The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

[sweepthefloor]

You know I have often pondered about the caged bird that sings such tender sweet songs. Maybe she is the only one that is actually free, and from her perspective the rest of the world lives behind bars and she sings to us to comfort us as we suffer our captured fate.

So maybe your heart flutters wildly as it strains to comfort you until it can actually set you free?

It's a nice idea. If I had a bird in a cage I would probably whisper to it, and ask what the chirping and singing is all about. I am most positive the bird would answer me, and I would understand.

I have asked my heart: why are you fluttering so wildly? It never answered me, or I could not hear it, or my brain could not comprehend the chirp language.

I am free, and desire forced capture till I end up crawling into it myself, on my own. It confuses to me to think that the real free is in the cage, but I think I get it.

I am not sure if that makes any sense at all.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Yea but if you don't behave all you get to bang is prison dudes. Empathy ain't the only motivator around.

Man thinks: I'd do terrible things to her, if I could get away with it.

One day people will have chips implanted into them that detail: past medical history, medications, etc.

One day sexual perverts will have chips implanted into them that detail: non-consent me, etc.

Imagine: No more talking. I meet a man. I like him. He scans my chip. I scans his chip. We get it on.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I will blow my brains out in a repetitious manner like this hick mick later on. I will be lost in a frenzy of regularly irregular beats. http://www.youtube.com/user/thehickmick#p/u/11/v6NBoEWNMHk

Till the spit slips down my own stick. (chanter) My mouth is out of shape.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Here it is: the controlled fluttering in my chest cage. It feels kinda like this.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=en5OdEE59y0&feature=related

 

[sweepthefloor]

Love is a mix tape playing in your audiocassette device. It is all mixed up. I got angry and smashed the plastic. I stretched one small piece of the tape. I didn’t destroy all of it; maybe I knew I might want to listen to it again one day.

That tape felt good in my hands. It sounded good in my ears.

I am staring at a tape-splicing kit from the shack. I have the ability to repair this, I just don’t want to.

It's all mixed up but it is the same kind of music.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I spill a high fire energy that I don’t know what to do with. I can’t contain it. I went to the container store and bought lots of fireproof containers. I put myself inside many little boxes. Like a liquid I fit the shape of each box, but I always leak out.

When you let yourself slip out onto the floor, all kinds of mops appear. They are all sticks with different mop heads.

I am staring at one mop and he says: I have many lovers all over the country, just so you know.

My mind whispers: Just so you know, I am not your lover. You have not violated my throat with your manhood. I didn’t let you do that, and you did not rape my mouth. I didn’t make love to it either. You didn’t shove your dirty mop head into my swash bucket.

And then I slapped his face with my eyes. He didn’t slap me back.

Somebody let my anger out of a grey steel box that I thought was fire proof. I would like to just lie down and be taken, but some thing ignited my fight- as if my liquids were fuel, and his boldness was a matchstick.

I am a blast furnace melting steel. They don’t make mops to clean that up.

 

[Sir_Winston54]

This thread puts so many detailed and graphic pictures in my head...



it's like heroin.

 

[sweepthefloor]

This thread puts so many detailed and graphic pictures in my head...



it's like heroin.

Thank you, I always wanted to be an analgesic.

---

This is the smack and we do not have to worry about getting infective endocarditis on our heart valves.

This is the word horse and we are all getting high, but none of us are nodding out.

This is the van needle exchange program in a dark alley of some city street, and we are injecting clean words into our veins.

This is the foil, but we are not chasing the dragon, we are read poppied up.

This is the white nurse, and we are all effectively relieved from our dope sickness.

This is the coke and diesel up our nose; one gives chest pain the other takes it away.

This is the big bang and it hurts so good to pop prick the poet fix.

This is the deck that is not cut with powder bunk; it is 100% aunt hazel in our detox-ing dilating eyes.

This is the gravy train, and we are cooking up our own analogies on silver spoons.

This is the good junk, our brains are filled with bundles, and we never run out of each other.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I tried to be a good learner. The learning management system on my schools website has an awful spell-check system. While typing about nurse blogging related to creative learning, it decided I meant nurse flogging.

