Disbelief Swimming About My Heels,

Day 2: Identity History or Development

I’d rather not go into the big dramatic sort of history that follows anybody establishing their identity, since it’s boring when you’re not in the thick of it. Honestly, truly, things that felt like the end of the world are surprisingly uninteresting if you’re not invested in it so gonna skip over that.

Essentially it grew out of questioning my various excuses for my behaviour. I spent a lot of time thinking I must have invented a lot of it, because that was a much easier explanation to accept than that it might be true.

see the thing is I actually liked swanblood a lot and I wish the online community hadn’t been so shitty as to chase her off tumblr with a pitchfork even if they disagreed with her, I disagree with your treatment of her and you don’t see me sharpening up claws for it.

(aspirations)

haikuology:

to go insane, and

fall in love while making it

sound so beautiful

if you date a man who writes

aetherbending:

siuri:

idntrlyknw:

tooflytorecognize:

If you date a man who writes, be prepared.

Prepare for the days and nights he’ll ignore your text messages because he’s right on the brink of the right word. You’ll find him bent over in his chair and his face in his hands. You’ll get the first word out before he shushes you. “I’m SO close!” he’ll plead. Then you’ll notice the phone-shaped dent in the wall. The back will have popped off and the batteries will have popped out of his ancient Nokia.

Prepare for him to lose track of his facial hair.

You’ll probably walk in on him with shaving cream still on his face because he got an idea mid-shave.

Be prepared for the long nights filled with clacking and the electronic glare on your eyelids keeping you awake. Until you finally surrender, take a pillow, and crash on the couch.

Be prepared for the possibility that he won’t even notice you left.

There will be times - so many times - that he’ll slump into a deep depression. “I’m all washed up,” he’ll say. “There’s nothing new to write,” he’ll say. And you’ll cheer him up. And sometimes you’ll just try.

If you date a man who writes, also be prepared for the seemingly random moments when you think he’s forgotten you on the couch which you crashed that he comes out, and carries you back to bed, covers you up and kisses you. And when you wake up, he’s made you pancakes and waffles with that favorite fruit syrup you like or chocolate chips. 

Prepare for him to drop everything and take care of you when you’re sick. To the point of ridiculousness. “I don’t feel so bad, honey,” you’ll say.

“With a temperature of a hundred-and-one for five straight days, I highly doubt that. Get back in bed, missy.”

“Make me!” you’ll shoot back.

And then he will. 

But best of all, he’ll write about you and for you. Forever and ever. He’ll weave your hairs in words out of his unexpected introspection. He’ll paint your face and eyes and cheeks in different shades of black ink. Keep copies and scribbles that you’ll only get a glimpse of when he leaves the frantically scribbled sticky note on the fridge door. 

Something that doesn’t make any sense to you out of context, but rolls of the mind and tongue like a marble down a slide. 

And he’ll hiss, “No, it’s just not ready yet!” as he snatches it away. 

And be prepared for him to love you tenderly. Slowly and gently so he can absorb every inch and second of skin and senses. You’ll be short of breath and he’ll be trembling for you. 

And you’ll both ache in the morning. 

So be prepared for when you date a writer. Prepare yourself and weigh your options. Because it may just be atmosphere and romanticism of it all that kindled your desire, and if it’s not, he’ll make it so. 

If you date a girl who writes, be prepared.

Prepare for the days and nights that your messages go unread because the sentence was still incomplete. You’ll find her curled into the corner with her knees up to her chest. You’ll get the first word out before she shushes you. “Not now,” she’ll plead, “I’m thinking”. Then you’ll notice the scraps of paper. Two halves of a pencil will be lying by her ankle while she clutches her favourite pen in her hand.

Prepare for the messes in odd places.

You’ll probably find her notebook by the kitchen sink, because the sunlight through the tea steam was the fuel for her words.

Be prepared for nights without conversation. Waiting up with her on rainy nights, when the tapping of the keyboard is as frequent as the raindrops on the rooftop. Until you finally surrender, take a pillow, and crash on the couch.

Be prepared for the possibility that she won’t even notice you left.

