So many books to read and no desire to crack any of them open. Something is very wrong.

"But I didn't understand then. That I could hurt somebody so badly she would never recover. That a person can, just by living, damage another human being beyond repair." -- Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun

I read the words years ago, but it's only in reflection that I am once again amazed at how a man I've never met (and whose culture background is so completely different from my own) can so perfectly and simply state a complex mesh of thoughts that have been bouncing around in my head for these past few months.

It makes sense, of course. If we accept the idea that there are people in the world whose very presence makes life a little brighter for us (personally; in ways that are unique to us and them), it only stands to reason that there are also people for whom the opposite is true. People whose very nature draws us in and then abrades from us that which is good. And that this damage is done without malice -- simply different natures causing involuntary friction -- is the most beguiling and irksome part.

No. The most irksome part, of course, is realizing, with extreme horror, that you have discovered someone for whom you cause this involuntary damage.

Yet another way in which I'm an aberration: more than most, I require narrative in my porn.

" Forty-two male-female pairs, matched for ability, played two chess games via the Internet. When players were unaware of the sex of opponent (control condition), females played approximately as well as males. When the gender stereotype was activated (experimental condition), women showed a drastic performance drop, but only when they were aware that they were playing against a male opponent. When they (falsely) believed to be playing against a woman, they performed as well as their male opponents."

via. Chessbase

The world will never work in the manner I wish it would.

I loved a good argument while I was in college. Granted, the environment more or less lent itself to creating situations where arguments and debates naturally evolved. The nice thing about college arguments (or, at least, the arguments in which I normally found myself engaged) was that everyone involved understood on some level that there was nothing personal about what was going on; even though we disagreed on the sociopolitical implication on a specific passage, we could still flirt after class.

In a workplace, alas, there are egos. Territories. Feuds and wars. We can't argue about ephemera. Few will admit when proven wrong. And winning -- goodness -- that never solves anything.

Had my background been different -- remove the joy of debate and arguments from my past -- would it still shred me when I have to stop being coworker and put on the supervisor hat to steer a wayward boy?

Blast from the past:

They arrive at my doorstep unexpected yet desired, the witches three. Prima, long-limbed, golden, with grey freckles across her nose and hair down past her ass; Secunda, shorter than her sisters and darker, a wry smile ever on her face, blue eyes glinting underneath a fringe of jagged hair; and Tertia, the red child, ginger colored hair everywhere, everywhere, freckles across her shoulders, and a bouncing energy that makes Secunda roll her eyes. Secunda is the one who knocks, waits for Tertia to bound in once the door is open, pushes Prima in, and then raises an eyebrow brow walking past, under my nose.

Tertia in the foyer, against the wall, between the Jackson bust and map of Hannibal's campaign. Pleated skirt pulled up around her waist; girlish panties pulled to the side. Legs over my shoulders so that I may dip my head and taste before she insists, and my pants down to my ankles. Vocal, energetic, but quick. When she comes, she squeaks. Digs fingernails into my neck and bites the earlobe she was previously flicking her tongue across. Shakey legs slide down and rest on the floor.

"My, my," Secunda says, seeing me bob, stiff and glistening from her sister. I forget the pants when I try to turn; pinwheeling my arms as if in farce as I catch myself on Jackson's bust. Prima giggles and takes my hand.

It's to be slower with her, of course, in the bedroom. Silky hair sliding over my skin as she posts above me, slowly rolling her hips back and forth. My fingers resting on her hips; thumbs playing with the moist folds where we join. My eyes are closed, and when she leans forward, I'm showered in her hair. She presses her tiny breasts against my chest; our slick skin slipping against each other. Instinctively my hands slide across her smooth hips to her ass. Shudders, a spasm, another. A hand on my shoulder to push herself up, and a chaste closed-mouth kiss. I slip out of her, still aching.

And there, in the wicker chair next to the bed, Secunda sits, smiles, reaches out to take hold of me; leads me gently, firmly, into the bathroom. Bent in front of the vanity, her fingers -- slick and hot with herself -- play between my cheeks. They probe. I gasp and look up to see her smiling in the vanity mirror before she reaches around. Slim fingers adnorned by cool, silver rings wrapped around me, tweaking; idly stroking.

I hear sounds from the doorway and turn to see Prima and Tertia standing, smiling. I know there will be many releases in the hours to come, but only one will be mine, and it will be like that first shot of rice wine that left me lifeless but so contented on the living room floor. As the room spins and the sandman visits, I'll savor the memories of these bitches three.

"Feeling kinda orange today."

"What?"

"Nevermind."

--

Gotta love the strange things one hears while passing through the market.

Tucker and Dale Vs. Evil

It'll probably go the way of Slither, but I'm always willing to give a horror/comedy hybrid a chance. And if it stars Alan Tudyk? Well, I'm practically already there.

i. So, Dollhouse is canceled. While I'll certainly miss Topher, I hope Joss can now devote his considerable talents to a project I can fully support (maybe another wester in space?).

ii. I've often wondered if everyone is as affected my music of their early teenage years as am I. For reasons that I can't even begin to understand, a smile always crosses my lips when I hear the songs that were popular when I was a freshman in high school. I don't even listen to that type of music anymore. But if "Cannonball" or "Seether" or "Misery" or any number of other songs come on the radio, I nod along.

"How many people do you know?"

"Know?"

"People with a connection to you. If I asked, how many names could you come up with?"

"Dunno."

"I tried it. Friends, family, coworkers. People in stores I regularly banter with. Doctors, dentist, that guy that stands outside the library..."

"Sidewalk Joe."

"Around three hundred. Ran out of names around three hundred."

"Seems like a lot."

"But it really isn't. So I started counting all the people I used to know. Classmates, teachers, friends I briefly made while living abroad. People my parents knew when I was a child. Exs of my siblings."

"What's this about?"

"Less than two thousand."

"Really?"

"Indeed. Take all of the people I've met whom I can vaguely put a name to and there's less than two thousand faces."

"So?"

"I just read that Ohio Stadium seats 102,000. If you kicked everyone I've ever known out of that stadium on gameday, no one would notice."

"Again, so?"

"Just gotta think I need to meet more people."