I’ve blogged about my life since 2008 and now, years later, I can not bring myself to understand why I do it. I am very honest and put all things on the table. If I like you; I write it. If I sleep with you and it was hella good; I also write it. Troubles in my life and with people; I write it. This year, however, I got asked for the first time since I started blogging, Why? Why don’t I just write in a diary opposed to putting information about myself and the people in my life on the internet for anyone to read? I paused. I do it because I want other people to understand that they are not alone and that there are others who deal/ go through the same things that aren’t afraid to say how they feel about any situation. Is that a good enough answer? I thought so but now after much thought/debate and reading old entries, I find myself embarrassed. How could I dare write such things and allow others to read it?
I’m a shy gal in real life but on the internet you can be whoever you want and who is going to know it. Lisa More, my alter ego, is not afraid to say that she is scared of the things to come. Nor does she mind telling it like it is. She’s about so much more than what I have painted her to be. Not afraid to say that fucking (lovemaking if that is your preference) is not a crime and I love it, Jewish guys seem to do it better or perhaps one in particular, (take that for however you would like to take that) crushing on someone is sometimes a huge f-in deal, and the list goes on. Am I hiding from my true self? No, not in the least. This is my true self. I’m hard to handle. Hell, I can’t even handle me. This brings me to the title, writing death. Life has been hitting me a lot harder than usual from having my heartbroken (dreams crushed? hopes dashed? fuck buddy gone too soon?) to staying true to my vision to doing big girl things or rather womanly things. It has made me question my passion, my first true love: writing.
I knew you before I knew anything else well besides singing. (Music is my life too.) The feel of pen in hand writing down the scream of words blaring in my head, looking for that quick release. Enjoying the pleasure and pain of the scratch on the surface and bleeding slowly underneath. Finally, making its way up, wet and drenched with perspiration. This is not masturbation. This is not self pleasure. This is me fucking you to the point that if you keep going I’m the only thing you will ever dream about. The ecstasy is beyond anything you have known. That is my purpose. That is my will. The only thing left to do beyond my fuck, is die. I feel close to death. Breath is slow and ragged, my body weak, but something is reviving me. This post is giving me energy. To get out my fears and realize, in the end, I do this for me. It has always been about me. I’m selfish and sometimes you have to be selfish to know what you want and what you can and will do to get it. If you read this and hate it; you hate it. But, if it gives you light and hope to push through and take time to analyze why, this IS for YOU. I am you and you are me. We are we.
Writing is hard and having the strength, will power, courage, skill, etc. to keep doing so is not an easy fucking task. I am a writer because that is what I know and what I do best. I can no longer doubt my ability if I want to BE my ability. Was I dead? Yes. However, you have saved me. The people who believe in me and help me grow in every way, to keep pushing, even when I doubt myself more than anyone else ever will. This is a writers life. We are masochist. Embrace it, live it, love it. Forget all the scary stuff and just tell it like it is.