There will be times – so many times – that she won’t leave the bed in the morning. “Just leave me here,” she’ll say. “Nothing is original,” she’ll say. And you’ll help her. And sometimes you’ll just try.

If you date a girl who writes, be prepared for when she leans against you after hours of sitting in silence. When you figured she was too distracted to notice you, but she was just using your touch as a reward for finishing the chapter. And when you move to leave, she’ll sit in silence a little bit longer.  

Prepare for her to drop everything and become a little too focused on her writing. Prepare for the signs that she’s slipping. Prepare for the nonsensical exclamations mid-sentence. “A writer writes, right?” she’ll sink.

“You need to taste a rest, sweetie. Take a break and go outside for a little while.” 

“Make me!” she’ll snap back.

And then you will. 

But worst of all, she’ll write about you. Forever and ever. She’ll write about the catches in your voice. She’ll list the colours in your eyes. She’ll smear your pain across her work. She will strip away what you meant to her and she will reassign her love to her characters.

Something that she wrote will finally sink in to your skull. You’ll ask her why her characters hate each other so deeply.

And she’ll snarl, “It was about us,” as her eyes flicker in rage

And be prepared for her to drive you mad. Slowly and gentle so she can absorb every inch and second of your skin and sanity. You’ll be short of breath and she’ll be trembling from the heat.

And you’ll both hate each other in the morning.

So be prepared for when you date a writer. Prepare yourself and weight your options. Because it may just be the romanticism of it all that kindled your desire; and if it’s not, she’ll make it so.

if you date a person who writes you will not date a person. not all the time. not every time anyway.
 so you should be prepared anyway.
first,

they will never be quite right, in that cock-eyed shave, notepad in the refrigerator type of eccentricity that comes spilling out of the television screen like static and flowers and a whole swarm of locusts. and you will pretend that it was charming and interesting and fascinating and inspiring (at least at first) but the truth was it never was charming and interesting and fascinating and inspiring ever. it was awkward, and uncomfortable, and it was like she-he didn’t have time to breathe let alone at you.

and the truth was he-she-they-them didn’t have time at all to breathe, except in cafés, stalking conversations from once over, and indulging voyeurism because to be real (for once, for once) requires a brand new perspective on human nature. requires staring at somebody for an hour as they pour they sorrow and joy out to someone who cares, requires staring at them like an alien half-interested, half-empathic, and mostly very very educational. the truth was they practice distance from humanity, and breathe for their endless research.

those endless google searches.
that bookmarked tab ‘baby names’ and if you ever wondered - my god do they want kids? do they want kids with me? with me? - then you were wrong.

as wrong as you were the first time you thought you were ever dating a person.
second,

they will be sudden, full of outrageous cliché that they dress up in a new outfit (some offensive, shocking pornographic video of normal interaction) and they’ll say oh this is how you are.
this is about you.

this line here, this stupid, unthinkable description is you.

and they’ll be wrong, but it wouldn’t matter if the ancient art of verisimilitude is worshipped on the hands and knees on the computer chair tapping away like the rattle of pills in a bottle. and because they’re wrong, they’ll carry on like nothing had happened whatsoever.
third,

you will know there is passion, and they will have it in their fingertips. hungry, their fingertips will slurp and suck and stretch the warmth from your skin, and the warm of your touch and then overfed, their fingertips will engorge and vomit and ejaculate everything you ever had to give onto a blank canvas. and they will be proud.

they will be so proud.
fourth,

and yes this is the third and second and first all over again, but unless you ever understand that when you date a writer you will never date a human being, you will continue to pretend that once their strange habits and obsessions and love of words excited you. you will continue to lie that you fell in love with someone so art-tis-dick, someone so cree-ay-tiff, someone so brill-ee-aren’t.

because this is a person who is strange with all that entails and it is not zooey deschanel, it is ugly, ugly dutch tilt strange and it will make you uncomfortable and unsure and you will lie because you expected it to be very different.

because this is a person who is not human in any shape or form, this is a monster, this is a monster who feeds on emotions like empathy, and uses people up, taps into their love and pain and grief and horror and love, love, love and drains them dry. sucks them out like a used egg.

