Chains Mature content No. 53 Published February 17th, 2018 6:35am pst read ( words) Past entries "There is another... splayed upon this page and looking ever the sharp model with dimensions which have caused a measure of the depression which at this moment grasps at my soul and places me in the small space I own. Valentina is like many Russian models which capitalize on the absolute disparity of minimal body fat, large breasts, and the inner thigh radii that pushes at me to end my life. The idea of learning and creating a background summary of the numbers she and so many others carry on their bodies is sliding downward, just like my ambition to continue my sordid and black exploration of both them and myself. I am being folded in half, and the resulting position is one of hellish and suicidal darkness. And it continues, despite the recent stories of the past and their words of beauty and defeat. I am nearly done. Just as Phil Leotardo stated to Butch DeConcini... 'No more of this, Butchy. No more of this.' If the feelings were only so easy to control and/or cease. Nope. I am trapped. And Valentina is here to show off my weakness and desire as few others are able. I am fucking chained to my desires and needs and running out of breath. This private space on the Internet runs me in the neighborhood of a few thousand dollars per year to maintain and fill with thoughts from my deviant mind. The hardware continues to expand in order to keep everything safe from loss, and the domains which I personally own also expand as my needs dictate. The tens of thousands of code lines combined with the editing capabilities will increase, as well. There is no end to any of it, and until such time as I can either end the obsession or end myself, I remain chained to all of it like an abandoned bicycle rotting and rusting in a long-dead schoolyard. Even at this very moment in front of the infernal machine and with my sorry ass glued to the chair, I am hearing the soaring words of a man I cannot avoid -- the music of my very life and a different type of exploration related to the beauty of the world. Everything is connected to my obsession and desire. Which adds up to me stating the obvious yet again: the situation will kill me. There is no longer any doubt, because there is no longer any hope. I will continue here until I cannot take any more of it, and then the site will evolve from my complaint department to my epitaph. Fucking count on it, people. Another example of mental paralysis Again I start with a depressive preamble. And again I move on. Back to Valentina and her goddess-like dimensions. Do you see the most personal of radii leading up her inner thigh and toward the labia? Should I be asking such a thing? Is it too private, or does she show off something which can be an acceptable study? Who fucking knows, and most will never care. I need to know like I need nothing else. Yes, I went on recently about the dying project and the fucking chair which is my only semblance of comfort left in the world, but honestly who thinks of such things? Who? Tell me, for crying out loud. Sure, there are billions of images on millions of sites, but do they head in such a direction as I have attempted? Fuck no. None of it seems to be anywhere but in my damaged mind and rolling off my fingers like the rain on a freeway-speed vehicle. Oh well. The minority? Whatever. Where am I going with this? Nowhere. Why? Hmm. Fuck it anyway. Let's have a drink, shall we? That will help with something, I am certain. The last time I attempted a (somewhat) descriptive essay was the woman outside the Elixir in San Francisco. And that may very well be the last for all time. I just cannot go through the detailed and expanded line-to-line image of a female again. It is too difficult for me. Valentina would be an ideal candidate for such a writing, but what is the point? To rehash old feelings and put myself in an even deeper hole? Nope. The images suggest that she is carrying the dimensions of dreams and that should be enough. The numbers are all over her skin just as they tend to fly through my fucked up head. But trying to wordsmith her form is impossible. There are just not enough terms to cover such beauty and endless fascination. So... from here forward, the images will continue throughout the site and the models will be placed along the text just like the past three years. The staff is up to more than 350 edits by now and there are many more waiting in the wings. The chains? They are all over me. The recent trip to the Salton and the quick escape over to Vegas should eventually work their way into this content at some point, but a glean of a few thoughts seems appropriate now -- especially considering the staggering number of picturesque women running around that Goddamned town at any given moment. The smell and sight of the Sea brought me to my knees again, and the subsequent visions within the resort pressed me further and tightened the fucking chains. God. The disparate form rarely seen We sat at Alto in the Palace for a bit while waiting for our dinner reservation. That bar is on the main path from one side of the resort to the other, between the two halves of such a massive casino. The comfort afforded us there combined with gorgeous servers allowed me to relax and take in all that was around us. We were elevated, and positioned next to Omnia, which is right up against the sportsbook. We were there on a Friday, and the security contingent was all over the place setting up for people entering the club. Omnia is massive, gorgeous, and extremely popular. The number of people which it holds requires a hell of a setup within the paths for maintaining order and control. We watched the setup happening for a while, and then went to dinner right around the corner. Dinner in one of Flay's own restaurants was unreal, by the way. Afterward, we decided that sitting in Alto with its high prices was cheaper than sitting in the casino gambling. So, off to a corner table next to the DJ (yes, the music was played throughout the huge bar and spun by a lovely creature to my left). We ordered from the beautifully structured server and sunk into our big chairs to relax. The music kept everyone around us happy as we swilled and watched the multitudes walk by. As the time passed, we could see the crowd for Omnia growing and the ever-increasing level of dress worn by the many couples and groups both walking by and awaiting entrance to the club. Everything from a simple denim and t-shirt to the gorgeous silk dresses wrapped around physical anomalies went past at any given moment. There were so many differing people that I expected to arise from bed the next morning with a sore neck. Oy. A few of the passing individuals swung into the lounge near us to either grab a drink or dance -- sometimes both. One woman strolled by my position in a bright red cocktail dress and slingbacks which propelled my brain into the exosphere with