As a result of this system failure I headed over to the state library website and began a search with Ebscohost for perversion. Initially, I searched all available databases typing in: total power exchange. The search resulted 17 pages of interesting articles including: Relativistic, numerically parameterized, optimized, effective potentials for the ground state of the atoms He through Ra. I am chemically inclined but that is not the kind of chemistry I was looking for.

I decided to utilize my limiters. I narrowed down my databases and searched for sex AND power. I can’t wait to read: The Erotic Construction of Power Exchange, by Trevor Butt and Darren Langbridge.

Participants magnify and ironize the way power infuses sexual relationships in everyday gender relations. Indeed, it has been suggested (Chancer, 1992) that it is this feature of sadomasochism that endows it with such opprobrium. (Langdridge & Butt, 2005)

Reference​

Langdridge, D., & Butt, T. (2005). The erotic construction of power exchange. . Journal of Constructivist Psychology, 18(1), 65-73. doi:10.1080/10720530590523099

 

[sweepthefloor]

Thank you perverted spell checker for distracting me from serious writing!

 

[sweepthefloor]

He called me, doll. How are you, doll? You are a doll, doll. I like you, doll.

My mind whispers: He likes me (insert comma) doll. The doll (insert comma) is well. I am a (insert comma) doll.

I told him: I am a realdoll.

I painted a blank stare all over my body with mental acrylics. My lipstick is larger than my mouth. My eyes are larger than my brain. My features are as exaggerated as my thoughts.

I am a real doll. I could have picked out any style I wanted, but I chose to be a real doll, just like me. I can’t tell the real doll apart from the girl in a criminal line up.

I look at him and see Ken hanging from the Barbie box with a pair of Mattel nylons, and my Mother is saying: Ken is an asshole so he hung himself. I can’t remember if Barbie cried or not.

I am conjuring up images of mutilated dolls, and he is talking about the presidents Thanksgiving Day speech.

I hear every word he says with the left side of my brain, and I imagine every thing I think with the right side of my brain at the same time.

My belly wanted to say: Who is Obama? I stopped myself because I didn’t think I would get away with it. The gig would be up, and all the fun would be over. Acrylic is not waterproof. I am still a real doll.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Maybe every girl is some kind of Barbie. Maybe I am the Barbie that some thing got a hold of and mutilated, and then I liked it. Maybe I liked it, even when I didn’t like it. Maybe I was the mutilator.

After that, all the other toy boxes weren't the same.

 

[YourCaptor]

Maybe every girl is some kind of Barbie. Maybe I am the Barbie that some thing got a hold of and mutilated, and then I liked it. Maybe I liked it, even when I didn’t like it. Maybe I was the mutilator.

After that, all the other toy boxes weren't the same.

Barbies suck due to non removable underwear.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Barbies suck due to non removable underwear.

All the best Barbies do suck, don't they? Because Barbie gives great blow jobs, Mattel decided that the underwear didn't need to be removable.

 

[YourCaptor]

All the best Barbies do suck, don't they? Because Barbie gives great blow jobs, Mattel decided that the underwear didn't need to be removable.

I wish.

My cousin had a doll that wet itself when you feed it. One day she was disappointed with the water flow and cut it's dick off to improve it.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I wish.

My cousin had a doll that wet itself when you feed it. One day she was disappointed with the water flow and cut it's dick off to improve it.

I had no idea that they made baby-dolls with correct anatomy for both sexes. I figured all baby-dolls were girls.

 

[sweepthefloor]

I have this recurring fantasy where my mind is a blank page. I have read nothing. I have not seen any movies or television shows. I stare at him with my big green wet eyes and he feeds me novels and movies every day. I eat up these stories and flicks like a hungry baby. I anticipate each story like a little girl sitting in front of a knowledge gift box with a big red silky ribbon.

Imagine saying to a lover: Let’s pretend I don’t know anything.

And he chooses the stories and books with a motive, so that I only know what he wants me to know. That is kinda controlling.
--

 

[butterfly_flip]

I have this recurring fantasy where my mind is a blank page. I have read nothing. I have not seen any movies or television shows. I stare at him with my big green wet eyes and he feeds me novels and movies every day. I eat up these stories and flicks like a hungry baby. I anticipate each story like a little girl sitting in front of a knowledge gift box with a big red silky ribbon.

Imagine saying to a lover: Let’s pretend I don’t know anything.

