My computer at work went psycho, the screen saver was suddenly constantly changing pictures of me. Photos that I took of myself everyday during the worst parts of post-Artboy despair, to confirm my existence. Blown up images of unfiltered despair and unstoppable sobs. When I managed to make it stop a photo of Artboy was open on the desktop, a photo he took of himself in full Artboy life as performance handsome wanker mode about two weeks before he lost his mind. Thanks computer.
I have given up on dreaming about Rupert. Despite his excellent looking penis I found that I was rather put off because I do not like his bras either that or it is the inherent nature of the dream itself that stopped me. My large and and excellent dictionary informs me that a dream is an image or series of images present in the mind during sleep, I tend to disagree. Or rather I feel that that definition is inadequate. Surely a dream is more and less than that. An unwitting conversation with yourself, an expression of things you dare not speak of even silently in corners. Perhaps my choosing to dream of Rupert, someone so other from myself, was more than a passing fancy. Perhaps I chose to dream of Rupert as a way of reconnecting with my sexual self. Sex for so long had little to do with me as an individual and everything to do with my relationship with somebody else, someone who was dying inside, someone toxic and in the end insane. I am abandoning my experiment in dreaming of Rupert in the hope that by examination of my motives alone I have achieved a psychological marker.
I must confess that despite my long held feminist objections to pornography and therefore pornographers I find Rupert to be utterly charming, I have enjoyed this strange online dialogue with him and I fully intend to continue reading his intriguing blog. Now from the extraordinary back to the ordinary, I really must clean my room.
I have given up on dreaming about Rupert. Despite his excellent looking penis I found that I was rather put off because I do not like his bras either that or it is the inherent nature of the dream itself that stopped me. My large and and excellent dictionary informs me that a dream is an image or series of images present in the mind during sleep, I tend to disagree. Or rather I feel that that definition is inadequate. Surely a dream is more and less than that. An unwitting conversation with yourself, an expression of things you dare not speak of even silently in corners. Perhaps my choosing to dream of Rupert, someone so other from myself, was more than a passing fancy. Perhaps I chose to dream of Rupert as a way of reconnecting with my sexual self. Sex for so long had little to do with me as an individual and everything to do with my relationship with somebody else, someone who was dying inside, someone toxic and in the end insane. I am abandoning my experiment in dreaming of Rupert in the hope that by examination of my motives alone I have achieved a psychological marker.
I must confess that despite my long held feminist objections to pornography and therefore pornographers I find Rupert to be utterly charming, I have enjoyed this strange online dialogue with him and I fully intend to continue reading his intriguing blog. Now from the extraordinary back to the ordinary, I really must clean my room.
Comments
but itself as a pleasure wouldn ot have been a good thing, yes? A good thing in itself it was to me? Yes?
Without being ao 1920's so? Since four centuries before the 19th century sex was not quite so serious, more frank, just frank. Not Havelock dissected as came it so beyond 1899.
Rups
Rups