because this monster will draw every ounce of passion from you, like they wring a wet rag. you will give, give, give them love and they will give you something back that doesn’t and couldn’t make sense. they will show you their work in progress novel and you will find parts of your own body, and the flow of your own blood, and your wet eyes staring back at you between the lines and they will be so proud of themselves for dissecting the love you gave them and creating a monster out of it, a frankenfreak of affection.

because if you date a writer they may wake you up with pancakes, and they may fuck you like you are everything that exists in this and every universe and they may listen intently to the way you breathe and the way you shrug and the way you smile, but they will always, always, always strip it apart and turn it into something that feeds their ego.

if you date a writer, you will be dating a monster, so you must be prepared:

- a stake
- a gun
- a silver bullet

and hope that your violence will bring them silence, hope that the raucous lycanthrope you make love to late at night forgets to bite out your throat with sharp, beautiful words, hope beyond anything you will
leave sooner rather than later and

have a curious story to tell about this person you used to date.

“because you might be able to give us love, but 
all we will give you is something that doesn’t make sense.”

I’d almost lost the link to that very awesome poem~

there are nine reasons why a writer will never love you (back)

o.
there are nine reasons why a writer will never love you (back)

and this is one of them.

 

i.

we’ve never said exactly what we’ve meant -

and we know it is useless

to start now.

instead we scatter g a_p…s in our

tongues, like punctuation

we expect you to read between the thoughts

you’re not good enough if you can’t

hear our meants

ii.

we will always love a strand of music

a quote, or a word

more than we love you; Ludricrous, 

Pachyderm, Visceral, Didactic, Aphonia

so when push comes to shove

we will gladly break our hearts.

so we can write about you,

instead of the alternatives
 

iii.

we know ourselves very well

and you do not

you are a lengthly investment and 

probably, 

aren’t worth the effort

(we have imagined this before)

(we have worded it before)

we know better

(now.)

iv.

when we say we love you

we will mean something

very different,

to you

the difference could kill us daily

so we won’t even try to say it - 

(this is not mutual)

v.

we are brats, and selfish and

being artistic is leave to

claw out of our lives.

would you trust us with your life?

what about the lives of your friends and family?

what if we throw a bottle of our latest addiction

e.g alcohol, emotional abuse, depression,

pain, hate, wrath

at our children. there’s a reason 

we are a hypothetical…

vi.

you will never make us feel less

(impending)a(crushing)l(burning)o(draining)n(hurting)e(inevitable)

but we will make you feel exactly

precisely, 

like us.

worthless.

vii.

we are animal people

flashes of the wild, and feral; elusive

attractive

and you are drawn to this,

like a pair of grabby hands to a zoo

to petting a declawed tiger

exotic. we don’t live long in cages.

viii.

we will never tell you

we won’t love you

and you will try to ignore it

but we want you to love us

and we want to love you

(we know better, which

makes this all the better a crime)

ix.

you might be able to give us love, but 

all we will give you is something that doesn’t make sense

oldprickbitches:

Omfg I was sitting in a room with a bunch of my aunts, uncles and cousins and my grandma had this weird smile on her face so I asked her what was up and she just looked at me and said “everyone in this house is alive thanks to my vagina”

(via cartowheel)

I would like to follow people who write, and therians, and feminists, and all sorts of people.

Please reblog if you are a person who does interesting things with words, and has opinions, basically.

But seriously, please reblog so I can follow people.

if you date a man who writes

idntrlyknw:

tooflytorecognize:

If you date a man who writes, be prepared.

Prepare for the days and nights he’ll ignore your text messages because he’s right on the brink of the right word. You’ll find him bent over in his chair and his face in his hands. You’ll get the first word out before he shushes you. “I’m SO close!” he’ll plead. Then you’ll notice the phone-shaped dent in the wall. The back will have popped off and the batteries will have popped out of his ancient Nokia.

Prepare for him to lose track of his facial hair.

You’ll probably walk in on him with shaving cream still on his face because he got an idea mid-shave.