all haste. Others came and went with their ideas of club-appropriate dress and I watched every single person. And then a woman walked past whom I will not soon forget. Yes, she could have been Michelle with shorter hair. Long nose, sharp shoulders, and likely standing over six feet with the heels. Gawd. My drinking rate increased immediately. Valentina's physique is very similar to that of Michelle, albeit she is shorter than the goddess who was perpetually wrapped around me. The woman in question was a reminder of the time at the universe's pinnacle with the soul unlike any other. Her hands carried nothing, and there was nary a purse or clutch. She floated -- just as many others -- but stood out due to the timeless beauty shared by very few. I fell a bit, regained my position as appearing in control, and continued to swill the Jack. God help me for my thoughts. Valentina's unending draw The clock did not seem to turn into the typical propeller as happens all too often while drinking. We sat for more than three hours and saw all manner of behavior, but nothing negative whatsoever. Everyone was upbeat and positive. Many came in to dance a few minutes to a familiar song and then leave, while others plopped into the soft chairs for the duration. By the time we made the decision to head to the room for some rest, Alto was full and the music was interfering with heartbeats. The entire picture was alien to me, of course, as my finest moments are spent right here in this fucking chair. Upon closing our tab, I stepped to the adorable DJ and tipped her heavily. She smiled in such a manner so as to send me flying (her name was Priscilla). The headphones aslant upon her pretty head, the hat worn down over her eyebrows, and the shimmering gold top off which the motion lighting danced around her all added up to a sight I will remember for a long time. Her smile was disarming to the nth degree and those big eyes were as inviting as a dream. She took my hand and thanked me, and at that point I knew I had to get the fuck away from all of it. Long, shapely legs everywhere, primped and dolled faces, manicured nails, and then me... Stuck in a perpetual state of need and desire which would not let up. Out, you fucking idiot -- get out now. Before any lasting damage can occur. Now. Bye. We exited the lounge and headed toward the Forum elevators to retire for the night. All in all, and considering that legendary dinner, the whole of the night was excellent. If not for my severely damaged state, all would have been well. That was one night out of two. The previous night was also of note, but as I stated above, the excursion will likely be scrutinized heavily in the future. Chains all over me. 'But our dread simply must go on'. A nod to Aaron and I continue. So the wallowing which preceded the trip remains. There was always an exit on the horizon, and considering all of the brushes with death throughout the early part of this decade I am surprised to be sitting here in front of the editor. There is just no sidestepping the issues which have and still dictate my plans on any given day. The option is there. It is always there... Calling and inviting. The issues pile upon one another and push me without pause. The trip illuminated things -- as I expected it would -- and seeing so much in a very short period of time was distressing. The Sea showed me what I needed, to a point, anyway, and allowed me to think in the cool quiet. We only made two trips from the resort to the shores, but that was enough. I could not effectively organize my thoughts to allow for a more detailed or extended series of outings. Once near the smell and visions, the past came in and began to rail at me to stay. Incredible structure, to the point of mindlessness Well, going into that part of the trip will sway the content away from Valentina and what she represents, but who the fuck tells me which way to steer the ship? No one. As the memories with the Brunette flooded me with their timeless beauty and difficulty, I began to realize that being there with someone else was becoming a godsend. The visions were similar yet due to the years in between, some aspects of that wondrous and desolate area had changed. I was initially disappointed to see that the museum and historic parts of the yacht club were all but gone, and the shoreline was larger as the Sea has dropped through evaporation. Walking among the fish? There is nothing like it in this world. They called to me, just as the past. The Brunette knew. She knew everything. We strolled the shore in more than one location, sidled up to a local bar in the middle of devastation, and climbed the mountain of salvation just outside Niland. All the while we walked with the cameras and brought everything into the lens. Sound familiar? Yes, just as the trip of a lifetime which I can never forget, this journey was one of attempting to capture all. Unfortunately, of all the days spent in those wondrous counties, most of my shooting was outside my thoughts. I took in very little because I could not relax and concentrate. The memories kept bubbling to the surface and each time I walked near something which had significance years ago I lost a little of my ability. The landscape has changed, naturally, but I was hoping nothing had. The Brunette was all over the place in my head and the thoughts of our time there absolutely destroyed any chance of meaningful work in the viewfinder. Fuck. And then there is the Russian displayed prominently down the page. She was there too... At the Sea and in both resorts. In my fucking head. Not Valentina specifically, but all that she displays and represents. All of it, in my head like any other Goddamned day. Along the shore with its multitudes of pulverized bones and the remains of a world gone away, the numbers were still there. They were causing me to misstep and miss much. They were in control, to an extent, and coupled with the Brunette and our fragmented trip, nothing could work properly within my head. The only positive I now see is that Michelle had yet to appear before me in life. Flashbacks to the Brunette looking upon me from a distance and across the barren seascape were spinning through my fucked up vision. I could see her with the backpack and hair blowing in the breeze over and over while walking near the breakwater. I saw her... Looking so beautiful that any description is impossible. Just look at the images of the Russian form here. The Brunette was staggeringly gorgeous and her image was all over that multicolored, heavy, and downtrodden place. Even the fish loved her. Stunning definition everywhere Onward the trip went, and all the while the visions and numbers remained within me like impermeable stains. They were tattooed on my brain and all over the landscape. Each step brought thoughts of the past attached to everything from wonder to sorrow. As we ventured around the south end of the Sea, I began to remember the route