Yesterday, I scrambled to write pussy rap for Auralfixia.

Well, I just don’t have the thuggish-ness to spit hot fire. So instead, I first perfomed my punani haiku, and then this “spoken word” piece.

Yea boy, you like it

GIRLS!

We shake it like a milkshake

N’ pop-pop our tart like it’s Mo-MoMa Art

 piece:

My girls!

We shake it like an earthquake

N’ boing oing our thing with a bombastic ring – SO

 piece:

Best get on your knees

Yea, boy, I like it

Your tongue right on my cunt,

Are you too shy to please?

‘Cause yea, boy, you like it

 piece:

Right on top, you see that spot?

Lick my clit like it’s a crack rock,

My pussy on your mouth tastes like oysters, shucked

Don’t go up for air ‘til it’s 6

o’

clock

 piece:

In the morning.

Cause, this pussy won’t eat itself

If you know what I’m saying.

 piece:

So best get on your knees

Yea, boy, I like it

Your tongue right on my cunt,

Are you too shy to please?

Yea, boy, you like it

 piece:

You say that you’re a BIG BOY,

Are you?

Then reach in the nightstand, bring out the toys

I dare you.

I double dare you.

I triple dare you.

piece:

Accuvibe’s drained, so plug in Hitachi

Lube up my ass, the Njoy’s waiting for me

 piece:

Piston

fuck me

with your digits

I said (3),

not (2),

now (twist) it

 piece:

My yummy punani tastes like cereal milk, don’t it?!

And if I shake and cum on your tongue

OWN IT

 piece:

So best get on your knees

I said, your muthafuckin’ knees

Yea, boy, I like it

Your tongue right on my cunt,

Want me to whimper, “please?”

Yea, boy, you like it

 piece:

It can’t stop,

it won’t stop,

there ain’t go goodbye

‘Til you (YOU YOU YOU)

make me lick your cuticles dry

Shiny chins can’t tell no lies

 piece:

And now get the fuck out, so I get some shuteye

 piece

 ‘Cause yea, boy, you loved it.

I’m 75% finished with my “Cherry Girls Flower Boys: Gloria + Tae” e-books. In fact, the end is so close, I can lick it with the tip of my tongue.

So too bad I’m re-doing the 40 pgs I’ve basically had a nervous breakdown in order to write.

She’s just not that into you

What can I say? I’m totaly not feeling Tae, the hero of the story.

There’s nothing technically wrong with him – especially in terms of pure hawtness. When I saw the below pictures, I was like, “homina homina, THIS IS TAE!”

So, the Tae in my story is eminently gorgeous. But, it seems that relying on only looks is insufficient, especially in fiction.

Booooooooring. Bland. Just…bleck

I have this theory: if I’m not madly in love with the hero, then the story is dead.

If I don’t want to throw my panties at him, then why should I put anyone else through the agony of reading about him?

I’m just not in love with Tae. He doesn’t move me. He doesn’t make me daydream about his voice, his smile.

If I’m not regressing back to being a teenage girl, then I gotta throw him away.

*sigh* this writing racket is squeezing my balls. If you know what I mean.

I’m currently writing a series of erotic stories, called “Cherry Girls & Flower Boys.” And it’s been a bitch to try to write, let alone finish, anything.

But two days ago – I finished vol. 1 of the story.

Mutha.
Fuckin.
YEA!

I basically stayed late at my day job cubicle, type type typing away even as the main office lights went into energy saver mode.

Trust me, when you’re all alone in an office, it’s scary.

The bathrooms are eerily quiet late at night – I was half-expecting that ghost from the Japanese movie “The Grudge” to show up.

I spent all last week eating 5,000 calories a day. Self-gavage. All to avoid -- *gasp* finishing my Gloria+Tae story. 

And then today, I sent a series of self-pitying emails to a friend, filled with such pathetic-ness as: 

I’m a sham -- I can’t really write. If I continue, people will catch onto me.

People are doing me a favor, reading my stuff. 

My efforts are not good enough

And now, here I am -- almost 10pm. Overcome with an intense desire to anesthetize my anxiety with food…drama…household chores. Just anything that will delay the inevitable showdown with the blinking cursor on a blank Word document.

