a relative or any other person for that matter. Fuck it, it is how it is, for reasons.

Somehow I felt the urge to upload some scetches and drawings I made on DeviantArt, and if it's just to leave a somewhat bigger trace behind in this world. Some of those are several years old, and you can even tell by the stained paper that I'm a heavy smoker and love coffee.
These two are my personal favorites:

(Please note that I've never visited any art school or courses. I just scribble on a piece of paper every now and then)

I like to use ballpens and pencils the most, for there has never been a drawing that I didn't ruin by trying to add some color. With ballpens, there're no second chances - every line counts. So I think that I'm "better" with them than with pencils, because I have to, although I prefer not to work "under pressure".
I still "got it", but I rarely draw anything anymore. I find it difficult to find something to draw. When a picture happens to pop into my mind, I give up often enough before I even begin, because I know that my skillset is insufficient to make the picture look on paper like I see it before my mind's eye. Additionally, I didn't find the time and the patience to put a lot of effort into practicing - too many games, TV shows, movies, music, internet, ... .

Something in me hopes that this will be my last entry. Sounds awfully melodramatic, I know, but that doesn't make it less true (also it wouldn't be the first time).
I tried to imagine what it would be like to talk to my younger self from ten years back or so. Not good. Only resulted in even more self-loathing. I just want to be left alone, but I don't want to be lonely. Yet trust issues and fear of loss make me keep my distance to people. I'm damaged, fucked up, and I have absolutely no clue why it had to come to, and has to continue to be like this. Headaches are getting worse again lately, and ain't no orgasm without shedding a tear or two.

It takes years, if not decades to make something out of your life, but your whole world can get turned upside down and be put to the torch within a split-second. Then you get told that it's your own damn fault, over and over again. Still, you're supposed to just keep going, keep trying.


You're running out of faith and strength. All it does is hurt, and there's no such thing as a guarantee that it will ever get better, despite of what some people tell you.

Mittwoch, 3. September 2014

My Problems with How the Media Handles Sexism and Rape

Lately I was reading through some articles regarding sexism and rape, and there were quite a few things that annoyed me up to a point where I had to struggle to take those texts seriously, because they often took a detour around certain parts of reality.

It was talked about the issue of female behavior often being misconstrued as "asking for it".
For instance, when a woman is walking down the street in a short skirt, maybe showing some cleavage, some might say that she's "asking for" being whistled at, she's "asking for" rude comments, she's "asking for" getting raped, like a homeless guy is asking for money simply by putting a cup in front of him. Let's leave aside the fact that's utter macho crap.
What bugged me the most about those articles was the fact that the precautions women take, in order to protect themselves from getting insulted, harassed or even assaulted in any way, where discarded as a bad manner that people grew accustomed to, like they shouldn't be taken at all. The writers didn't actually discourage people to do it, yet it was clear that they also don't want to willingly encourage anyone, simply because they think it's not necessary.
YES, it shouldn't be necessary for women, or any other human being for that matter, to take extra care. But why shouldn't they? Why is it considered a flaw in perception when somebody says that people should protect themselves?
Society is far from being that safe to move around carelessly. And it's never going to get safe if we already start to tell people to get raped practically on purpose, because they think they shouldn't do anything that could help with preventing it.  You've got to have an open mind to the thought that there's evil out there that doesn't give a single fuck about how it should be. ... Well, that's not entirely true. They'd be more than happy to give a fuck if you let them, and that fuck could be you.
Don't believe me? Then read the typical hateful, threatening, straight up disgusting comments and messages a feminist gets during an ordinary day.
I mean, who in their right mind would actually tell somebody, "It's ok, you don't need to worry. Nothing's gonna happen. And even if, knowing that those people are assholes, and that it's wrong what they do, is enough to get along just fine."?!?!?!
Is that how such an issue should be dealt with?
Do those people really think that they can defend themselves without actually having to defend themselves? Society is not going to change over night, and a hand full of wannabe Ghandis definitely won't be the solution to that. You can't starve your way out of rape culture. If you think differently, then you're not passively resisting, you're being actively ignorant.
Again, I'm not saying that all women should wrap themselves up, arm themselves, take self defense courses, lock themselves in, do everything they possibly can to decrease the risk of getting harassed. Also I definitely won't put the blame on the victim after "shit happened", let alone say that it "asked for it" if it decided beforehand to not protect itself. What I say is that it's wrong to tell them that it's absolutely unnecessary to take any precautions. We don't feel bad about locking the door when we leave the house, even though we probably wouldn't have to. Thing is, you never know, and nobody would tell you not to do it. Of course being cautious won't eliminate the basic problem that causes it. But, until society has found a solution and is executing it effectively, why advise anyone to let the guard down intentionally?

