I seriously don’t know what India Broadband is to be truthful. But here I am, writing a blog about it. Long time no see, fellow readers. Thought I was dead, didn’t you? Well, don’t worry, for a moment there, I was. So why India Broadband? My questions is, why not? The forum’s great.
It has slightly interesting things like a Bollywood topic, an automobile topic and a buy, sell or trade forum. Just explore the forum and find something that suits you.
If you’re looking for the normal Sexually based posts, but can’t find them? Then head over to SEX WEDNESDAYS!
WordPress was being a little bitch with me because of the sexual nature, but censored photos, of my blogs that they decided to close me off from the public eye.
Ennui Prayer readers, add this to your RSS
Ennui Review readers, add this to your RSS
Sex Wednesday readers, add this to your RSS
I’m returning back to Blogger and creating a separate site for Sex Wednesdays. I’m not sure what that’ll be, but I’ll be sure to post it up when the time comes. In the meantime, visit me at http://www.ennuiprayer.blogspot.com
PINCHE MARICON FLAMIN’ ASSHOLES!
FUCK YOU AND YOUR NEW DESIGN.
FUCK YOU AND YOUR STUPID EDITOR!
FUCK YOUR MAMA!
FUCK YOUR DADDY!
FUCK YOUR SISTERS AND YOUR BROTHERS!
BUT MOST OF ALL, FUCK YOU!
For those of you who aren’t in the know, WordPress has removed me from their public listings. Some fucking prude Christian anal whore moron (who probably masturbates to the shit I post up here) probably reported me mature, and WordPress, being the God cocksuckers’ cocksucker, decided on listing me as a null and void blog. Well fuck you!
I can hear the silence buzzing in my ears. It’s a horrible sound. The last words I told her still echo in my head and I slowly feel stupid after I say them. We’re I’m in habit of telling her certain things, sweet things, I suppose, but it all depends on taste. I told her Sweet dreams as we were hanging up. She replied in the same manner.
“Always and only of…” and I held that upward inflection. What was she supposed to say? What was I supposed to say? In the past it would be followed by a you, but now what? Always and only of what we had before all this mess came into our lives? Before the urge to live a new life, a single life? There wasn’t anything I wanted to hear at that moment but I was longing for the you – the me. She always had dreams of me, didn’t she? At least the sweetest ones were of me, right? They were always of her, mostly, usually.
She just said goodnight again. I accepted it because I had done something that I didn’t want to do. This, what we have now, is all that I can expect. I shouldn’t expect more. I wish I could.
Philosopher and I were at Hastings on Friday and I saw this book. Religion has very rarely been a method for me to heal – it hasn’t been one since I was a kid and naive enough to believe that the world was created in only seven days in only a thousand handful of years ago. But Buddhism seems to come more natural to me than any other. I always said if I would allow myself to be naive and believe in something, Buddhism would be my religion.
I should’ve bought it, but I didn’t. Instead I opted for something else – a Soduku book that Jyg and I could share. Something we could do together and prove that two people can be friends despite the break up.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. That last time I told her that we were still together and things were going well – well enough to stick it through. And the urge for affection is greatly needed. I’m sick and tired of being the bum friend, the writer with a dream. The person who doesn’t drive because of some inane fears. All these things were fine and perfect when I was a kid, but I’m in the real world now, aren’t I? And the more I start to self-analyze myself, the more I’m convinced that nothing short of an asylum is for me. Somewhere I can be locked up and forgotten.
Or perhaps, I’m just reading into all the shitty thoughts I’ve been having.
The weather has been crappy these last few days. My nostrils are drying than an old woman’s cunt (I’ve always wanted to say that, by the way). This leaves me in constant fear every time my nose begins to drip. I quickly hold my hand over it, and then check if the fluid’s clear of it’s red.
Just a moment ago, something fell out of my nose. Gross, I know, but it wasn’t liquid. I grabbed a tissue and swiped it up from the floor and notice it was both green (gross, I know) and red. Fuck, early signs. Other early signs? About two or so weeks ago, Philosopher and I were at Barnes and I suddenly got a whiff of blood – the iron scent that chills my spine.