the Brunette and I took up the western shore. The stops there were quiet and beautiful, with the wildlife refuge offering a pleasant aside from the typical Salton grays and browns. The young one looked upon that site with such excitement and openness that she took me from the past and allowed for some measure of comfort and feelings of the newness of our vacation. She wandered with cameras in tow and shot some contrasting photos, and we both were taken aback by the mass of winged creatures inhabiting the green. When we exited the refuge, our drive up toward civilization was calm and warming. During the original trip to that place, the Brunette did all of the driving and sought out whatever may have brought us new scenery. Rehashing the route almost exactly did not bring me the somber difficulty I had envisioned. In fact, that area to the south and west looked new and different enough to keep the demons and troubles away. The young one and I looked to one town for its restaurant which ended up being closed for the day, so we headed to the back of the building. Once around the side and out toward the beach, I spied memories of being in that exact location years earlier. Everything flooded me and became overwhelming enough to disallow any subjective shooting. I captured three or four images, shut down the camera, and began to wonder why I needed to see that place again. Was it the desire to remember the Brunette and our time there, or was it to attempt an erase and rewrite to cage my sanity and leave me better than before? Hmm. Whichever, the decision began to strain me. All of that planning, time, money, and loss of work to go back to a place where I was rarely happy, and a situation which played out once before, good or bad, did not seem to be a balanced effort. I pressed for it nonetheless, and the young one agreed immediately. Throughout the proceeding days and nights leading up to our departure, the entire idea went up and down so many times that I thought I would lose my mind. I had no idea. I knew that there would be trials in seeing those areas and walking the paths tread by the Brunette, but I did not know the extent of the difficulties or if they would appear at all. Maybe the idea was to reconnect with the palms, fish, salt, and all of the loving feelings I carried from those places. And perhaps it was the knowing of what lay there awaiting my arrival. The cool and heavy air was familiar, but knowing that our relationship and living arrangements were not at risk was decidedly unfamiliar. The young one and I had no issues which could put us at odds in any way. The only down side to everything was the mounting storm within my fucked up head. Perhaps I wished to visit the Sea and surrounding areas simply to look at things through newer eyes and without the dramatic and overwhelming problems which plagued us. Everything Fuck it anyway. Look at Valentina's numerical properties and gaze upon one of the high points of this world's beauty. Forget the Sea, my drivel over what the fuck I did or should have done, and the resulting mashed potatoes now mixing in my cesspool of a mind. Just stick to the images and references to one of the most difficult pieces of writing I have ever attempted. 'The Salton Sea and the Heartbreak' came along with riveting feelings and a massive need to be back there, and now it has happened. I know I stated above that the details would be left for another time, and along those lines let me say that the occasion of conveying another trip to one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen may turn into a fruitless and endless effort over which I will agonize for years. The fucking thing may never happen. The sights at the resort in Vegas were actually easier to take in than the smell of decay around that toxic water. And the females in view along the pathway to Omnia may have been so disarming due to being at the furthest point along the spectrum of my life from where I have been. Soon my brain will be finished with that exploration and I may be done with the effort toward any catharsis. Fuck it. And here we are where it all began. The numbers, that unreal form along this page, and the splintered reality within which I sit in this fucking chair and inhabit. And now a word rarely placed within these essays... Why?" Copyright ©2002-2024 comainterrupted.com All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Created by Brandywine Engineering using Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 and .NET Framework 4.8 Questions? Comments? Anything? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the psychos in charge
Chains Mature content No. 53 Published February 17th, 2018 6:35am pst read ( words) Past entries "There is another... splayed upon this page and looking ever the sharp model with dimensions which have caused a measure of the depression which at this moment grasps at my soul and places me in the small space I own. Valentina is like many Russian models which capitalize on the absolute disparity of minimal body fat, large breasts, and the inner thigh radii that pushes at me to end my life. The idea of learning and creating a background summary of the numbers she and so many others carry on their bodies is sliding downward, just like my ambition to continue my sordid and black exploration of both them and myself. I am being folded in half, and the resulting position is one of hellish and suicidal darkness. And it continues, despite the recent stories of the past and their words of beauty and defeat. I am nearly done. Just as Phil Leotardo stated to Butch DeConcini... 'No more of this, Butchy. No more of this.' If the feelings were only so easy to control and/or cease. Nope. I am trapped. And Valentina is here to show off my weakness and desire as few others are able. I am fucking chained to my desires and needs and running out of breath. This private space on the Internet runs me in the neighborhood of a few thousand dollars per year to maintain and fill with thoughts from my deviant mind. The hardware continues to expand in order to keep everything safe from loss, and the domains which I personally own also expand as my needs dictate. The tens of thousands of code lines combined with the editing capabilities will increase, as well. There is no end to any of it, and until such time as I can either end the obsession or end myself, I remain chained to all of it like an abandoned bicycle rotting and rusting in a long-dead schoolyard. Even at this very moment in front of the infernal machine and with my sorry ass glued to the chair, I am hearing the soaring words of a man I cannot avoid -- the music of my very life and a different type of exploration related to the beauty of the world. Everything is connected to my obsession and desire. Which adds up to me stating the obvious yet again: the situation will kill me. There is no longer any doubt, because there is no longer any hope. I will continue here until I