My skin is weird. Like me. I have pretty resilient skin – I don’t often break out in rashes, my skin tone seems to be mostly even, I don’t have problematic conditions, I am also somewhat thick skinned but without the callouses. It’s pretty funny, J used to like to try to give me hickeys and they… I dunno… wouldn’t stick around without causing me a ton of hurt rather than fun.
If we’re going to talk about kink then… I don’t know if it’s my colouring but I don’t seem to go red easily. I could get a spanking and it fucking hurts but my skin seems to SAY OTHERWISE. I don’t scratch nor bruise easily. I just have to go outside to hang laundry on the washing line and I tan a nice brown (well, not that nice to me. I wanted to be white like everyone else around me. I hated standing out and apart all the damned time).
But god no, I don’t have perfect skin at all. The thing is that I’m pretty resilient but if I do manage to break the surface layer at all? Whether damaged by a slash, pierce or gouge… maybe burns or blood or bites or binds… I do not heal easily. If this were an RPG and I was part of a party in real life? It’s hilarious to think that I’d be a tank. I don’t so much as inflict DPS rather I absorb it. I’m pretty sure I have a magic card for this! Give me a few minutes.
Ok. I’m back now. And I don’t remember whom I said I am black and blue to… It might have been the wolf-man Orion or the Mayonnaise.
One of my favourite horror movies is called the Skin I Live In. I love it because it truly messes with the mind by being utterly terrifying with not a smidgen of gore. Hostel and Saw freak me out, I don’t want to see anybody’s tendons and cut where they cannot run not fight they just… fall… pathetically… and gross… and… *shudder* icky.
J says I’m fucked up. How can I stand psychological horror?! Well… maybe because it doesn’t look bad. It’s so intriguing that someone or something can be so innocuous and beguiling only to draw the voyeur in close enough… long enough… and then it’s too late for anything. Being on the sidelines of life? Yeah bitch, I love watching people get taken down. It’s why there are stadiums of just… people watching other people run with, kick or throw a stupid ball. From one side to another. yay?
I know that I have a pretty trash memory. But I do remember writing this somewhere. To someone. I wrote something and I hope I’ve directed you to the correct link… But it was about hating my face. Not that it looks terrible or anything. It looks okay. But my face, my outsides BETRAY ME. They tell people I am super sweet and young and cute and that… somehow, some reason, with me they’ll be safe. Or legitimate. Or whatever. Something.
I started writing this blog post maybe 8 hours ago and I don’t remember why I was writing this. But hey. I’m not going to “hold on for editing”. I’m a person who is moved by her heart and her passions. I do everything I do because of my emotions. And there is something that is like “K, you’re not done. Keep the fuck on with it.” Which kind of pisses me off because I am soooo notorious for never letting go. I am too extreme. Like the Juggernaut, nothing can start nor stop me, except for me.
Ok. Circle time. Come on in, close in around me. We’re going to ker-plunk our butts here on the floor and just sit and chat. I like doing this at school. Not necessarily on the floor, but just around one bench or whatever. The closeness breeds intimacy, like we all have to be quiet for a few minutes for me to just say the stuff. NOT PRIMARY SCHOOL, little kids are just.. annoying. Teenagers are less annoying, they’re just a bunch of dick and vag jokes. I know how to take a joke, and I’m pretty renowned for slaying a few whenever I just have to stand somewhere in line.
Okay, we’re all here? Sitting down? Good. I’m going to close my eyes, breathe in, hold it or a sec, wriggle my fingers clenching and unclenching into fists and then release the air. Let me gather myself. I rub my fingers with my palms, stretching my fingers, warming them up and down against each other as they practice their finger tip tap dancing footwork, pad-work, along the rhythm of these keys.
I must remind myself of what I was trying to express with every single little “visual representative choice.” It may look like I am grasping at straws at this moment, mostly because I know my process, I know myself, and these are all the clues I leave for myself to help me find my way back….
- The Skin I Live In – subtitled horror film. Incredibly powerful film I love. About a plastic surgeon developing skin that is impervious to fire.
- Tanned, or “yellow-brown” skin colour – resistant to markings… maybe all the “yellow” just cancels out the ability to see “pink or red” from scratches, smacks or burns.
- Black and blue magic cards – like bruises. They’re the necromantic and trickery cards.
- Strawberry Gashes – A song by the phenomenal band Jack off Jill, but the video clip attributes “Jeff the Killer”, the creepypasta.
- A photo of myself and the bassist from Zeitgeist back in 2005 – yeah he was super hot. I loved to mess with him up on stage by going all les with Sara in the audience.
let me be frank with you
I started writing this post yesterday morning (26 November 2018). I didn’t finish it because there were other things that required my attention so I held off till the afternoon but then my laptop (which is really a work laptop, given to me by work! it isn’t my personal, private property) was being super glitchy and couldn’t edit this blog post without the laptop freezing up and wordpress experiencing problems. FUCKING ANNOYING.
So instead I posted a poem I wrote – BECAUSE I STICK BY MY WORD. I said I would write a single blog post a day. And … I dunno. I know no one expects anything from me except what I tell them to expect. And I didn’t want to let myself down AGAIN by… failing to fulfil yet another thing I said I would do.
I don’t remember where I was originally going, but we’ve reached the end
I don’t know to whom I am speaking in my audience, you are a but a blank nameless & faceless being in my dark ocean sea of seats. Up on stage with the lights directed my way, I don’t remember a shit ton of stuff because I forget myself in my head. I can be anyone that you want me to be, a punching bag, a piece of string that reminds you of some thing. Our Lady Peace spoke to me to remind me that I’m not made of steel.
This is my skin, and I am forced to wear it. I can not shed it like a reptile, nor do I wish to be peeled then tanned. I am organic and real and fleshy and wobbly. I am not perfect, for I am covered in scars. You could literally take a pen and trace my life story over the markings of my skin. You could figuratively use your fingers instead. Shit, if you were really lucky I’d let you use your eyes too.
I mean, I have shown you my face. You have permission to use your imagination and do what you will. Hahaha. I’m not god, I don’t have any interest in controlling people.
I am a goddess though. I’m real, I’m alive, I am life. I am not death, but I am death’s lover. We like to give each other stuff, presents and little notes and tokens of whatever.
I am Mother Courage and I love my children. I will not allow for history to repeat itself so no more C’s from me. This lifetime (fuck you God, striking my memory and me from the annals of history) I sign all my shit with a K.
You know my name, you know my face, you know my pseudonym, you know how to find me. Bring it. bitch. Come at be, bro.
See? God doesn’t do shit, he is impotent. He couldn’t fuck me even if he wanted to. Because there is no life coursing through his veins, because he is dead. I’m not dead. I’m alive. I exist.