sex-obsessed

i am fucking sex-obsessed. i think about sex all the time. i talk about it. i dream about it. i fantasize about it. it makes my face hot. it makes my eyes burn. when i'm having sex, i don't want to stop. when the neighbors are having sex, it pisses me off that i'm not having sex. if someone else is having more sex than me, it pisses me off that i'm not having more sex than them. if i can't have sex with the person i want it with, i'll settle for someone else for the time being. i waste a lot of time having sex. time i could be working, looking for a new job, saving the world. instead, there i am on my hands and knees, begging for more, and i don't feel guilty about it. i revel in it.

i've been told that i'm sex-obsessed. i've been told i'm an excellent submissive. i've been told i am insatiable, liberating, a slut. i've been told that my eyes glaze over during sex, that i become distant, unreachable. i love listening to the people i fuck talk about sex; it lulls me into a sort of sexual coma. it makes my eyes burn to hear it. it makes my eyes burn just to think it. in particular, i imagine getting fucked. the utter violation of it. the violence of it.

i wonder when this obsession will result in my own sexual death, when will i have enough, when will it cause me to do something that forces me to end it all. people love to tell me i just haven't found the right person. apparently, this is the cure to a promiscuous obsession, not a $300 dildo, not masturbating 10 times a day. until i fuck this obsession out of my system...

plastinate me

i somehow manage to get by on very little sleep sometimes. it's just too easy these days to look up something on wikipedia, which will lead you to something else on wikipedia, which will lead you to look up something on dictionary.com, and next thing you know, you're googling "penis captivus." last night i stayed up till 4 am reading about falun gong, trying, feebly, to form an educated opinion on it. i didn't.

after my boss scoffed at a comment yesterday made by her husband that i was a "fashionista," and i wasn't sure whether to be flattered or insulted, i had to learn the etymology and exact definition of the word in question. it didn't matter anyway, because at least one of them was insulting me, albeit unintentionally, and by then i just didn't give a shit anymore.

then i tried to find out more about the proper pronunciation of elizabethan english, since my friend TA had been insisting all evening that, in shakespeare, "love" should be pronounced in such a way that rhymes with "prove." a great many shakespearean sonnets suggest that this is true, but i'll probably have to venture to barnes & noble to get more info on this. thanks for nothing, google.

and finally, i spent way too much time on the body worlds website, gawking at flayed, plastinated human bodies holding their own skin, posed as if they were throwing javelins or cradling skulls where only veins and arteries remained. last weekend, i went to the bodies exhibit (not to be confused with the body worlds exhibit, as they clarify on their website, their brochure, at the exhibit, and everywhere else you look) here in nyc. i was glad i went. i thought it was interesting, and yes, educational. but if you download the "donation brochure" from the body worlds website, which i suggest you do, you will see that body worlds and bodies are two extremely different things. i thought it was strange that at the very adult dinner party i attended last night, the host and hostess, who are vegetarians, had a framed postcard from the body worlds exhibit they saw in chicago - a photograph of probably its most well-known specimen: a man, his skeletal structures seated behind his muscular structures with brain and eyeballs suspended between (as far as i could tell), mounted on a rearing horse which had a look of sheer terror on its face, created courtesy of a pair of fake eyeballs and the art of plastination. anyway, i wanted to know more about this plastination. i wanted to know more about what would happen to my body if i donated it to some sick perversion of art. i mean, science.

so i looked at the images in that brochure over and over. i scrolled up, i scrolled down. i scrolled up again, i scrolled down again. i read it thoroughly. i have nothing against plastination, but i think gunther von hagens is a sick, sick man. yes, i understand he is pissed that people are ripping off his idea of exploiting the plastinated dead for one's own financial means, but still, i think the key words here are "respectfully displayed." i'd donate my body to science. what the fuck do i need it for after i'm dead anyway? but i won't donate my body to a sick perversion of art. von hagens does make it very clear what happens after you've signed yourself over to the institute for plastination though, so i can't be morally offended, i shan't protest, and i can't say i won't ever go to a body worlds exhibit.

this is the type of shit that keeps me up till 4 am, and still i only ever dream about sex.