Most people get nose bleeds every so often, or whenever they can’t avoid shoving a finger or three up their nostrils. Mine, however, are caused with humidity rises or the air becomes awfully dry – thank goodness I live in the butt fuck of South Texas, right? And not to mention around Spring/Summer time when my allergies are at their worse. So I bleed, but because I’m blessed with such thin blood and a weak body that doesn’t heal so quickly, I really just gush out blood. Stream actually, like those lawn ornaments that piss water from their peckers, only my hose is shoved up my nose (thank you John Travolta!).
I had my last nose bleed about a year ago. The fucker gushed like you wouldn’t believed and I was in class when it happened. The weather was cooler – I know because I was wearing a jacket and the sleeve was soaked in blood by the time I got into the stall. I whirled the toilet paper and grabbed me a gob of it. I let it bleed in there for a while and sat still on the seat – yes, I checked if there was piss first. After a while I decided that the bleeding had stopped so I grabbed more toilet paper and blew my nose. This time, a gob of red goo had flung out of my nose and into the red stained paper. It was gross and it started more bleeding. I let it flow into the paper again and then blew my nose, this time being careful not to allow more gobs of goo out.
Later that week, my nose started bleeding again – nothing out of the ordinary because I’ve been bleeding like this since I was a kid. This time, I became weak because there just was so much blood coming out of my nose that it made me dizzy – Note: I wasn’t dizzy because I lost pints of blood (it was probably a cup or so) but because it seemed I would never stop bleeding. I wiped my nose, felt that I still had more blood to lose and placed a tissue into my nostril. When I felt it stop, I pulled the tissue out slowly, and lo and behold, another gob of goo, this time, still connected to me. As I pulled out the clot – I’m not sure what to call it – I felt it coming from deep up my nose. Oh great, that’s all I needed to know, my brain was really trying to escape.*
I bleed some more and then it stopped. I began to fear that the nose bleeds had finally taken on another level and were now trying to end me. My father suffered from nose bleeds like I did and the only way to correct it was through surgery. I’m afraid my pour nose will have to endure that.
*This refers to a short story (Bizarro) about my brain escaping. If you’re good, I’ll post it up, or at least a video of me reading it.
El Senor made his way back to the Valley and we hung out today. He drank a coffee and I took a Hot Chocolate – he’s been gone for over a month now, locked up for 30 days for driving while under the influence of acid. He, unlike many men who do crimes and vanished before serving their time, had a Socrates moment and decided to turn himself in and serve so he can clear up all his errors. He couldn’t in the past because he was on probation in Texas, but that ended last year. This trip was planned since.
So we sat there in Coffee Zone, drinking and eating two cookies each, when he asks how my job hunting was going. Badly, I responded and told him about an ad in the Edinburg Review about a part time typist. He nodded and just said it – “You know the problem with us? We weren’t made to work for anyone.”
I’ve often felt like this. I wasn’t made to work for someone else, from the ground up. I always thought of myself as the take charge sort of person. After all, wasn’t that why I decided to run for president of Sigma Tau Delta in 2006?
“Yeah,” I replied.
Before he left, I talked about starting our own editing business, nothing fancy and only for side cash every once in a while because we were going to be facing a lot of challenges in the writing world as the small guys. He said he’d look into it, as well as reopening the Nueva Onda, but only in another location and only if Amado’s willing to go through it again. This time, however, we’d make within the city limits and possibly have a better plan that won’t leave us bleeding money.
Upon his arrival, he was rethinking the business idea. What sells in this country more than anything, despite the economy?
And not just adult movies, but pipes as well. He asked me to join him in this business and – well, fuck, I’m a writer, how can this not be good? – I accepted. I’ll keep you all updated on what happens. Trust me.