cannot take any more of it, and then the site will evolve from my complaint department to my epitaph. Fucking count on it, people. Another example of mental paralysis Again I start with a depressive preamble. And again I move on. Back to Valentina and her goddess-like dimensions. Do you see the most personal of radii leading up her inner thigh and toward the labia? Should I be asking such a thing? Is it too private, or does she show off something which can be an acceptable study? Who fucking knows, and most will never care. I need to know like I need nothing else. Yes, I went on recently about the dying project and the fucking chair which is my only semblance of comfort left in the world, but honestly who thinks of such things? Who? Tell me, for crying out loud. Sure, there are billions of images on millions of sites, but do they head in such a direction as I have attempted? Fuck no. None of it seems to be anywhere but in my damaged mind and rolling off my fingers like the rain on a freeway-speed vehicle. Oh well. The minority? Whatever. Where am I going with this? Nowhere. Why? Hmm. Fuck it anyway. Let's have a drink, shall we? That will help with something, I am certain. The last time I attempted a (somewhat) descriptive essay was the woman outside the Elixir in San Francisco. And that may very well be the last for all time. I just cannot go through the detailed and expanded line-to-line image of a female again. It is too difficult for me. Valentina would be an ideal candidate for such a writing, but what is the point? To rehash old feelings and put myself in an even deeper hole? Nope. The images suggest that she is carrying the dimensions of dreams and that should be enough. The numbers are all over her skin just as they tend to fly through my fucked up head. But trying to wordsmith her form is impossible. There are just not enough terms to cover such beauty and endless fascination. So... from here forward, the images will continue throughout the site and the models will be placed along the text just like the past three years. The staff is up to more than 350 edits by now and there are many more waiting in the wings. The chains? They are all over me. The recent trip to the Salton and the quick escape over to Vegas should eventually work their way into this content at some point, but a glean of a few thoughts seems appropriate now -- especially considering the staggering number of picturesque women running around that Goddamned town at any given moment. The smell and sight of the Sea brought me to my knees again, and the subsequent visions within the resort pressed me further and tightened the fucking chains. God. The disparate form rarely seen We sat at Alto in the Palace for a bit while waiting for our dinner reservation. That bar is on the main path from one side of the resort to the other, between the two halves of such a massive casino. The comfort afforded us there combined with gorgeous servers allowed me to relax and take in all that was around us. We were elevated, and positioned next to Omnia, which is right up against the sportsbook. We were there on a Friday, and the security contingent was all over the place setting up for people entering the club. Omnia is massive, gorgeous, and extremely popular. The number of people which it holds requires a hell of a setup within the paths for maintaining order and control. We watched the setup happening for a while, and then went to dinner right around the corner. Dinner in one of Flay's own restaurants was unreal, by the way. Afterward, we decided that sitting in Alto with its high prices was cheaper than sitting in the casino gambling. So, off to a corner table next to the DJ (yes, the music was played throughout the huge bar and spun by a lovely creature to my left). We ordered from the beautifully structured server and sunk into our big chairs to relax. The music kept everyone around us happy as we swilled and watched the multitudes walk by. As the time passed, we could see the crowd for Omnia growing and the ever-increasing level of dress worn by the many couples and groups both walking by and awaiting entrance to the club. Everything from a simple denim and t-shirt to the gorgeous silk dresses wrapped around physical anomalies went past at any given moment. There were so many differing people that I expected to arise from bed the next morning with a sore neck. Oy. A few of the passing individuals swung into the lounge near us to either grab a drink or dance -- sometimes both. One woman strolled by my position in a bright red cocktail dress and slingbacks which propelled my brain into the exosphere with all haste. Others came and went with their ideas of club-appropriate dress and I watched every single person. And then a woman walked past whom I will not soon forget. Yes, she could have been Michelle with shorter hair. Long nose, sharp shoulders, and likely standing over six feet with the heels. Gawd. My drinking rate increased immediately. Valentina's physique is very similar to that of Michelle, albeit she is shorter than the goddess who was perpetually wrapped around me. The woman in question was a reminder of the time at the universe's pinnacle with the soul unlike any other. Her hands carried nothing, and there was nary a purse or clutch. She floated -- just as many others -- but stood out due to the timeless beauty shared by very few. I fell a bit, regained my position as appearing in control, and continued to swill the Jack. God help me for my thoughts. Valentina's unending draw The clock did not seem to turn into the typical propeller as happens all too often while drinking. We sat for more than three hours and saw all manner of behavior, but nothing negative whatsoever. Everyone was upbeat and positive. Many came in to dance a few minutes to a familiar song and then leave, while others plopped into the soft chairs for the duration. By the time we made the decision to head to the room for some rest, Alto was full and the music was interfering with heartbeats. The entire picture was alien to me, of course, as my finest moments are spent right here in this fucking chair. Upon closing our tab, I stepped to the adorable DJ and tipped her heavily. She smiled in such a manner so as to send me flying (her name was Priscilla). The headphones aslant upon her pretty head, the hat worn down over her eyebrows, and the shimmering gold top off which the motion lighting danced around her all added up to a sight I will remember for a long time. Her smile was disarming to the nth degree and those big eyes were as inviting as a dream. She took my hand and thanked me, and at that point I knew I had to get the fuck away from all of it. Long, shapely legs everywhere, primped and dolled faces, manicured nails, and then me... Stuck in a perpetual state of need and desire which would not let up. Out, you fucking idiot -- get out now. Before any lasting damage can occur. Now. Bye. We exited the lounge and headed toward the Forum elevators to retire for the night. All in all, and considering that legendary dinner, the whole of the night was excellent. If not for my severely damaged state, all would have been well. That was one night out of two. The previous night was also of note, but as I stated above, the excursion will likely be scrutinized heavily in the future. Chains all over me. 