03:49 pdt 10-01-2018

The staff is absent, so this is all me. Nothing is good, nothing is up, nothing matters. Suck it.

The long story will continue. Just not yet.

Eden and the Edge

read ( words)


Things are getting worse as I type these words. Last summer the entry entitled 'The Failing Fantasy and Alexis' appeared on the main index, and that marked the first foray into exploration of my issues within life. Since then, my drive and desire have spiraled out of control, nearly pressing me to flee this area for the Promised Land and relief of some flavor. All of the splayed writing regarding Andrea and the heavenly time we spent together can be summed up by the first image on this fucking page. Below you see the very reason for my existence and the primary push toward whatever I may become before leaving this world behind. I cannot avoid any of it. After being with her, there is no other direction aside from down. And I am referring to the black bottom of everything.

The trip to Florida represented a period unparalleled in my life, and one I cannot place behind me. All of it is still within, at the forefront, and narrowing me into a fine line with no turns. Every single day I sit and write and remember, however nothing changes. All of the desire has taken me over and I cannot see straight. All I can do is dream. First there was the Eden, but now I am on an edge... Below that is a pit... The bottom is waiting. I see it as clearly as I saw Andrea's soulful eyes looking right through me, and as clearly as the Raven professing her love over and over throughout months.



At times the mere sight of a woman near my obsession can be crippling, and I mean an absolutely accurate example of all that I have sought for years, like Andrea. Just yesterday one such woman strolled by me and headed for the bar, all the while likely unknowing of the mental damage which was being caused as she moved. Others? Fuck no... I have no clue as to what may go through other people's minds and I really do not give half a shit, either. I have enough to deal with inside my own head. She just went up for a drink, awaited attention, and then walked back downstairs to meet with her partner and take a seat. From my position within the room, I saw her from the front, side, rear. I saw her long, black hair, tapered thighs, impeccable nails and makeup, and heels just lifting enough to send my head into a tailspin and force me quickly out of the bar. Fuck. I stayed for a while, saw another example (a person I have met), and soon fled for the privacy of my car and back home where I had control over what was exposed to my deviant eyes. The feelings are terrible when something like that takes place. I cannot focus upon anything, hear clearly what others are saying, or navigate my own head without issue. And the booze flows more quickly, and the combination soon turns me into a drunken wreck. I just cannot help it, nor have I been able to rise from it. The pit is huge, and holds me as nothing else in life. The depression flares, the realization that the dreams are over begins to take me away from myself, and then more alcohol flows. Eventually I fall asleep and wait to do it all over again. Another woman, another fall from however far I had been able to lift myself, and then another essay. The cycle of shit. Nice.

The woman yesterday looked as if she prepared herself for any given day in such a manner. She was not terribly tall, perhaps four inches over five feet, slender, no tummy discernible from her hips, and enough gap to push buttons within me. Just another person out at the bar to enjoy the games, the company, the whatever. Just a person. But upon seeing her walk across the room? I became immediately distraught and had to leave before engaging too many others in any conversation. Her image remained in my brain for some time before I was able to distract myself with other images and this fucking editor. The latter is not much of a help. More like a compulsion of sorts... an outlet for these past few years which has not helped me in the least. In fact, the analysis here -- along with all those experiences laid down for all to see -- has only reinforced my need to explore further than I have. Others tell me that to spew my words across the pages and release whatever has been cooped up in my head should allow for some relief. Well, that is not happening. I am still the same damaged, partly suicidal and depressed wreck that I have been since the Raven left the world. Before that? Wrecked for other reasons -- mostly my own doing. And even after slathering the site with all of the Vegas stories and the difficulties they ultimately caused, I still need to run there and drown into the capitol of sex and booze. I need it like I need to draw breath. Fuck me. Why? Is there nothing else? Am I just going to sit here and type until falling off the chair? Does it matter?

She is still in there a little bit. Part Asian, maybe? Black hair, black shoes, fairly dark skin, big eyes. Oh yes, the eyes. Big eyes just fucking kill me. Along with the dimensions of the goddesses I've seen? Holy shit, that is a problem. The girl was beautiful, but I will never know why. I will sit here until one day it becomes too much and I drink myself to death. And I will do it whilst staring at something like what you see below...



