Aesthete or dead

There’s about a four year gap between this post and the other ones below. I’d appreciate anyone who may know me not scroll through. I keep a lot there to account for memories of my discovering myself and the abuse I suffered through. Just keep following whatever blog you know me for.

Last night, my rat, Ticktock died after a a seizure. This is a picture of him sleeping when he was younger. Just so I can tell him goodnight in a way he can still keep his dignity.

A baby shinyticktock.

"Why do you play that dumb gangster game all the time?" This. This. THIS.

I wonder if this flavor would go well with rice crackers...

I have had polyamorous tastes for quite a while, now. The idea has appealed to me as long as I have been alive and it was a dear friend of mine that introduced me to how the concept would work smoothly whilst dating someone you cared about. The idea was simple, as it was fair. Be fair. Do nothing with another that you would have a problem with your lover doing with someone else. Be open. Share every instance of your wanderings; hide nothing. Well, that was the concept I introduced when I came out to Kirra. Kirra had known of the like-hearted friend in question and had accepted the concept rather easily. Too easily, I thought. But it seemed to fit. After all the control she had exercised over something as insignificant as bloody pronouns, it may have even been an apology and a lax on control. And it was a relief that she seemed to accept me. Most of my lifestyle borders on eccentric, but polyamory is still several years, probably decades, from being accepted. I would normally be lynched. How wonderful it is that she finally came through. How wonderful it is that she’s making this effort into trying to understand and accept me. Yeah, I’m not happy I fell for it either. See, she was apparently cool with polyamory, just not at all comfortable with the fact that polyamory means kissing someone else. What the Hell do you think polyamory is? What in blazes did you think I’d be doing? Sleeping with friends like I’ve been doing since fourteen? No, there was a reason I told you, and it wasn’t to give you another platform to control me. God damned. I elaborated, because I was temporarily insane and thought that she may understand me the more I spoke, that acting on my polyamorous urges was something of a vice for me. I mentioned that it would be preferable to over-drinking, cutting, burning, etc. She responds, “I’d rather you do all three.” Yes, I understand that I’m nothing but property to you. Able to be destroyed and thrown away at your convenience. You proved that into December of ’13, my love. And. Proving once and for all that she’s part of the thousands of bigots who refuse to understand, she said that my actions were because ‘the relationship was so lacking that you had to go outside of it to get something you don’t get with me.’ Yeah, no, that’s not how that works. Not even remotely. Even better, this conversation. “Making out and stroking hair and nuzzles are more loving.” “… Yeah, but I feel nothing but empty passion and a rush.” “I don’t care what you feel.” Yeah. Um. Knew that. Plainly evident. Crystal. Bloody. Clear. Thanks~

I’ll get to writing in just a moment. But as of now, my mind is brimming with conflict, in a way that even Facebook wars can’t resolve. I’ve realized only recently how very, achingly, inconsolably alone I have become with my own mind. It wasn’t until I had started explaining it within a novel that I realized the stark contrast between the fall of 2013, the bliss, the theatrics, the way the two of us were together against the world. It was intoxicating. It was perfect. It was destroyed. First by the fatal blow of threatening to toss me away without the appearance of an apartment as if I were a piece of trash. She’s since ‘taken it back’, as if it could be taken back. As if that hadn’t broken me. As if all the darkness, all the suffocating abyss could be taken away with a mere forced apology because people were ‘freaking out’ at her. It still makes me ache. She speaks of me as if I’m so distant just to spite her when she will never realize that she had me. Gods, she really had me. I worshipped her. I trusted her the way a child would trust another. We were together in our never-ending loneliness, only I didn’t feel alone. I. Didn’t. Feel. Alone. Then the next year at about the same time, it was the same, only this was about suicide. But she isn’t the cause of all of my grief, and she shouldn’t at all flatter herself in saying so. Granted, she did start the other portion of my twisted origin story. Her stupid, selfish, controlling pronoun wars with me. I couldn’t even walk into a room without people getting up and leaving, conflict surrounded me like a fog when all I had wanted to be was social. There was a natural distrust of me, when all I had wanted was to make friends in my new life. Kirra’s account of our relationship very nearly triggered a bloody lynch mob of people this body has known for years. It was then when I began to grasp when people such as myself enter reality, they simply have no place. It’s been a slow necrosis of my heart, watching how people react to me, watching people cut me as if my bleeding is only a theory. Because I’m only capable of reacting as if it is. The conflict never stopped there. No one ever seemed to recognize me as a person. People trying to get me fired at work was a bi-monthly event. Kirra’s friends hating me and telling me I should go hang myself was a given. It’s never-ending, and only a select few seem to both know me and love me without wanting to control me. Conflict has become my vice and my lifeblood. I was raised by attacks, and have a great wish to unleash it upon the world ten-fold. The most recent development in my theory is my dear friends, particularly anyone I love. My first girlfriend died within weeks of my falling for her. My best friend is not only about to move to the other side of the country, but they’re also a suicide risk. They’ve helped ease my loneliness in a way that made me feel that perhaps someone else was on the same distant plane with me. They went missing for days recently. I just kept picturing their body forming the dent of a car in a college parking lot... Which is prompted my thinking that perhaps the glitch I create when reality and fantasy collides is what kills the people close to me. It’s a cruel twist of fate, what reality might be doing to right itself, but I don’t believe I’m wrong. Alcaeus may take this as a good sign. Afterall, the little pound puppies he rescues all would have had to realize they don’t belong in their human lives. That was our agreement, as well. He’s letting me live this life as a human, letting me have a job, letting me have a place in society, letting me pay taxes, letting people know my name. Then, after I die this first time, I’m his. Doomed to living as a stray dog, a mere whisper among the humans. No. Fuck that. My permeating existence, whether wanted in this life or not, is all I have to live for. My fancy clothes, my unwavering stance on social issues, tea time, even my own name, it’s all part of the stark existence that I’m hoping will blow a hole in this reality, as long as I’m within this world. I will not let him lock me and the others away, not any longer. I’ve began a cold war with my own king, and I won’t be wavering. Conflict is the only way I know, in a way that tenderness and safety is a frightening concept to me. Tenderness and affection is only a trap, I’ve fallen for it before only to nearly receive a flying wallet to the face. The loneliness and the sense of being denied is a constant that’s been wearing into me. Some accuse me of being suicidal. But it’s not the case. There’s a better chance of me being warped, to go into some forsaken rogue-ish mode and for all my tenderness to be drained out of me. For my cruelty to be my only form of communication, and winning my only goal. I will prove to my king that not only my will is my greatest weapon, but that he has nothing to take from me that hasn’t already been stolen. Denied, forsaken, misnamed, I am my only and greatest weapon. Consider it my battle call: I will not be controlled.

But all the precious thing in this world fade and... They don’t come back.

Until then, I will call my watch Xanthe. After myself, Phisoxa’s creation, Xanthe Xerxes Zeitstuck.

It's strange, how only three weeks of you touching my life was enough to make the Savannah summers to remind me of you each and every year. It's been nearly two years, but I still miss you terribly Betsy. Let's hope you're still exploring the mysteries hidden in the fog... <3