Secondly, pretty much every single article is pointing out men as the one and only perpetrators, and women as the one and only victims.
Recently, more and more studies keep showing up claiming that nearly 40% of rape victims are male, with an almost equally high percentage of abusers being female. Let that sink in for a moment.
Now, where's the big-time media coverage regarding such figures?
It's comparativley non-existant. And why is that so?
*Listening to the echo of the question as it drifts through myriads of so-called journalists as they've fallen silent, looking down on their feet, ashamed as they should be* 
Yet some of them are everything but lazy. They only decided to concentrate their energies on a wholly different matter, namely ...

(3rd) ... pointing their fingers and misjudging absolutely everything as being sexist that man - no? ... (I mean mankind. - NO!? ... Erm, human? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!) some person has ever created.
Advertising? Sexist.
Videogames? Über-sexist.
Doctor Who? So stereotype. Much sexist. Wow.
Opening the door for a girl? Dat sexism!
It's like nothing can be considered at least somewhat normal anymore. It's ridiculous. Everything must have been considered and thought through three times over before presenting it to the public, in order prevent some militant feminist to get a "hard on" and starting an #outcry. And even then, it most certainly won't work. Hard-assed, close-minded hypocrites are everywhere, looking through the most powerful magnifying glass you can imagine, completely oblivious to the fact that they're actually burning down what they're looking at, because they fail to see the bigger picture. All under the waving flag of what is their understanding of feminism, with their true goal not being equality, but matriarchy. Small wonder that so many other people get pissed at them, isn't it?
I'm already fed up with that shit. I can't hear/read it anymore. As said, I'm not talking about serious discussions and arguments, but the steaming load of overly criticising, knitpicking crap which is the equivalent of calling someone a racist because he/she likes to put milk into his/her coffee. Fact is, there isn't anything that no one can read sexism into and/or get offended by. There's nothing wrong with raising awareness. But instead of drawing a line, pointing it out to those people when they're taking it way too far, tell them to just SHUT THE FUCK UP and relax, the media often enough keeps sucking up to them and bows to their will. There seems to be no middle ground.
And why?
Because all media is apparently supposed to be some gender-free, politically correct, sterile bastard, as if flawless objectivity would actually exist ... and because it's bad publicity to piss off a small, but loud bunch of obviously deranged people who are, albeit to be taken less seriously, no better than their counterparts which are posing death threats against feminists.

Dienstag, 2. September 2014

Schlimmes Erbrechen

"To W.W.
My star, my perfect silence."
- G.B.

[Ich versuch das hier so spoilerfrei wie möglich zu halten. Ein paar Kleine werden sich aber nicht verhindern lassen.]
Ein Tribut an die beste Fernsehserie, die ich bisher gesehen habe. (Ja, das schließt auch "Game of Thrones" usw. mit ein.)
Grund dafür ist, dass es die einzige mir bekannte Serie ist, die wirklich von Staffel zu Staffel immer besser wird. Die Ereignisse ziehen immer weitere Kreise, während die Schlinge um den Hals mancher Charaktere stetig enger wird, bzw. sie ihren Kopf von einer in die nächste stecken. Das alleine mag vielleicht nichts Besonderes sein, aber die Art der Durchführung ist es, die mich am meisten an "Breaking Bad" fasziniert.

What up, biatch?
Walter White ist Chemielehrer an der High School in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Als er zu seinem 50. Geburtstag mit inoperablem Lungenkrebs und einer Lebenserwartung von höchstens noch 2 Jahren diagnositiziert wird, beginnt er, sich Gedanken um die finanzielle Zukunft seiner Familie, seinen Sohn und seine schwangere Frau, zu machen.
Sein Schwager Hank, der bei der DEA (Drug Enforcement Administration; die Drogenbehörde) arbeitet, hat erst wieder eine Crystal Meth-Küche hochgenommen und pralt überall damit rum. Dadurch bekommt Walt mit, dass, selbst bei einem kleinen Labor, ein Umsatz von einigen hunderttausend Dollar keine Seltenheit sind. Mit Chemie kennt sich Walter aus, aber er braucht auch jemanden, der das Zeug für ihn auf der Straße unter die Leute bringt. Also schließt er sich mit einem ehemaligen Schüler, Jesse Pinkman, zusammen.
"You know the business, and I know the chemistry."