Be prepared for the long nights filled with clacking and the electronic glare on your eyelids keeping you awake. Until you finally surrender, take a pillow, and crash on the couch.

Be prepared for the possibility that he won’t even notice you left.

There will be times - so many times - that he’ll slump into a deep depression. “I’m all washed up,” he’ll say. “There’s nothing new to write,” he’ll say. And you’ll cheer him up. And sometimes you’ll just try.

If you date a man who writes, also be prepared for the seemingly random moments when you think he’s forgotten you on the couch which you crashed that he comes out, and carries you back to bed, covers you up and kisses you. And when you wake up, he’s made you pancakes and waffles with that favorite fruit syrup you like or chocolate chips. 

Prepare for him to drop everything and take care of you when you’re sick. To the point of ridiculousness. “I don’t feel so bad, honey,” you’ll say.

“With a temperature of a hundred-and-one for five straight days, I highly doubt that. Get back in bed, missy.”

“Make me!” you’ll shoot back.

And then he will. 

But best of all, he’ll write about you and for you. Forever and ever. He’ll weave your hairs in words out of his unexpected introspection. He’ll paint your face and eyes and cheeks in different shades of black ink. Keep copies and scribbles that you’ll only get a glimpse of when he leaves the frantically scribbled sticky note on the fridge door. 

Something that doesn’t make any sense to you out of context, but rolls of the mind and tongue like a marble down a slide. 

And he’ll hiss, “No, it’s just not ready yet!” as he snatches it away. 

And be prepared for him to love you tenderly. Slowly and gently so he can absorb every inch and second of skin and senses. You’ll be short of breath and he’ll be trembling for you. 

And you’ll both ache in the morning. 

So be prepared for when you date a writer. Prepare yourself and weigh your options. Because it may just be atmosphere and romanticism of it all that kindled your desire, and if it’s not, he’ll make it so. 

If you date a girl who writes, be prepared.

Prepare for the days and nights that your messages go unread because the sentence was still incomplete. You’ll find her curled into the corner with her knees up to her chest. You’ll get the first word out before she shushes you. “Not now,” she’ll plead, “I’m thinking”. Then you’ll notice the scraps of paper. Two halves of a pencil will be lying by her ankle while she clutches her favourite pen in her hand.

Prepare for the messes in odd places.

You’ll probably find her notebook by the kitchen sink, because the sunlight through the tea steam was the fuel for her words.

Be prepared for nights without conversation. Waiting up with her on rainy nights, when the tapping of the keyboard is as frequent as the raindrops on the rooftop. Until you finally surrender, take a pillow, and crash on the couch.

Be prepared for the possibility that she won’t even notice you left.

There will be times – so many times – that she won’t leave the bed in the morning. “Just leave me here,” she’ll say. “Nothing is original,” she’ll say. And you’ll help her. And sometimes you’ll just try.

If you date a girl who writes, be prepared for when she leans against you after hours of sitting in silence. When you figured she was too distracted to notice you, but she was just using your touch as a reward for finishing the chapter. And when you move to leave, she’ll sit in silence a little bit longer.  

Prepare for her to drop everything and become a little too focused on her writing. Prepare for the signs that she’s slipping. Prepare for the nonsensical exclamations mid-sentence. “A writer writes, right?” she’ll sink.

“You need to taste a rest, sweetie. Take a break and go outside for a little while.” 

“Make me!” she’ll snap back.

And then you will. 

But worst of all, she’ll write about you. Forever and ever. She’ll write about the catches in your voice. She’ll list the colours in your eyes. She’ll smear your pain across her work. She will strip away what you meant to her and she will reassign her love to her characters.

Something that she wrote will finally sink in to your skull. You’ll ask her why her characters hate each other so deeply.

And she’ll snarl, “It was about us,” as her eyes flicker in rage

And be prepared for her to drive you mad. Slowly and gentle so she can absorb every inch and second of your skin and sanity. You’ll be short of breath and she’ll be trembling from the heat.

And you’ll both hate each other in the morning.

