The Lunatic Fringe

I’m a smartass.

I don’t try to be really, but I can’t help it. And I have started this entry like, four or five different ways, in the interest of disclosure. But my damn cheekiness just keeps getting in the way. I have such respect (okay, envy) for my gallies that can just reveal all this shit inside them at the drop of their skirts, so to speak. I wish I could do that. I sort of think that if I could, I wouldn’t need this kink anymore. It’s a tool really; it’s a venue for me to abandon the bullshit and see/say/think nothing but the truth. I can’t want for myself, I can’t ask for myself, so I privately ache for someone to force me to do these things. Someone once told me that I am into humiliation. That’s not me; at least, not in the classic sense. I really, really didn’t want that to be me…I see THOSE girls as total basket cases, lunatics clamoring for any kind of attention. What do they say? What you hate in others…something, something. But what is more humiliating for me than needing someone else, something else? And making me ask for it, beg for it. That is, in some respects, about humiliation.

I want to erase those last few lines so badly, you know.

It’s not just the exposure. It’s the anonymity; knowing that some perfect stranger is reading this…or worse, that someone not so strange is. But, then again…I change in front of open windows, so what’s the fucking difference?

I can not stomach further humiliation at this moment, however.