'But our dread simply must go on'. A nod to Aaron and I continue. So the wallowing which preceded the trip remains. There was always an exit on the horizon, and considering all of the brushes with death throughout the early part of this decade I am surprised to be sitting here in front of the editor. There is just no sidestepping the issues which have and still dictate my plans on any given day. The option is there. It is always there... Calling and inviting. The issues pile upon one another and push me without pause. The trip illuminated things -- as I expected it would -- and seeing so much in a very short period of time was distressing. The Sea showed me what I needed, to a point, anyway, and allowed me to think in the cool quiet. We only made two trips from the resort to the shores, but that was enough. I could not effectively organize my thoughts to allow for a more detailed or extended series of outings. Once near the smell and visions, the past came in and began to rail at me to stay. Incredible structure, to the point of mindlessness Well, going into that part of the trip will sway the content away from Valentina and what she represents, but who the fuck tells me which way to steer the ship? No one. As the memories with the Brunette flooded me with their timeless beauty and difficulty, I began to realize that being there with someone else was becoming a godsend. The visions were similar yet due to the years in between, some aspects of that wondrous and desolate area had changed. I was initially disappointed to see that the museum and historic parts of the yacht club were all but gone, and the shoreline was larger as the Sea has dropped through evaporation. Walking among the fish? There is nothing like it in this world. They called to me, just as the past. The Brunette knew. She knew everything. We strolled the shore in more than one location, sidled up to a local bar in the middle of devastation, and climbed the mountain of salvation just outside Niland. All the while we walked with the cameras and brought everything into the lens. Sound familiar? Yes, just as the trip of a lifetime which I can never forget, this journey was one of attempting to capture all. Unfortunately, of all the days spent in those wondrous counties, most of my shooting was outside my thoughts. I took in very little because I could not relax and concentrate. The memories kept bubbling to the surface and each time I walked near something which had significance years ago I lost a little of my ability. The landscape has changed, naturally, but I was hoping nothing had. The Brunette was all over the place in my head and the thoughts of our time there absolutely destroyed any chance of meaningful work in the viewfinder. Fuck. And then there is the Russian displayed prominently down the page. She was there too... At the Sea and in both resorts. In my fucking head. Not Valentina specifically, but all that she displays and represents. All of it, in my head like any other Goddamned day. Along the shore with its multitudes of pulverized bones and the remains of a world gone away, the numbers were still there. They were causing me to misstep and miss much. They were in control, to an extent, and coupled with the Brunette and our fragmented trip, nothing could work properly within my head. The only positive I now see is that Michelle had yet to appear before me in life. Flashbacks to the Brunette looking upon me from a distance and across the barren seascape were spinning through my fucked up vision. I could see her with the backpack and hair blowing in the breeze over and over while walking near the breakwater. I saw her... Looking so beautiful that any description is impossible. Just look at the images of the Russian form here. The Brunette was staggeringly gorgeous and her image was all over that multicolored, heavy, and downtrodden place. Even the fish loved her. Stunning definition everywhere Onward the trip went, and all the while the visions and numbers remained within me like impermeable stains. They were tattooed on my brain and all over the landscape. Each step brought thoughts of the past attached to everything from wonder to sorrow. As we ventured around the south end of the Sea, I began to remember the route the Brunette and I took up the western shore. The stops there were quiet and beautiful, with the wildlife refuge offering a pleasant aside from the typical Salton grays and browns. The young one looked upon that site with such excitement and openness that she took me from the past and allowed for some measure of comfort and feelings of the newness of our vacation. She wandered with cameras in tow and shot some contrasting photos, and we both were taken aback by the mass of winged creatures inhabiting the green. When we exited the refuge, our drive up toward civilization was calm and warming. During the original trip to that place, the Brunette did all of the driving and sought out whatever may have brought us new scenery. Rehashing the route almost exactly did not bring me the somber difficulty I had envisioned. In fact, that area to the south and west looked new and different enough to keep the demons and troubles away. The young one and I looked to one town for its restaurant which ended up being closed for the day, so we headed to the back of the building. Once around the side and out toward the beach, I spied memories of being in that exact location years earlier. Everything flooded me and became overwhelming enough to disallow any subjective shooting. I captured three or four images, shut down the camera, and began to wonder why I needed to see that place again. Was it the desire to remember the Brunette and our time there, or was it to attempt an erase and rewrite to cage my sanity and leave me better than before? Hmm. Whichever, the decision began to strain me. All of that planning, time, money, and loss of work to go back to a place where I was rarely happy, and a situation which played out once before, good or bad, did not seem to be a balanced effort. I pressed for it nonetheless, and the young one agreed immediately. Throughout the proceeding days and nights leading up to our departure, the entire idea went up and down so many times that I thought I would lose my mind. I had no idea. I knew that there would be trials in seeing those areas and walking the paths tread by the Brunette, but I did not know the extent of the difficulties or if they would appear at all. Maybe the idea was to reconnect with the palms, fish, salt, and all of the loving feelings I carried from those places. And perhaps it was the knowing of what lay there awaiting my arrival. The cool and heavy air was familiar, but knowing that our relationship and living arrangements were not at risk was decidedly unfamiliar. The young one and I had no issues which could put us at odds in any way. The only down side to everything was the mounting storm within my fucked up head. Perhaps I wished to visit the Sea and surrounding areas simply to look at things through newer eyes and without the dramatic and overwhelming problems which plagued us. Everything Fuck it anyway. Look at Valentina's numerical properties and gaze upon one of the high points of this world's beauty. Forget the Sea, my drivel over what the fuck I did or should have done, and the resulting mashed potatoes now mixing in my cesspool of a mind. Just stick to the images and references to one of the most difficult pieces of writing I have ever attempted. 