Time is a-tickin away…

Now the inner toughie in me is coming out. Swinging fists and singing Gwen Stefani’s “What You Waiting For”

Yea, what am I waiting for?
Take a chance you stupid ‘ho!

Writing a barely C- draft 

Seriously -- fuck this shit. 

Fuck this writer’s block and fuck this inability to just let go and let flow and fuck this paranoia and fuck this anxiety and fuck this ego trip and ego let down and fuck me for letting it chop my figurative balls off.

I just want to finish. It’ll be as disjointed and badly written as an episode of “True Blood” But -- what else do you expect from a girl whose literary education was refined on articles in back issues of Maxim Magazine?

Set it. And FORGET IT. 

Write it all tonight. Crank it out like the world will end in some bloody Aztec human sacrifice unless the draft is done by tomorrow morning.

Then start something new. 

Sounds like a plan to me.

ah.
melancholy has returned.
I feel its claws on my shoulder.

this hairline crack in my heart
any second now
the whole organ will shatter and drown me
in a tsunami.

1000 days
limping through a broken glass tundra
leaving behind hemoglobin crumbs
in an octopus ink mist

an endless bowl of ocean water soup
my throat is so dry

memory is a poster behind window
bleached under 3 July suns
An ice cream truck bell
chiming goodbye with a left turn at the stoplight

What the hell people!

Here I am, trying to write romantic erotica. Y’know, the stuff with sex AND love and rainbows and happily-ever-after. I love to read it – so lemme try to write it. But I keep running into an “oh-my-god-this-is-so-embarassing-and-lame” wall of inner resistance.

Writing the sex is fine. But writing the romance is…oi vey.

Romance is like that scene from Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle…

And they start rockin’ out to Wilson Philips.

And c’mon – haven’t we all done it? In the privacy of our own vehicles? (If you say “no” then you’re SUCH A LIAR!) I mean, that song is pretty damn uplifting. But as soon as you’re in the car with other people, this song suddenly becomes everyone’s favorite punchline.

Same with romance.

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m so disconnected from my emotions that even a fictional account of love seems saccharine-yucky.

But I have a sense that there are a gazillion other young women writers who can’t really get it up (emotionally) either.

Think about it: if your friend starts gushing about a new l’amour, it’s kinda “woa, chill out, hun.” But if she starts saying, “my bf is schtuping my best friend!” then everyone gives her a hug and comaraderie.

Gush = she’s out of touch
Disillusionment = ah, glorious reality.

I would like to say that I’m immune to such wiggety-wack judgements, but I’ve definitely noticed that I’m far more comfortable detailing obsession, murder, Nazi-activity and brains blowing up.

But talking about two people falling in love? I have to admit that it kinda ruins my street cred. Any sort of intellectual or artistic respect is instantly gone.

Listen, I think “The Notebook” sucks too. And I hate chick flicks (except Legally Blonde and Clueless, which have transcended the genre…but I digress). I would rather read Chuck Palahniuk (author of “Fight Club”) than Danielle Steele.

But surely, those with a more gritty aesthetic can appreciate sexy romance! Right?! So why am I running like a crazy hamster in this “worried-about-being-lame” wheel?

Obviously, I have issues.

What Does Modern Romance Look Like?

Why do I feel like most modern literature is one long mural of people feeling all disconnected from each other?

I do have this unofficial stance that rappers are the Walt Whitman of the new century. But love songs are thin. I’m thinking of 50 cent rapping “I love you like a fat kid loves cake.”A gangsta expressin’ his bullet-ridden heart the best he can.

Um…so that’s it? Rappers can spit fiery poetry about their isolation, their betrayals, their identity crisis. About video ‘hos and girls with too much junk in their trunk and gold diggers.

But it’s a macho world. Maybe not a great place to look for modern love. Too bad.

So where can I go to find strong, more “feminine” ideals of love?

Not a rapper, but there is Beyonce.

