Tag Archives: On Comments

Yawn

I’m supposed to be asleep by now. But no, my mind refuses to cooperate, thus this entry. It helps sometimes. I usually write late in the night when I can’t sleep. I’m running out of sleeping pills again, but I don’t want to take one now. Too late. I have to be up by 8 anyway. So that means by the time I’m finished with this entry and by the time I wake up, I’d have had 5 hours of sleep. Great. Sucks to be me.

Aaanyway.

Today was pretty mundane, if not boring save for one thing. You see, I’ve been in that “Me and You and Everyone We Know” kind of loop for a while. It’s getting pretty old, to be quite honest. I forgot how fun it is to talk to a random stranger. Interesting, even. Yes, I’m talking about you, Siomai.

I didn’t realize that some people, readers, voyeurs, minions, some of you are scared shit to talk to me. 

Why is that, I asked. I’m nice. I don’t bite. 

Ah, yes. The whole “mystery/dominatrix/Cleopatra/alpha-female” thing.

You’ve put me in a box, you fuckers.

Will you love me just the same if you found out that I’m just an act? Or if I’ve changed? Speaking of which, I remember somebody commented that I’ve changed. Don’t we all? Would you adore me less if I have? 

I’m a Leo. I bask in adulation. So yeah, give it to me. Now.

Kthxnyt.

 

Expectations

You know you are not yourself when you end up doing things that are unexpected of you, and having people calling your attention because of it. Case in point: this blog and my latest entries. Some SMSed and called me even, to ask why I’ve been writing, or in this case, haven’t been writing. I’ve been questioned about the authenticity of my entries as well. Oh please. I even credit the pictures I post here! Come now, I’m not that stupid. Anyway, my readers need to learn a thing or two, and this is my space, I can write my entries as lengthy as I want them to be. You can’t tell me what to write, or long I should write it. If you’ve got ADD, then it’s not my fucking problem. Go, leave, and stop coming back.

I’ve also got a serial comment-er/or (whatever) hounding almost each and every entry there is and left me some terribly, terribly bitter comments. Thing is, these comments, while derogatory and I’m sure were intended to piss me off, did not bother me at all. Surely by now I’m used to these things. I only got miffed when he corrected me on “light black”. I agree with you, it is definitely NOT a color, nor there are such words used in a string, so why the hell would I even use that? What’s worse, it’s not even written or used in that particular entry. Are you blind, bitter man? Surely you were referring to another blog?

Anyway, I thought of putting up a static disclaimer in consideration of those who come stumbling here, hoping to read some smut. I am, “The Bitch Goddess” after all, and its expected that I should be writing about really racy, exciting sexual accounts. So you’re disappointed I’m not Abby Lee. Does it mean because I don’t write about my encounters I’m a “half-baked” bitch? It’s not always about having sex beyond the borders of what is normal, usual, ordinary, you know. In my case, it is my state of mind, an attitude. In-your-face. Paris’ studded tank top illustrates it better.

parishiltonsucks004.jpg

To those who have been following me faithfully, by now you’ve noticed that I’ve never written anything close to erotica (‘cept one lousy poem in the past) and should have figured that I never will. And especially about my sexual encounters. Why is this? Well, as much as possible, I want to keep this blog as literary as I can while maintaining to leave out accounts of my sexual encounters, which is, surprising as it may sound to you, quite personal to me, no matter how random. I’m almost stripped bare here, with my soul out in the open, available for hounds to feed on me, so please, stop expecting. There’s an abundance of trash out there for you to feast on, go ahead and indulge yourself.

My patience and understanding is running thin, so don’t mess with me. Unfortunately, I’m not hard core right now. The reason why my entries are such lately is because I don’t want to write about what’s going on with me. In fact, I’ve driven away each and everyone who seemed to care for me. Somehow, them being around just wont do anymore. They can’t give me anything I need. And this fragile vulnerability is fucking me up. So, really, I don’t need your crap right now.