'The Salton Sea and the Heartbreak' came along with riveting feelings and a massive need to be back there, and now it has happened. I know I stated above that the details would be left for another time, and along those lines let me say that the occasion of conveying another trip to one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen may turn into a fruitless and endless effort over which I will agonize for years. The fucking thing may never happen. The sights at the resort in Vegas were actually easier to take in than the smell of decay around that toxic water. And the females in view along the pathway to Omnia may have been so disarming due to being at the furthest point along the spectrum of my life from where I have been. Soon my brain will be finished with that exploration and I may be done with the effort toward any catharsis. Fuck it. And here we are where it all began. The numbers, that unreal form along this page, and the splintered reality within which I sit in this fucking chair and inhabit. And now a word rarely placed within these essays... Why?"
Chains
Mature content No. 53 Published February 17th, 2018 6:35am pst read ( words) Past entries
"There is another... splayed upon this page and looking ever the sharp model with dimensions which have caused a measure of the depression which at this moment grasps at my soul and places me in the small space I own. Valentina is like many Russian models which capitalize on the absolute disparity of minimal body fat, large breasts, and the inner thigh radii that pushes at me to end my life. The idea of learning and creating a background summary of the numbers she and so many others carry on their bodies is sliding downward, just like my ambition to continue my sordid and black exploration of both them and myself. I am being folded in half, and the resulting position is one of hellish and suicidal darkness. And it continues, despite the recent stories of the past and their words of beauty and defeat. I am nearly done. Just as Phil Leotardo stated to Butch DeConcini... 'No more of this, Butchy. No more of this.' If the feelings were only so easy to control and/or cease. Nope. I am trapped. And Valentina is here to show off my weakness and desire as few others are able. I am fucking chained to my desires and needs and running out of breath. This private space on the Internet runs me in the neighborhood of a few thousand dollars per year to maintain and fill with thoughts from my deviant mind. The hardware continues to expand in order to keep everything safe from loss, and the domains which I personally own also expand as my needs dictate. The tens of thousands of code lines combined with the editing capabilities will increase, as well. There is no end to any of it, and until such time as I can either end the obsession or end myself, I remain chained to all of it like an abandoned bicycle rotting and rusting in a long-dead schoolyard. Even at this very moment in front of the infernal machine and with my sorry ass glued to the chair, I am hearing the soaring words of a man I cannot avoid -- the music of my very life and a different type of exploration related to the beauty of the world. Everything is connected to my obsession and desire. Which adds up to me stating the obvious yet again: the situation will kill me. There is no longer any doubt, because there is no longer any hope. I will continue here until I cannot take any more of it, and then the site will evolve from my complaint department to my epitaph. Fucking count on it, people.
Another example of mental paralysis
Again I start with a depressive preamble. And again I move on. Back to Valentina and her goddess-like dimensions. Do you see the most personal of radii leading up her inner thigh and toward the labia? Should I be asking such a thing? Is it too private, or does she show off something which can be an acceptable study? Who fucking knows, and most will never care. I need to know like I need nothing else. Yes, I went on recently about the dying project and the fucking chair which is my only semblance of comfort left in the world, but honestly who thinks of such things? Who? Tell me, for crying out loud. Sure, there are billions of images on millions of sites, but do they head in such a direction as I have attempted? Fuck no. None of it seems to be anywhere but in my damaged mind and rolling off my fingers like the rain on a freeway-speed vehicle. Oh well. The minority? Whatever. Where am I going with this? Nowhere. Why? Hmm. Fuck it anyway. Let's have a drink, shall we? That will help with something, I am certain. The last time I attempted a (somewhat) descriptive essay was the woman outside the Elixir in San Francisco. And that may very well be the last for all time. I just cannot go through the detailed and expanded line-to-line image of a female again. It is too difficult for me. Valentina would be an ideal candidate for such a writing, but what is the point? To rehash old feelings and put myself in an even deeper hole? Nope. The images suggest that she is carrying the dimensions of dreams and that should be enough. The numbers are all over her skin just as they tend to fly through my fucked up head. But trying to wordsmith her form is impossible. There are just not enough terms to cover such beauty and endless fascination. So... from here forward, the images will continue throughout the site and the models will be placed along the text just like the past three years. The staff is up to more than 350 edits by now and there are many more waiting in the wings. The chains? They are all over me. The recent trip to the Salton and the quick escape over to Vegas should eventually work their way into this content at some point, but a glean of a few thoughts seems appropriate now -- especially considering the staggering number of picturesque women running around that Goddamned town at any given moment. The smell and sight of the Sea brought me to my knees again, and the subsequent visions within the resort pressed me further and tightened the fucking chains. God.