She writes fierce lyrics about what romance is like for modern women, without the (sorry white people) dumb, Barbie WASP-Y overtones. I mean, she’s gyrating in a a bodysuit with fabulously teased hair, holding up her hand and saying: if you like it, then you should have put on a ring on it.

Yea, but is that really romance?

Oh shit, now I have to DEFINE romance?

How did this post, which started off as a rant, suddenly become so frickin’ complicated? I seriously just want to cop out and eat some pretzels.

But as we are all somehow here…let’s figure out what romance is.

…

Eh…???

Hmm…??

Ah, so maybe part of the problem is – what the hell is romance anyways?

And instantly, for whatever reason, I thought of Mount Sims’ electroclash song “Escape Hatch.”

And I feel incredibly moved by the lyrics:

And the makeup runs
Advertisement run
Automobiles they run
Metropolis it runs faster than it ever has

I want to escape with you
Under the naked glass
Disappear in your room
Look what the future has

Let’s blast off this afternoon
Love’s an escape hatch

Maybe this is where to start writing romance. What I want to write about is not an archaic, WASP-Y version of chivalrous love. It is hidden in the veins of our lives, disguised by machines and marketing gurus and wikipedia entries. Romance may even extend to having sex with your car (don’t we all know guys who spoil their metal+piston lovers?).

Point is – romance as it is widely marketed today isn’t OFFICIAL ROMANCE. I don’t have to write it that way. Neither does anyone else.

Alrighty. Until I figure out how to end posts more gracefully, I will say peace out…

I used to write dirty stories for many of my previous boyfriends. They were easy to write, almost TOO easy.

All my adult life, I’ve learned to figure out what men want from me. But what do I want from myself?

This is why writing on Proper Filth is so damn difficult. I’m not writing for men – I’m writing for women, for myself. And my personal fantasies are colored by secrecy, even shame.

Why would a man want to please ME?
Why would a man find me worthy of love?
Why would a man make me feel good about myself?

In this world of Girls Gone Wild videos, rampant objectification of the female body, and hyper-sexualized everything…it seems almost ridiculous that sex + intimacy + tenderness can somehow mingle and exist together.

Even as I write this, I feel an intense blockage. There isn’t any flow. Everything seems so hard, like fighting against gravity, fighting against reality.

I want to expound on what it is exactly that I feel, but instead I feel intense panic inside my gut. So I leave it at this.

Crawling. I am crawling. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to stand.

A few weeks ago, a friend and I discussed why other artists, such as dancers and painters, don’t get “boogie woogie block” or “watercolor block.” Why do writers seem to own the blockage market?

I believe it’s due to the nature of the beast. Writers are neurotic assholes.
sshole

Neuroses

Writing is the most unnatural form of art. Humans were painting and dancing and singing waaay before scroll and hieroglyphics came into existence. Kids don’t know how to write – until you teach ‘em.

Writing is the attempt to take the sublime and turn into a bunch of abstract alphabet letters. Most of all, good writing requires great characters. And this requires an ability to put yourself in other’s shoes, to question motives, to analyze them ad nauseum. Yes…a certain neuroticism.
uroticis

Asshole-ness

Writing is also the most intimate art. There is a psychological bareness in writing, a diving into and illumination and analyzation of the inner lives of the author.

People have this image of writers writhing in their own pain – not realizing that a person has to be an emotionally tough to endure such mental torture. Most people could not handle the suffering that writers go through – but writers are born assholes. They stubbornly walk through the scary corridors of their mind, just because.
because.

Me, Myself and I

Am I a neurotic assholes? Oh, no doubt. You just have to read this blog, or read my writing, to know that it’s all about me, me, me  and then me some more.

So, if you’re a kind, reasonable type of person – don’t be a writer. Be a social worker.

Insufferable SOBS and drama queen biyatches – welcome to the wonderful world of scribblin’.

Write fast
Write clean
Write from your lizard brain
Write like you don’t give a shit
Write because it’s nothin’
Write sloppy
Write slow

Write from your neo-cortex
Write from neuroses and analysis
Write to be heard
Write because it’s everything, and you know it.

I just finished reading Chris Guillebeau’s free e-manifesto ’279 Days to Overnight Success’. It’s filled with common sense, which is something I can’t seem to process well – too bad for me.