Yes, that. There are still other things in my life through which I can enjoy and find distraction long enough to relax, but they are fewer and fewer. Unless I am holed up at home and not in front of the computers, there is always possibility that I will spy someone and then fall through the fucking floor again. It has happened, the frequency has increased, it will happen... It will. They are out there, and I am on another fucking planet from which I see everything. All of them. Some fade, some do not.


I have no fucking idea of what to do from one day to the next. Mornings are the worst, unless I am going to work. That is likely the most effective distraction, and serves to help, depending upon the location. For example, one morning months ago we were parked in Chinatown, just a few doors from California. Along that main drag, many people are walking into the financial district, and that is one of the parts of the city which absolutely teems with professionals. There is a disproportionate amount of physically attractive women -- many of whom are dressed to the nines for work -- and one happened by just prior to us entering the building. She was heading east on California, not dressed for work (I think), and went by in a matter of seconds. I caught sight, fell into a fucking pit, and could not get the image of her form out of my head for days. She was unreal, tall, slender, and wearing form-fitting workout clothing. As she moved toward the corner -- just a split second before moving out of sight -- she pulled at the waistband of those slim, gray pants and subsequently exaggerated the radii which rule my life. I could not believe the timing, and the picture of everything I have sought being prominently stretched before my very eyes. There were no seams other than the rear center (like the pants Andrea wore on occasion), and the tightening of the material left me a fucking wreck and nearly unable to function. I had to see... I needed all of it before my waiting, hungry eyes. I fucking needed it so badly that I thought I would throw myself under the nearest moving streetcar. God damn, everything right there but a universe away. Crippled, again. Sad, mired in negative thinking, depressed, and obsessed beyond belief. And that was not the first nor the last occasion. There will be more.

Throughout the next several hours of working in that location, my head often left the job and darted into that woman's warm pants. I had to know what was underneath, but never would nor will. She just walked by and sent me flying down -- a nosedive -- for the remainder of the day. Upon completion of our duties, we left to drive back toward home, and that allowed the formation and structure of how I could attempt a description. Well, there is none. Only the image created above. There are no words available nor phrases in existence which can adequately paint an accurate picture of such a sight. None of it is there. I can still see her a bit, but that does not matter in the least. She is gone... All of them are gone... And my faith is gone.


How many more? Who knows, but they are out there... Waiting to be seen and appreciated on levels which are unacceptable to most. At least I believe that, anyway. Until then I will sit here and wallow, consider railroading another female therapist (hopefully SHE won't look anything like the images splayed here for years), and drink away the pain of being so fucked up. More and more I find being around others very difficult, and eventually I will be away from them -- far enough to keep my aching eyes out of others' sight. And then I will see another and drop through to that familiar pit, write about it, and nothing will improve. Can it improve? Is it up to me? If so, I have faith that my willingness will falter. Part of the problem is the combination of this vast obsession and my nonexistent self-worth. That came from years of hurting others and never learning to change. Or cope. Or anything, for Christ's sake. I have not lifted a finger in years because I do not believe that I am worth the help. Others do, but being a person whose value is derived from terrible places, I rarely accept any platitudes without crushing them, sending pointed words back, and then wordsmithing them into an inescapable hole. That is my method of operation, and I have never been defeated. Therapists have tried and failed as I have pushed my thoughts out like daggers with poisoned tips. I end up leaving them no room for assistance... Only frustration. I am beyond help, and I did it to myself.


I need to see, to stare, to try and understand exactly why I turned out this way. Yes, the curves which have been scrutinized here for three plus years, and are still displayed prominently on each entry. I know not why, but they have become the fucking central preoccupation of my life. On very few occasions have I been able to look to my heart's content. The Raven (whose name will never be revealed, although a few know who She was), and the angel herself. That woman did not understand me, however she allowed me to explore as much as I wished. That is part of why I call her an angel, among other things which have already been gone over in spades.