The disparate form rarely seen
We sat at Alto in the Palace for a bit while waiting for our dinner reservation. That bar is on the main path from one side of the resort to the other, between the two halves of such a massive casino. The comfort afforded us there combined with gorgeous servers allowed me to relax and take in all that was around us. We were elevated, and positioned next to Omnia, which is right up against the sportsbook. We were there on a Friday, and the security contingent was all over the place setting up for people entering the club. Omnia is massive, gorgeous, and extremely popular. The number of people which it holds requires a hell of a setup within the paths for maintaining order and control. We watched the setup happening for a while, and then went to dinner right around the corner. Dinner in one of Flay's own restaurants was unreal, by the way. Afterward, we decided that sitting in Alto with its high prices was cheaper than sitting in the casino gambling. So, off to a corner table next to the DJ (yes, the music was played throughout the huge bar and spun by a lovely creature to my left). We ordered from the beautifully structured server and sunk into our big chairs to relax. The music kept everyone around us happy as we swilled and watched the multitudes walk by. As the time passed, we could see the crowd for Omnia growing and the ever-increasing level of dress worn by the many couples and groups both walking by and awaiting entrance to the club. Everything from a simple denim and t-shirt to the gorgeous silk dresses wrapped around physical anomalies went past at any given moment. There were so many differing people that I expected to arise from bed the next morning with a sore neck. Oy. A few of the passing individuals swung into the lounge near us to either grab a drink or dance -- sometimes both. One woman strolled by my position in a bright red cocktail dress and slingbacks which propelled my brain into the exosphere with all haste. Others came and went with their ideas of club-appropriate dress and I watched every single person. And then a woman walked past whom I will not soon forget. Yes, she could have been Michelle with shorter hair. Long nose, sharp shoulders, and likely standing over six feet with the heels. Gawd. My drinking rate increased immediately. Valentina's physique is very similar to that of Michelle, albeit she is shorter than the goddess who was perpetually wrapped around me. The woman in question was a reminder of the time at the universe's pinnacle with the soul unlike any other. Her hands carried nothing, and there was nary a purse or clutch. She floated -- just as many others -- but stood out due to the timeless beauty shared by very few. I fell a bit, regained my position as appearing in control, and continued to swill the Jack. God help me for my thoughts.
Valentina's unending draw
The clock did not seem to turn into the typical propeller as happens all too often while drinking. We sat for more than three hours and saw all manner of behavior, but nothing negative whatsoever. Everyone was upbeat and positive. Many came in to dance a few minutes to a familiar song and then leave, while others plopped into the soft chairs for the duration. By the time we made the decision to head to the room for some rest, Alto was full and the music was interfering with heartbeats. The entire picture was alien to me, of course, as my finest moments are spent right here in this fucking chair. Upon closing our tab, I stepped to the adorable DJ and tipped her heavily. She smiled in such a manner so as to send me flying (her name was Priscilla). The headphones aslant upon her pretty head, the hat worn down over her eyebrows, and the shimmering gold top off which the motion lighting danced around her all added up to a sight I will remember for a long time. Her smile was disarming to the nth degree and those big eyes were as inviting as a dream. She took my hand and thanked me, and at that point I knew I had to get the fuck away from all of it. Long, shapely legs everywhere, primped and dolled faces, manicured nails, and then me... Stuck in a perpetual state of need and desire which would not let up. Out, you fucking idiot -- get out now. Before any lasting damage can occur. Now. Bye. We exited the lounge and headed toward the Forum elevators to retire for the night. All in all, and considering that legendary dinner, the whole of the night was excellent. If not for my severely damaged state, all would have been well. That was one night out of two. The previous night was also of note, but as I stated above, the excursion will likely be scrutinized heavily in the future. Chains all over me. 'But our dread simply must go on'. A nod to Aaron and I continue. So the wallowing which preceded the trip remains. There was always an exit on the horizon, and considering all of the brushes with death throughout the early part of this decade I am surprised to be sitting here in front of the editor. There is just no sidestepping the issues which have and still dictate my plans on any given day. The option is there. It is always there... Calling and inviting. The issues pile upon one another and push me without pause. The trip illuminated things -- as I expected it would -- and seeing so much in a very short period of time was distressing. The Sea showed me what I needed, to a point, anyway, and allowed me to think in the cool quiet. We only made two trips from the resort to the shores, but that was enough. I could not effectively organize my thoughts to allow for a more detailed or extended series of outings. Once near the smell and visions, the past came in and began to rail at me to stay.
