Three Mormons and a Satanist meet at our motel room, the Satanist explains to them the Bible as she actually read it. But sense when have Mormons ever read the actual “book of God.”

The meeting was tipped by large black cane, for when my room mate had an aching leg not faked. The Mormon’s spoke of regular generic reasons all missionaries give, but sometimes you got to take these ladies out and do missionary with them. And maybe dog style. And other temptations, while giving them Jesus sandals to take the lords name outside their veins. I always wanted to imagine anime girls in Jesus sandals being corrupted into Satanism. But I suppose giving them hot chocolate to go would be good for now, after leave and I can drink as close to from a cow as I can with the milk in the refrigerator. The morning cold, I wait for lunch.

Sometimes you can’t reason with people, although sometimes people can have their opinions changed. I always wanted to change the minds of religious girls. And watch the horror in their eyes, as their world view changes. And making them want to watch the world burn.

And I can do missionary style with them in Jesus sandals forever.

Because I dig corrupted Jesus sandals.

But the thing about Satanists and Atheists, with the except of some sects of Satanism I am familiar with, they have quite comes to terms with the idea that there is an inner world beyond the superficial, although it is not an afterlife. Where elf women place their necks on headman’s blocks, and we watch their heads roll away after the crescent shaped chops through their neck. I find myself becoming lady erect, and all at once I had to keep from titillating myself in front of Mormons. Because in your mind you only see beheaded elf girls and no Christians.

Luckily there is nothing like losing the lady boner from talking about the merits or no merits of human faith. I’d rather spend time watching boy bands on television, while drinking all the wine. And watch cute Dutch girls tap dancing to the Tulip time. Stripping them down to belly dancers.

I masturbate to blond tap dancers.

Among other things.

The nature of lust requires that humans indulge in their wildest and most extreme of fantasies. My friend has already blogged about this, but for me I was spending time sprawled out on my laptop in bed. In my head beyond a dreamer’s edge, I wander through an endless forest under caverns where no forest should be, and find myself indulging in pleasures of the flesh with elf and fairy girls giving me Jesus sandal jobs and taking the board of education.

After all life spanks you sometimes.

At other time you get … really bored. For I always refused quests of personal obligation, and preferred to follow my own path in life.

The life of the fallen angel.

I barely knew who I was, imagining multiple different identities. That feeling complete isolation even in the largest of crowds, and the clouds are like long draping shrouds. My anxiety, my fears; all my sorrows personifying into persona of completely mental breakdown. In life I find I live in two different worlds, the world of dream and the world of reality.

In the world of reality I live life the best I can, but sometimes people don’t understand I pun out of anxiety and less liking to make fun of bad situations. Although at times this has gotten me into trouble, and my dad would at times comment on certain jokes being one hundred percent stupid. Technically shitty, but when you become used to that sort of thing it becomes difficult to look at it as anything else besides normal. One tries to accommodate as they become made more passive. Therefore one could have friends run over them with car they just roll over and take it. And yet there is something that keeps you holding on, something that makes you realize “Hey this will hurt.”

The lack of state insurance. I would say friends, but considering my anxiety issues I’ve always had trouble making and keeping friends. It left me with self-esteem issues except for things one may only life about in retrospect. This was my life, my prospects; my own self elimination from the game of life.

The life of ratty splat.

The thing about attempted suicide, it isn’t what you think. The world largely remains the same, nobody stops to check to make sure you are OK. Even after poisoning myself once, I still tried to do it again. I was willing to walk to far, and hurt the hell out of my shins causing splints. Yet in the imagination one finds themselves running with abilities one only wished they had.

One can imagine themselves as a hacker, a speed racer, or anything you want. Although in my case this was mainly an undercover narrative reporter. Not a traditional one, but a sub-cultural journalism of the slice of life of the average motel resident who has been there for over five months. On the bring of homelessness, one finds themselves with fewer friends even as people begin to reach out.

Because you don’t feel like reaching out, not to anybody.

Because the world is a very unsafe place. A planet where despite cleaning and shower every day one has mud on their face.

The world treats you as faceless.

Beyond the dreamer’s edge there is the solace of silence not quite silence, where one hears sounds that aren’t really there. And yet one sees many times and places at once, stressing you out and making you pull out your hair. There are monsters and innocent decapitated women everywhere, murdered by monsters and executioners in the night. Don’t go beyond the moonlight glare, or you would be national razor ensnared. And off, off, off goes your head rolling, rolling, rolling across the dream world web into it falls bleeding into an endless void.

The dreams of floating decapitated heads are everywhere.

The compulsion of madness. The compulsions of desire. The compulsion and cutting oneself everywhere with the fetish of self-injury. Then your breath becomes fainter and fainter as you sleep.

You see monsters in the close, or so you think.

Then there is nothing there.