What the fuck now? Keep writing and wallowing? I do not know. I fear the end of this analysis, and I fear the end of me. All this time since the Raven first asked 'why?' has been very difficult. I looked at Her in those form-fitting pants and asked that She back up and stand with Her feet together. Once She did as I requested, I fell hard and have not recovered. Yes, Andrea did the same, but the Raven was close to home -- too close, really. And She was willing to allow me anything, even beyond just looking. I could not, and as difficult as it was to avoid being physical with Her, I did it out of self-preservation and the importance of my relationship with the young one. The Raven offered physical love but I refrained. Her emotional condition was better for us never moving in such a direction despite the need. I sat there on the floor of Her bedroom, the Raven wearing nothing aside from a tiny thong on her tall, slender frame, and looking down at me with fiery eyes. I was gazing between her shapely, wondrous thighs with that little garment at eye-level. I stared. She turned. I stared more. She asked if I wished to measure and photograph, but my mind was too far gone for clear thinking. All I could do was speak with Her, ask Her to dress, and head out for lunch. We did just that, and during the meal I mentioned that I would never see the like again. And I have not. Others are there, but the memory slices me to ribbons.

And now She is as gone as my hope.

Andrea was very similar, yet taller by one inch. She and I were over-the-top physical in every sense of the word. Nothing was ever left out despite the pain I felt at each occasion. The woman was unbelievable, and felt toward the world nearly equal to the Raven. In the nearly four years between spending those weeks with Andrea and the fateful meeting with the Raven, I did my best to shut it all out. I failed, and still fail. I fell, and still fall. Andrea melted me into a puddle of molten rock, and then the Raven did the same. Everything was there -- available to me for the asking -- and now there is nothing. Not a fucking thing. Just memories and pain on a daily basis.

I will not go through this forever. Something has to change, and if that means the end of me for the purpose of turning off my head for good, so be it. I don't fucking care. Eventually I will run out of words, anyway. Without this endeavor, I have little else. Again... I did it to myself. I allowed it to happen. Others tried to help but I am too difficult with which to deal. That is understandable, as I am very intelligent and capable of anything or any direction if I so desire. Unfortunately, I still do not believe that my value warrants such a change. I just do not know, but the down is taking over any semblance of up. Fuck me.

Out of care for the young one, I may pursue another relationship with a female therapist. Right now I am unsure, but I may try just to satiate her need to help. I can deal with almost anything except for the sight of those radii before my eyes, and that includes a person genuinely trying to help me. In the beginning there will be simple questions, learning, and hope on their part. Later, however, I fear the roadblock will be even larger than it has been for fifteen years. Yep, I am that difficult. Try me.

The edge of everything. Ashley, Andrea, and the Raven were Eden.



Where am I going with this? Nowhere... The entire entry is simply blathering from the pit of pain. The long story will continue soon, but for now I had to get this out of my head, even knowing the entire point is fucking moot. I am just sitting here typing away and listening to the click of the keys. I could not sleep, made coffee, fired up the computers, and began throwing this shit to the screen. Am I worse off than anyone else? Nope... I am just a person. They are just people. Do I have more issues? Who the fuck knows. I have not the time nor the inclination to attempt an analysis of others. Am I feeling pity for myself? Fuck. No. Just... Fuck no. I placed myself in this situation. No one else did it. I am at fault, but I consciously did it anyway. I ceased trying to help myself, and aside from sitting here writing, I have done nothing else to attempt a rise from the pit. I do not believe I deserve such a lift, and that is not up for debate. That is entirely up to me.

Do not fucking ask.

More words, more images, the story which began with the bartender's ass in DFW continuing (maybe), and me moving in whatever direction this may be. I cannot help but type -- sometimes cutting, sometimes sexy, sometimes funny. The story is as real as my fingers on the warm keys, as is my deeply depressed state. MDD, as told to me by Dr. Bob in late 2003, and again by my current medical doctor. She wishes to help, too, and pushed me to seek mental health care in Pleasanton, just as in the past. I am not going over there. Yes, above I stated that I may speak with someone on this side of the bay for no other reason than to make the young one happy, but there is just no fucking faith left. I threw it away, just like the tens of thousands of dollars spent in search of that bliss. Who knows... Maybe I will win the lottery and head back to the goblet to drown in alcohol and a heaping helping of high-priced call girls. I've done it before.

I am sort of all over the map this morning, but I guess it matters not.

If the site goes dark, you will know the reason."