Then I turned to pg. 27, which has a quote from famed Japanese writer Haruki Murakami. And a lightbulb not only went off in my head…it smashed itself like a punk beer bottle on my thick-ass skull.
my thick-ass skull.

Oh, hello…I like this definition of  “A Writer’s Life”

Fo me, the wow-ee part of the pg. 27 quote:

I placed the highest priority on the sort of life that lets me focus on writing…I felt that the indispensible relationship I should build in my life was not with a specific person, but with an unspecified number of readers

– Haruki Murakami, “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running” (as quoted in Chris Guillebeau’s ’279 Days to Overnight Success’)Din
g ding ding!

…she cut off their tail with a carving knife…

I placed the highest priority on the sort of life that lets me focus on writing…

One of the strangest part of life is that we live so unconsciously. We don’t see the obvious.  Life is a book we can’t read because we hold the pages too close to our eyeballs.

I’ve always had this arrogant belief that I’m more self-aware than the average person. Which, of course, is UTTER BULLSHIT! Most of the time, I’m as blind as those Three Mice. Squeak , squeak. And guess what happened to their tails?

(Note to self: there is a world of difference between self-aware vs. self-analytical.)

Until I read the above quote, I didn’t realize just how LOW I’ve prioritized writing. Looking around my work cubicle, the realization is sobering: my priority is earning a paycheck.

I’ve unconsciously bought into the idea of keeping a “real” job, and visiting my writing when I can. The job is the wife, the writing is the mistress. No wonder I’m struggling to write – my inner and outer worlds don’t mesh.
nd outer worlds don’t mesh.

But before I bash the Cubicle Nation..

Two years ago, I arrived back in America from an expatriate assignment in Tokyo. And I promised myself, “no more corporate work. I’m gonna be a writer.”

I’ve sort of held that promise – but I’ve sort of fudged it, too.

My current day job is a long-term temp position that pays hourly. Compared to my previous position in Tokyo, it’s 3 steps down in terms of pay and responsibility.

There is a certain freedom (I can take off whenever), but that freedom comes with a price (I don’t get paid. Ouch).

But I see it as a necessary transition.

Some people, like Steve Pavlina, say, “quit your job and follow your passion.” Ugh, no offense to his hardcore fans, but he’s so fucking annoying! Hello, his wife was working a day job while he was pursuing his passion.

What happens if you don’t have a spouse who will work a soul-crushing job for years while you get your pet project off the ground?

I don’t even have a boyfriend – who is going to ensure I have a roof over my head? My mom? You? The government?
nment?

A woman should be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen

I felt that the indispensible relationship I should build in my life was not with a specific person, but with an unspecified number of readers

Maybe this is the curse of being a woman – all you see around you are other women, who sacrifice their lives for romantic partners, for L-O-V-E, for THE ONE.

I can’t be the only woman who loses herself in a man. Women, as a gender, are notorious for nesting way too soon, of ditching ‘hos for ‘bros.

How can one person possibly fulfill you? It’s impossible.

And if you’re a bottomless pit for affection and emotional validation (i.e. yours truly), then the “twooo wuv” theory is totally useless. I need and want that intense emotion 24/7.

Confession: some of my happiest moments were in my writing classes, when people gushed over my work. I felt…seen. My gender, my looks, my ability/inability to give the pussy faded to the background.

Just thinking about the full, peaceful feeling while being praised for my words – I am getting heart pangs. That’s what I want.
at I want.

What is the fundamental question?

What can I do to make writing the foundation of my life?

Maybe this blog is the first step. Keeping a writing schedule, as Chris Guillebeau suggests in his e-manifesto (have you downloaded it yet?)

Write blog posts 2-3 times a week.
Just shoot the shit.
Be as neurotic as need be.

And because this is non-fiction writing, I don’t give a shit how sloppy it is. I mean, I’m sure I’ll look back at these beginning posts in a year and think, “jesus, I sucked!”

But I’ll deal with the inner critic then.

Right now, I’ll just assume I’m spittin’ some hot ass fire.