When my Abuelo Corona died in the sixth grade, it was cold. His Rosary was set for Super Bowl Sunday, which in those days used to be in January. I remember hearing the news from my grandmother on my mother’s side. My grandfather, the last one I had – because, really, we only get two – was now meeting the other one in Heaven. I sat in bed for a little while to digest the news. It was strange, really. Only three grades ago I was at my grandfather’s (Mom’s dad) funeral. Now was the time to bury my father’s father.
I put on my scuffed shoes and went outside into the back yard, which is much different now. Up against a fence, rusted over, was a cactus patch. The thorns struck out like quills. With pluckers, I took a few out and stuffed in them in my shirt pocket. I brushed the cold soft earth from my knees and stared at the patch. They towered above me, the cacti. And they been allowed to live, they probably would have surpassed me in height forever. I pulled a thorn out and smelled it, making sure not to let the sharp part prick me any. After my brief inspection, I stuck it in my mouth and let it dangle there. It made me feel strong – why? I don’t know.
“Mijo,” his voice sounded familiar. He’d call me that all his life and would continue it to this very day. “Mijo.”
Most sons would rejoice over this. I didn’t. It felt strange and fake. I wasn’t his son more than I was anyone’s son other than my mother’s. She had been the one who raised me. Who taught me wrong from right. Who said men never run away. And yet, he did.
I turned on a heel and looked at him. My face had been puffy from crying earlier. My eyes reddened. I wasn’t his son and he wasn’t my father, ‘apa, or whatever you want to call him. He was just the man who decided only to pop into my life whenever it convenience him. I spat the thorn from my mouth and allowed him to hug me. His clothing smelt of cigarettes and alcohol, father’s cologne. His hugs were awkward. There was hardly any emotion in them. His hands, used to sooth me by disheveling my hair, were rough and dry. Oil stained with crud in the finger tips. This, I believe, is why I don’t hug. The emotion’s hardly there.
He asked if I was doing fine. He asked if I was doing well. I answered. Lied. I didn’t want him to know that I had been born broken. That there were thoughts up in my head that weren’t supposed to be there. That I only did the things I did – the reason I read and wrote so much was to escape the world I was never meant for. Instead, I muttered a fine and explained my reason for being outside. The thorns, you see, brought comfort later on when I was alone and two or three were sticking into my flesh. The rush of ecstasy that flowed through me was almost orgasmic. I longed for it. It was my embittered medicine.
Three years later, my grandmother (Mom’s mom) died. I stood outside, again in the cold, at looked at the cactus patch. The thorns seemed smaller than I remembered, but I went to work anyway, plucking out only a few. The pain didn’t do what it normally did. It didn’t bring me the joy it has those three years ago. In fact, it only brought me a miserable sense of hatred.
I don’t cause pain to myself anymore because pain doesn’t work. Though now, I wish that cactus patch was still in the backyard.
I hate Full House and because ABC Family feels they have to torture me with it, I feel the need to do the same to you. At least with that little post there.
However, as I recall, I used to have the biggest crush on Jodie Sweetin growing up. I think I was hooked to the show because of her. Now, I can’t even stand the show and the little girl I adored as a child makes me want to blow my brains out. I suppose it’s not her fault. She never grew up and I did. Now that I think about it this whole post seems wrong.
Because you know, all meth addicts are bored when they started, right? I’m not a big fan of the drug, but I am amazed by how quickly it will deteriorate your life and your body.
Back to the original topic – I think the real reason I can’t stand Full House is because I can’t stand the Olsen twins and feel if that show never existed they would have never been so fucking adorable nor would they be around to this day.
Blah, forget it.
Yesterday was Philosopher’s little girl’s birthday. She three now and I’m in awe, just as I am with the other Munchkins in my life. You never feel as old until there’s a child in your life and I have several with another one on his way in July.
I could return to memory lane about the day she was born and how Philosopher vanished and we went to her house the next day with the Spock shirt because we wanted to know what’s up, but I won’t. Too tired and my mind is on no writing mode.
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Jenndiggity Emmy Perez Friendly Atheist
