Too long, I think, since I've written. But right now, blood surging in my veins, my skin slippery and hot from racing through the streets of Eugene-right now seems oddly appropriate.
Rough day, fierce day. Striding purposefully and dire through the corridors of my place of employment, wrangling people and produce alike. I think my yen is making me bleed, but it's hard to tell with all the other blood on the walls. One way or another, I left today wanting to either kill something or fuck something. Neither of those options presenting itself, my lusts remain unsatisfied, but for the brief release of my ride.
Maybe I just have low blood sugar.
This was supposed to be a post about my name, artifact and artifice that it is. But my identity and the labels that are to it attached don't seem as relevant as they did last night, when I hatched this plan. So I'll tell you about my day, ramble on like I do. And then, once my blood's cooled and I've put some Nixon shoemaker down my piehole. Then, I'll help a boy make a woman who's an owl with silver tattoos.
Fuck, I'm tired and stressed and lonely and angry and fierce. My right eyelid's been fluttering all day. I think it's trying to escape.
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