WickedThought

It was last week.

I was living in the Santa Monica apartment with her. We were talking. She was in the shower and I was on the couch. I was waiting for her to get ready for dinner. She said something I couldn’t hear. I got up, walked into the bathroom, and saw that the shower was only a naked waterhead spraying down dirty water. She was standing on an old mattress I saw off 3rd Street that was being used by a homeless person. As she stood on it, as the water fell, dirty water oozed out of the mattress.

I woke with the feeling of disgust in my mind. Just thinking about her made me feel… dirty.

___

Last night, I had a dream about you.

It was many years ago, the you and I from then.

Almost the entire dream took place in a parking structure. We had just gotten back from a movie or dinner or something, and were talking. The talk was getting close to something. You and I had always been friends, and there was this silent thing between us that we never talk about, but I was tired of it being quiet. I was about to mention it, and suddenly, Tom Waits was there. I stopped to say hello, and when I turned around, you were gone.

I went through the parking structure looking for you, calling out your name, but you wouldn’t answer. You had done this before. Disappeared with no warning. This always happens. Whenever we get close, you disappear.

But I find you, and you have that look on your face, that ashamed look of apology. We go upstairs to your place and lay down together to watch television. This is the best time. The time when we are close and quiet. You hold my hand and rest your head on my shoulder. Our bodies are close and we can feel the warmth from the other.

I fall asleep there, happy with what we have, content not to ask for anything more, because I know if I do, I’ll lose this. And this is what’s important.

I wake up. The dream is over. I haven’t had a dream about us like that in a long time and I wonder where it came from.

And then I remember: it’s because I’ll be seeing you again soon.

___

This is the second revelatory dream I’ve had this week. The first was about someone else. This one was about you. But the result was the same.

I’m not in love with either of you anymore.

(stolen from )

LiveJournal Haiku!
Your name:	wickedthought
Your haiku:	i dare to love omg omg memento_mori needs to see this.strongbad
Username:
Created by Grahame

(stolen from the lovely and talented xianvox)

The guy who ran/runs the Toku Fan Club went berserk when this song came on at the Safehouse.
I’ll never forget it.

And as disturbing as this video is, this song will always and forever belong to Toku.

… about the victimless crime.

It’s always nice when people say nice things about me. 😀

“John Wick’s Discordia… is agonizingly close to being the best game he’s ever done, and closer yet to being the best funny conspiracy game anyone has ever done.”

Thanks, Ken.

Your Eyes Only

(yanked from )

My writing shrine promotes:
Relentless abandon and complete surrender to inhibition.

My writing shrine guards against:
The Demon named “Distraction,” and I have named his avatar “X-Box.”

My writing shrine’s paternal saint is:
I have three: the holy trinity.

The first is Hunter Thompson, the Patron Saint of Fearlessness, who taught me the purity of self-indulgence.
The second is the Gray Crane, Greg Stafford, who taught me how to see the worlds spinning in my mind.
The third is Harlan Ellison, the Avatar of Righteous Anger, who taught me a writer must defend himself against all dangers, even the ones he creates for himself.

I have a whole pantheon of others, but these will do for now.

My writing shrine’s maternal saint is:
The three-faced Goddess.

Tanith Lee, who taught me how to lure demons and tame them with fingers and tongues.
Dorothy Parker, who gave me wit with her barbed kisses.
There is another I cannot name–I dare not name–so great is her wrath.

My writing shrine’s three relics are:
SenZar. It reminds me I am not the hack I imagine myself to be.
A medallion given to me by The Great and Mighty Stafford.
The promise of a kiss from She Who Shall Not Be Named, when I write for her the words that will win her heart.

My writing shrine demands a daily sacrifice of:
Five thousand words, a six-pack of Coke, and any woman whom I dare to love.

needs to see this.

Strongbad Does Death Metal.

I haven’t updated in a very long while because I’ve been quite busy moving my life from San Diego to Santa Monica.

San Diego was originally called “San Miguel,” named after the angel Michael. You know, the one with the flaming sword. “Saint Diego” is actually “Saint Didacus,” a Catholic monk of the Franciscan order. He was a healer and noted for many miraculous cures. He is one of the many saints you pray to for magical–I mean “miraculous” healing.

Meanwhile, Saint Monica was a young martyr who was married to a pagan king. It is said she literally wrestled God for the soul of her son. She is the patron saint of sons and husbands who “go astray.” The Patron Saint of Prodigal Sons.

While in San Diego last weekend, I did get some magical healing, but it had nothing to do with a Franciscan monk. Damn magical.

It’s good to be back in the City of Prodigal Sons.

_____

PS: And, there’s this…

Fuck Yeah.

I went with to a camp site to scout out a new place for his amazing Dying Kingdoms game. On the way, we came up with the game system for Houses of the Blooded. It rocks. I’ll talk more about it later.

Once there, we talked with the ranger and looked at the site. That’s when I got another idea. A crazy idea. An idea so mad, it just might work. I can’t tell you now, but soon. Very, very soon.

___

Meanwhile, check this out:

“Annoying someone via the Internet is now a federal crime.

“It’s no joke. Last Thursday, President Bush signed into law a prohibition on posting annoying Web messages or sending annoying e-mail messages without disclosing your true identity.”

Can you be more stupid, fuckhead? No, I don’t think you can.