Profession.

Profession
Function: noun
Text: 1. a solemn and often public declaration of the truth or existence of something
— see protestation.

You make me so happy. I think of hating it sometimes, but as soon as the idea of hating how happy you make me pops into my head, it's bubble is burst by my feelings for you. And those are the farthest thing from hate.

Anything I say from here on out is probably going to be incredibly corny. Forgive me, but it's the truth. And sometimes, the truth is corny.

I hate this so much. I hate it. I hate how things are because you are so far away. I think about you all the time. You know that... I think about us getting married and being happy together for the rest of our lives. You know that, too.

I think about you every day, but I never hate that. I never feel bad about thinking about you, because just thinking about you makes me feel so god damned good. I feel like I've been wrapped up in a warm bath when I imagine laying next to you. I think of hand-knitted sweaters when I imagine your arms around me. I can almost hear little morning birds chirping when I imagine your smile. I feel like I'm looking off the edge of the deck with you, looking at what is still the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen, when I think of looking into your eyes again.

It's ridiculous! Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I really am a crazy girl for even letting myself keep this up. This. This... thing. This thing that we have, Boy, is it real? At least not to the rest of the world. Just because it's as real to you and me when we're chatting as the sunrise and the sunset and the stars and the wind, does that make it really real? ...All of those things are real, but you can't touch them or hug them or kiss them, but I guess you can still love them. I guess if it's real to you and me, then it's real enough.

But that is just it, that's the thing, I want it to be so much MORE real. You're not like the sun or the stars, you're NOT untouchable. You are here! Well... I am here. And you are there. And there just isn't anything we can do about that and I know that and I hate that. I hate it so much.

You say such perfect things at such perfect times, and it touches my heart. It's like seeing something you want, but not being able to reach it. We have this odd little world we retreat to when we talk to eachother. Somewhere between reality and fantasy, maybe closest to perfection, and it's so nice.

It's so nice, but still. Is it real?

You know what I am about to tell you.
We have this thing, this weird, wonderful, beautiful thing. We get online and we talk. Not really chat, but just talk, and I love it. But for the sake of convenience to the rest of the world, we'll call it "chatting". So, when we "chat", it's like we're pretending everything is just the way we want it to be. We're together, and we're in love, and we're happy. We like this pretending space. We call eachother by our pet names when we're saying hello and goodbye, and we say sweet romantic things to eachother. We even sometimes fantasize together, about being married and having little babies and whatnot. We are happy in this pretending space. But sometimes, I feel like crying, because I know it is just that. Pretending space. And it makes me so happy, but it's not really like that.


Here comes the profession.
I am still afraid to even type it. I refuse to. If I am going to even write down those words, it's not going to be in a blog. It is going to be in a window, chatting with you, but even then it wouldn't be right. If I am going to say those words, I am going to say them the way I have always wanted, looking into your eyes, holding you, being held, both of us smiling. And then you would say those words. And then it wouldn't be pretending space anymore. Sometimes, when we chat, I am anxious to see what you type. I watch the little bubble that tells me you're typing, and my heart beats faster. Because I want to see you type those words too. And I'm saying, "Hit enter already!" But again, we're just pretending, right? Either of us saying those things... That isn't something either of us pretend about.

But are we even really pretending?

When I am with other guys, in the back of my head, I am torn. I am thinking, "Oh, that things with that Boy, that's just for pretend. And although it is nice, this is not pretend, this is real, and this is right now, and this is what I am looking for." And then I am also, or later on, I am thinking, "This isn't real. This is just filling the space between now and when that Boy and I will actually get married just like we imagine." Which is it, though? Which should I be feeling?

You tell me, Boy.
What are we going to do?

You say you'll teach me what happiness is.
I say that isn't something you can teach over a chat window, is it.
That wasn't a question mark.
That was a period.
It isn't.
You're right, I'm right, and even if we don't say it, we both know that.

But why are we scared? Why are we avoiding it? What are we even afraid of?!
It's you and me against the world, right? But we're both to scared to do that. you say you have no room for fear in your life. But you and I are pretending. Which means we're afraid of either losing that pretend space or losing something else. I don't even know how to explain this.

I want to tell you those things, Boy. I want so badly to say those words out loud, if even to myself, but I can't. I am tempted to write it to you, and I have been for so very long, but I haven't. I just... I just can't. Even when we were sort of together in the beginning, I was afraid to say those things to you, those special precious words. We never said that to eachother. It was scary then, and I guess it's still scary now.

But I have never had THIS much trouble with those words. Ever. Not with anybody else. And maybe that says something...

I hate that I can't say it and I don't know if we're both just pretending because it makes us happy, but it's torture. And I'm afraid of losing it. Whatever it is. This thing. This thing we share.
I can say this much, though.
Whatever it is, that... that thing of ours...
It is beautiful.
It makes me happy.
And I love it.

I can say that much, I love this thing.
That's as close to a profession as I can manage right now. And I hope it's enough. For me, and for you.

I can't say it.
I just can't. Not here.
but I want to.
So badly.

-Peanut

P.S.
Your Peanut.

An Endeavor of Trepidation.

Trepidation 

Pronunciation:

\ˌtre-pə-ˈdā-shən\

Function:

noun

Etymology:

Latin trepidation-, trepidatio, from trepidare to tremble, from trepidus agitated; probably akin to Old English thrafian to urge, push, Greektrapein to press grapes

Date:

1605

1archaic : a tremulous motion : tremor2: timorous uncertain agitation : apprehension <trepidation about starting a new job>

synonyms see fear.     

                     

I am leaving you, and I am afraid. I am so scared that I'll lose you, that you'll lose me, that I'll lose myself. I'm afraid of loss.