So be prepared for when you date a writer. Prepare yourself and weight your options. Because it may just be the romanticism of it all that kindled your desire; and if it’s not, she’ll make it so.

if you date a person who writes you will not date a person. not all the time. not every time anyway.
 so you should be prepared anyway.
first,

they will never be quite right, in that cock-eyed shave, notepad in the refrigerator type of eccentricity that comes spilling out of the television screen like static and flowers and a whole swarm of locusts. and you will pretend that it was charming and interesting and fascinating and inspiring (at least at first) but the truth was it never was charming and interesting and fascinating and inspiring ever. it was awkward, and uncomfortable, and it was like she-he didn’t have time to breathe let alone at you.

and the truth was he-she-they-them didn’t have time at all to breathe, except in cafés, stalking conversations from once over, and indulging voyeurism because to be real (for once, for once) requires a brand new perspective on human nature. requires staring at somebody for an hour as they pour they sorrow and joy out to someone who cares, requires staring at them like an alien half-interested, half-empathic, and mostly very very educational. the truth was they practice distance from humanity, and breathe for their endless research.

those endless google searches.
that bookmarked tab ‘baby names’ and if you ever wondered - my god do they want kids? do they want kids with me? with me? - then you were wrong.

as wrong as you were the first time you thought you were ever dating a person.
second,

they will be sudden, full of outrageous cliché that they dress up in a new outfit (some offensive, shocking pornographic video of normal interaction) and they’ll say oh this is how you are.
this is about you.

this line here, this stupid, unthinkable description is you.

and they’ll be wrong, but it wouldn’t matter if the ancient art of verisimilitude is worshipped on the hands and knees on the computer chair tapping away like the rattle of pills in a bottle. and because they’re wrong, they’ll carry on like nothing had happened whatsoever.
third,

you will know there is passion, and they will have it in their fingertips. hungry, their fingertips will slurp and suck and stretch the warmth from your skin, and the warm of your touch and then overfed, their fingertips will engorge and vomit and ejaculate everything you ever had to give onto a blank canvas. and they will be proud.

they will be so proud.
fourth,

and yes this is the third and second and first all over again, but unless you ever understand that when you date a writer you will never date a human being, you will continue to pretend that once their strange habits and obsessions and love of words excited you. you will continue to lie that you fell in love with someone so art-tis-dick, someone so cree-ay-tiff, someone so brill-ee-aren’t.

because this is a person who is strange with all that entails and it is not zooey deschanel, it is ugly, ugly dutch tilt strange and it will make you uncomfortable and unsure and you will lie because you expected it to be very different.

because this is a person who is not human in any shape or form, this is a monster, this is a monster who feeds on emotions like empathy, and uses people up, taps into their love and pain and grief and horror and love, love, love and drains them dry. sucks them out like a used egg.

because this monster will draw every ounce of passion from you, like they wring a wet rag. you will give, give, give them love and they will give you something back that doesn’t and couldn’t make sense. they will show you their work in progress novel and you will find parts of your own body, and the flow of your own blood, and your wet eyes staring back at you between the lines and they will be so proud of themselves for dissecting the love you gave them and creating a monster out of it, a frankenfreak of affection.

because if you date a writer they may wake you up with pancakes, and they may fuck you like you are everything that exists in this and every universe and they may listen intently to the way you breathe and the way you shrug and the way you smile, but they will always, always, always strip it apart and turn it into something that feeds their ego.

if you date a writer, you will be dating a monster, so you must be prepared:

- a stake
- a gun
- a silver bullet

and hope that your violence will bring them silence, hope that the raucous lycanthrope you make love to late at night forgets to bite out your throat with sharp, beautiful words, hope beyond anything you will
leave sooner rather than later and

have a curious story to tell about this person you used to date.

Day 1: Current Identity

My name is Moaku Khaelryah Nat Abaya, I’m human enough.

Most people I know call me Mask, which I suppose is a decent translation.

I identify as a Xenotherian, and I suppose for all extents and purposes, plurality/multiple/I am unsure of the difference.

Nobody from the system is much interested in committing to this blog and I shall not force them to.

Locust is entirely too talkative though so I imagine he’ll put his $0.02 in now and then.