Truth is…

I apologize for neglecting this blog; even in my frenzied state, there were moments when I could have written, but I kept putting it off. Now that one account is finished, I found myself to be idle. And in that idleness, I panicked. I’ve been so used to burying myself in work, obvious to others that this is my way of moving on, that I don’t know how it is to be idle. I was suddenly not doing anything. There was a moment of silence…and then the demons in my head started to talk.

I’m fine, really. I just hate being idle. I want to work. Before doing so, I need to address something.

One reader comments:

You wanna know the reason why you always end up with the wrong men and you seem to always land on those shittiest guys girl?

It’s because you’re spoiled, you have too much air in yourself, and you overvalue your own worth.

To you you may think that you’re beautiful, seductive, witty, and all those things, but to the normal guy who has simple dreams of family and children, you are a disease to be ignored and if need be avoided.

To most loser-males’ eyes, you are nothing but a sex object. You have portrayed yourself as such and such will you be taken. A mere sex object, a toy, to be discarded once the initial thrill has passed.

You think you are mature, but to be honest with you, you have the mind of a 14 year old brat who seems to be just coming of age. If you truly had any semblance of maturity, then you will try to patch the pieces of your life and take a detour to what’s right and just.

You want to be respected and loved. Treat yourself as such. You want a man with honor and decency, who will uphold your dignity as a woman, wife and mother. Then start with yourself by removing those bitch lifestyle that you have. You want children who will cherish you and grandchildren who will cuddle next to you and lovingly call you Lola. Then start by doing what is good and just.

I do hope in your heart you still have the wisdom to see what is right.

Normally, I ignore comments on this blog. I get flak all the fuckin time, I’m so used to it. I would like to believe that the one who wrote this is bitter, terribly bitter. For some reason, his writing style is so familiar and similar to the emails I received in my inbox from this guy I turned down for being so, erm, “assuming” and “feeling close”. I could be wrong. It doesn’t matter.

Now, you bitter man, actually caught my attention. Woohoo. However, I cringe at the word “disease”. Surely, I can’t be THAT bad? I’m quite positive that there are a few who agree with this guy and I don’t mind, really. If there’s one flaw I have, it’s being too understanding and accepting. Okay, so that’s two. Seriously, because I understand where this guy is coming from, I won’t give him crap for it. But I need to say something in my own defense, and perhaps of other women as well who copiously enjoy this lifestyle.

The truth, bitter man, is that I dream of children and of a quiet life in the hills of Tuscany, where I can grow my own to-mah-toes and basil. I dream of a quiet wedding by the prairie, and no matter how hippie it can get, I want to be barefoot in my own wedding. Truth is, I dream of being a soccer mom, of shuffling my kids from school to ballet class, music class, soccer, whatever. I dream of being a good wife, greeting my husband with a blowjob as soon as he arrives home.

BUT, I have long accepted that I cannot conceive, that marriage is not for me as men are dogs and they will need variety at certain points in their lives. I am meant to be alone. I will, however, have lovers. I need love to live, no matter how make-believe it is. I will never belong to anyone.

I am an old soul, I belong to the old world. You’d be actually surprised if you talk to me. Most who found themselves talking to me could attest to this. I am actually nice. I am not an immature 14-year-old sex object as you think I am, in fact, you would actually wish YOU were single and YOU don’t have a 14-year-old daughter. There’s something about this blog that projects me as how you would like to perceive me. I won’t even bother to correct that perception. That’s the fun part, proving you guys wrong.

So, bitter man, what does it mean to do what is “good and just”? Does it mean chasing after my dreams? But after the premises I gave you, it is quite obvious that it is simply impossible. Then this blog will have to close, and when that happens, that only means one thing: I AM indeed living my dream.

Surely you don’t want that to happen? You, bitter man, who find yourself reading this? But I am your only guilty pleasure. I won’t take that away from you. I told you, I’m nice.