And he chooses the stories and books with a motive, so that I only know what he wants me to know. That is kinda controlling.
--

Imagine you're sitting on the floor amongst an array of clippings that you'd cut out of the books. Before you lies a scrapbook, into which you have stuck your favourite parts of those stories. You present the finished item to your lover as a gift, but not a gift to him, as a gift to yourself......you want him to know which parts of the stories inspire you, which parts move you, and those that also make you cringe with fear.
You dismiss the remnants into oblivion, having taken back the control....that is your story, the story which he should be grateful you have shown him.

 

[YourCaptor]

I have this recurring fantasy where my mind is a blank page. I have read nothing. I have not seen any movies or television shows. I stare at him with my big green wet eyes and he feeds me novels and movies every day. I eat up these stories and flicks like a hungry baby. I anticipate each story like a little girl sitting in front of a knowledge gift box with a big red silky ribbon.

Imagine saying to a lover: Let’s pretend I don’t know anything.

And he chooses the stories and books with a motive, so that I only know what he wants me to know. That is kinda controlling.
--

Hot

First I'd play... maybe Gilda.

 

[sweepthefloor]

Imagine you're sitting on the floor amongst an array of clippings that you'd cut out of the books. Before you lies a scrapbook, into which you have stuck your favourite parts of those stories. You present the finished item to your lover as a gift, but not a gift to him, as a gift to yourself......you want him to know which parts of the stories inspire you, which parts move you, and those that also make you cringe with fear.
You dismiss the remnants into oblivion, having taken back the control....that is your story, the story which he should be grateful you have shown him.

)i(

awwa that is so romantic. I would probably keep the scrapbook in my head like a hoarder till I got together with some girlfriends. We would be all giddy and giggly and I would be like: Guess what I know? Guess what I found out? hehehehe

Hot

First I'd play... maybe Gilda.

You think it's hot? It seems like a lot of work for the coder. Maybe if he is a computer programmer, he might get it, like it.

 

[sweepthefloor]

There is no code, so I filled my head with funny and thought: Now this is something I can relate to.

I curled up on the floor next to the fire, and refused to cry for ideas that do not exist outside of my own al dente noodle brain.

My silly is cooked firm.

 

[HottieMama]

Thank you, I always wanted to be an analgesic.

---

This is the smack and we do not have to worry about getting infective endocarditis on our heart valves.

This is the word horse and we are all getting high, but none of us are nodding out.

This is the van needle exchange program in a dark alley of some city street, and we are injecting clean words into our veins.

This is the foil, but we are not chasing the dragon, we are read poppied up.

This is the white nurse, and we are all effectively relieved from our dope sickness.

This is the coke and diesel up our nose; one gives chest pain the other takes it away.

This is the big bang and it hurts so good to pop prick the poet fix.

This is the deck that is not cut with powder bunk; it is 100% aunt hazel in our detox-ing dilating eyes.

This is the gravy train, and we are cooking up our own analogies on silver spoons.

This is the good junk, our brains are filled with bundles, and we never run out of each other.

As an ex-junkie, reading that was a mind-fuck in and of itself...

 

[butterfly_flip]

)i(

awwa that is so romantic. I would probably keep the scrapbook in my head like a hoarder till I got together with some girlfriends. We would be all giddy and giggly and I would be like: Guess what I know? Guess what I found out? hehehehe

My mind wanders, and sees the giving of the gift as a childish gesture akin to making a list for Santa, which relies upon the recipient to respect our wishes and pander to our needs....who's to say that the information contained within said scrapbook couldn't be used against us?
No, I think I would make the scrapbook in secret, keeping it locked away, wrapped in ribbon lest my lover discover my secrets.

 

[sweepthefloor]

As an ex-junkie, reading that was a mind-fuck in and of itself...

Have you ever written about the experience? The letters ex in front of the junky. sounds like a good title.
I hope the mind-fuck was not traumatic. You are very special to recover from that.

 

[HottieMama]

Have you ever written about the experience? The letters ex in front of the junky. sounds like a good title.
I hope the mind-fuck was not traumatic. You are very special to recover from that.

I've written..mostly in blurts and disjointed "stories," because that all I come up with. No worries though, it wasn't traumatic. More like a reminder of how grateful I am to not be "there" anymore. Sometimes after 13 years, it's "easy" to forget.