Incredible structure, to the point of mindlessness
Well, going into that part of the trip will sway the content away from Valentina and what she represents, but who the fuck tells me which way to steer the ship? No one. As the memories with the Brunette flooded me with their timeless beauty and difficulty, I began to realize that being there with someone else was becoming a godsend. The visions were similar yet due to the years in between, some aspects of that wondrous and desolate area had changed. I was initially disappointed to see that the museum and historic parts of the yacht club were all but gone, and the shoreline was larger as the Sea has dropped through evaporation. Walking among the fish? There is nothing like it in this world. They called to me, just as the past. The Brunette knew. She knew everything. We strolled the shore in more than one location, sidled up to a local bar in the middle of devastation, and climbed the mountain of salvation just outside Niland. All the while we walked with the cameras and brought everything into the lens. Sound familiar? Yes, just as the trip of a lifetime which I can never forget, this journey was one of attempting to capture all. Unfortunately, of all the days spent in those wondrous counties, most of my shooting was outside my thoughts. I took in very little because I could not relax and concentrate. The memories kept bubbling to the surface and each time I walked near something which had significance years ago I lost a little of my ability. The landscape has changed, naturally, but I was hoping nothing had. The Brunette was all over the place in my head and the thoughts of our time there absolutely destroyed any chance of meaningful work in the viewfinder. Fuck. And then there is the Russian displayed prominently down the page. She was there too... At the Sea and in both resorts. In my fucking head. Not Valentina specifically, but all that she displays and represents. All of it, in my head like any other Goddamned day. Along the shore with its multitudes of pulverized bones and the remains of a world gone away, the numbers were still there. They were causing me to misstep and miss much. They were in control, to an extent, and coupled with the Brunette and our fragmented trip, nothing could work properly within my head. The only positive I now see is that Michelle had yet to appear before me in life. Flashbacks to the Brunette looking upon me from a distance and across the barren seascape were spinning through my fucked up vision. I could see her with the backpack and hair blowing in the breeze over and over while walking near the breakwater. I saw her... Looking so beautiful that any description is impossible. Just look at the images of the Russian form here. The Brunette was staggeringly gorgeous and her image was all over that multicolored, heavy, and downtrodden place. Even the fish loved her.
Stunning definition everywhere
Onward the trip went, and all the while the visions and numbers remained within me like impermeable stains. They were tattooed on my brain and all over the landscape. Each step brought thoughts of the past attached to everything from wonder to sorrow. As we ventured around the south end of the Sea, I began to remember the route the Brunette and I took up the western shore. The stops there were quiet and beautiful, with the wildlife refuge offering a pleasant aside from the typical Salton grays and browns. The young one looked upon that site with such excitement and openness that she took me from the past and allowed for some measure of comfort and feelings of the newness of our vacation. She wandered with cameras in tow and shot some contrasting photos, and we both were taken aback by the mass of winged creatures inhabiting the green. When we exited the refuge, our drive up toward civilization was calm and warming. During the original trip to that place, the Brunette did all of the driving and sought out whatever may have brought us new scenery. Rehashing the route almost exactly did not bring me the somber difficulty I had envisioned. In fact, that area to the south and west looked new and different enough to keep the demons and troubles away. The young one and I looked to one town for its restaurant which ended up being closed for the day, so we headed to the back of the building. Once around the side and out toward the beach, I spied memories of being in that exact location years earlier. Everything flooded me and became overwhelming enough to disallow any subjective shooting. I captured three or four images, shut down the camera, and began to wonder why I needed to see that place again. Was it the desire to remember the Brunette and our time there, or was it to attempt an erase and rewrite to cage my sanity and leave me better than before? Hmm. Whichever, the decision began to strain me. All of that planning, time, money, and loss of work to go back to a place where I was rarely happy, and a situation which played out once before, good or bad, did not seem to be a balanced effort. I pressed for it nonetheless, and the young one agreed immediately. Throughout the proceeding days and nights leading up to our departure, the entire idea went up and down so many times that I thought I would lose my mind. I had no idea. I knew that there would be trials in seeing those areas and walking the paths tread by the Brunette, but I did not know the extent of the difficulties or if they would appear at all. Maybe the idea was to reconnect with the palms, fish, salt, and all of the loving feelings I carried from those places. And perhaps it was the knowing of what lay there awaiting my arrival. The cool and heavy air was familiar, but knowing that our relationship and living arrangements were not at risk was decidedly unfamiliar. The young one and I had no issues which could put us at odds in any way. The only down side to everything was the mounting storm within my fucked up head. Perhaps I wished to visit the Sea and surrounding areas simply to look at things through newer eyes and without the dramatic and overwhelming problems which plagued us.
Everything
Fuck it anyway. Look at Valentina's numerical properties and gaze upon one of the high points of this world's beauty. Forget the Sea, my drivel over what the fuck I did or should have done, and the resulting mashed potatoes now mixing in my cesspool of a mind. Just stick to the images and references to one of the most difficult pieces of writing I have ever attempted. 'The Salton Sea and the Heartbreak' came along with riveting feelings and a massive need to be back there, and now it has happened. I know I stated above that the details would be left for another time, and along those lines let me say that the occasion of conveying another trip to one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen may turn into a fruitless and endless effort over which I will agonize for years. The fucking thing may never happen. The sights at the resort in Vegas were actually easier to take in than the smell of decay around that toxic water. And the females in view along the pathway to Omnia may have been so disarming due to being at the furthest point along the spectrum of my life from where I have been. Soon my brain will be finished with that exploration and I may be done with the effort toward any catharsis. Fuck it. And here we are where it all began. The numbers, that unreal form along this page, and the splintered reality within which I sit in this fucking chair and inhabit. And now a word rarely placed within these essays... Why?"
Copyright ©2002-2024 comainterrupted.com All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Created by Brandywine Engineering using Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 and .NET Framework 4.8 Questions? Comments? Anything? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the psychos in charge
legal
about
archive
home