There are not a whole lot of things in my life that are very permanent. In a life controlled by others, you can not help but lose things that you love. When Mom wanted someone out of the "family", all contact was severed and I have therefore lost people I loved for years because of her. I suppose I blame her for most of my recently surfaced separation issues, and although she no longer controls my life, the anxiety remains.

I always thought it was cruel how easily people can move on. I must admit, this is a bit hypocritical of me, seeing as how it's a trait I have developed over the years. I suppose I hate that about myself. I hate how easily adaptable I am. How well-adjusted I can be... I hardly missed Paris until it started to kill Dad, and that is awful. And Dad... it was like he could just leave. I wonder sometimes if he wanted to stay or if he was willing to go. I don't know those kinds of things... But it seemed to me that if he wanted to stay, he would've put down the bottle and picked up the phone.

That's another thing... I used to feel awful about not calling people, but I have recently realized that the phone works both ways. When the people I loved were kicked out of my life, that rule apparently didn't apply or something. ...They let go of me so easily. They moved on like I was dead.

Well, I am not dead. I am, in fact, very much alive. And I am frightened.

I'm afraid of being let go again. Of not calling. Of the phone not ringing. I am so afraid of leaving the one constant in my life behind. I'm afraid of leaving it all for the future.

A very good friend, mentor, and teacher once asked me to look for the point in fear. What purpose was this fear I'd conjured serving? It was a moving question, and one that I had managed to avoid answering.

Tonight, I think I have stirred the answer within me.

I know this really interesting Boy who makes me feel like he doesn't believe in fear. Once I asked him what frightened him the most, and he told me something along the lines of "My life doesn't have any room for fear."

He went on to explain how he felt there was no point in fearing anything, how he doesn't believe in it, how he's not really afraid of anything.

I think, at least on this matter particularly, this Boy I know is full of shit.

Everyone is afraid of something, whether they admit it to the world, or themselves, or their God, or their pillow, or their blogs, or nobody. Everyone fears, and though this is not a comfort to those who are afraid, it is a fact.

Everybody fears, and fear has a purpose.

Fear is a necessity. We need it to survive. Fear is also a good thing to have, usually. Fear is what stops us from doing things we shouldn't, and fear helps us make things better. A person with a perfectly rational sense of fear can only benefit from it.

I think I have a very rational sense of fear, and my fear's purpose is to make me change what I know is not right. 

I am afraid of losing these things, these people, because I know that losing them would be wrong. Because I am afraid, I must work to make sure that does not happen. 

I am afraid of these people giving up on me, losing me, and so I shall not give them any reason to give me up.

I am afraid of forgetting these things. I am most afraid of forgetting them and everything we've been through. I need to work on this with the most diligence of all. Getting past a fear is like throwing yourself in the briar patch, and coming out clean. I'm afraid that although it seems clear now, I will fuck it up and I will be crippled by this fear... I fear fear itself, sometimes.

All the comfort I have managed to find is in knowing that my fear has a function and a purpose, and that it can do nothing but enable me to better tackle unforeseen obstacles in this endeavor of trepidation.

Fearfully braving the road ahead,

-Aleecat

A Briefly Lascivious Affair.

Lascivious
Function: adjective.
Text: 1 depicting or referring to sexual matters in a way that is unacceptable in polite society— see obscene 1.
2 having a strong sexual desire— see lustful.

I was browsing through the usual late-night cable crap, when I happened upon The History Channel. The program listed was, "The History of Sex."
Suffice it to say, it peaked my interest.
I was unable to cath the entire program, but what I did see of it was fascinating.

...There are some things you should know about me, this being my first entry and all.
First of all, to give you a better idea of some significant background, my Mother is a professional Dominatrix. She is associated with a sort of "clan", if you will, called Serpentarium House. The people that make up this "clan" are the closest thing I have to family. Hell, they ARE family.
I have been raised in a very open setting, and have never been ignorant in the Sex Ed. department.

So, that being said, it peaked my interest. I'm usually attracted to the perverse and macabre to see if there's anything I don't know about it. I consider myself well versed in the realm of sex and fetishism because I have grown up around it. So. Bring it on, History Channel. Tell me something I DON'T know. Impress me.

Well, needless to say, I was not disappointed.

I came in around the time they were discussing the reprocussions the Victorian Era had on our sexual knowledge, identity, and standards of today. You know, for people so outrightedly prudish, they were a bunch of filthy kinky pervs! I found the subject very stimulating (no pun intended.).
I took particular interest in the topic of Victorian Age Erotica. Now, from a literary stand-point, there seems to be a lot left unexplored in this category! I had my laptop at hand while tuning in, so I was immediatly Wiki-ing things of interest that came up. One such search topic was a work of Erotic Literature from the age known as "The Sheik". Apparently, a popular erotic theme in this button-up, high-collared, long-skirted society was the forecful deflowering of innocent virgins.

This theme was common throughout erotica of the time, both in the fields of art and literature. The Sheik is a story of a young girl who gets kidnapped by, well, a Sheik. He forces her into marriage and takes her into his Harem to add to his exstensive collection of wives. He tries unsuccessfully to woo her, and once denied one too many times, finally ravages her. However, the prevailing theme is not the rape, but the epiphany it causes the young victim to have; the girl, after being ravaged, realizes that she loves sex! She adopts an entirely different sexual persona, completely opposing the standards for women at the time. Apparently, men have always been complete closeted hypocrits.

I must say, I am curious as to what more delving into on the subject would result in. I'll surely let you know once my curiosity takes over.

Nice first blog?
Yes, I think it'll have to do.

-Aleecat