#girl de l'escalier

[veraverorum]

I missed the opportunity of making the "you should have seen the other guy" joke about kisses this morning and I'm still burning in upsetti spaghetti at myself

[fritextramole]

the devil divine

part 2 of a Blair Waldorf playlist - best heard in order

tracklist and quotes under the cut

Get What 'Cha Got And Go ~ Loretta Lynn

You think you're the greatest thing in this whole town Oh number one but everyone no one can put you down Every night you go downtown where the go-go's go

Pink Shoe Laces ~ Dodie Stevens

He takes me deep-sea fishing in a submarine We got to drive-in movies in a limousine He's got a whirly-birdy and a twelve-foot yacht Ah, but that's-a not all he's got Ae's got tan shoes with pink shoelaces A polka dot vest and man, oh, man

Fever ~ Peggy Lee

When you put your arms around me I get a fever that's so hard to bear You give me fever When you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight Fever! In the mornin', a-fever all through the night

Big Bad Handsome Man ~ Linda Carone

Got me where he wants me to be With his arms so wide, he pulls me in by his side He's the kind of guy that does it for me

Manhattan ~ BLOSSOM DEARIE

The great big city's a wondrous toy Made for a girl and boy We'll turn Manhattan Into an isle of joy

Idéalisation ~ Cosette

Je vais te faire araignéïser Pour que tu me prennes dans tes filets Je veux t'idéaliser ~ I will make you a spider So that you catch me in your web I want to idealize you

Treat Me Rough ~ Ella Fitzgerald

The cushy sheltered way of life was really no fun From now on, some manhandling must be done

I Belong To You ~ Caro Emerald

The afterglow that's down below Is when I see your smile And in your eyes, true love assigns Forever is a word that cries That I belong to you

Crazy He Calls Me ~ Billie Holiday

The difficult I'll do right now The impossible will take a little while I say I'll care forever And I mean forever

Tea For Two ~ BLOSSOM DEARIE

Just me for you And you for me alone Nobody near us To see us or hear us

You Belong To Me ~ Jo Stafford

Send me photographs and souvenirs Just remember When a dream appears You belong to me

Please Mr. Postman ~ The Marvelettes

I've been standin' here waitin' Mister Postman So patiently, for just a card, or just a letter Sayin' he's returnin' home to me

Washing Machine Heart ~ Mitski

Baby will you kiss me already and Toss your dirty shoes in my washing machine heart? Baby, bang it up inside Baby, though I've closed my eyes I know who you pretend I am

Jolene ~ Dolly Parton

You could have your choice of men But I could never love again He's the only one for me

Comme moi ~ Édith Piaf

Peut-être bien encore qu'elle entendra plus fort Son cœur battre et qu'alors Comme moi Elle voudra crier en entendant Monter, un pas dans l'escalier Comme moi ~ Maybe she will hear louder Her heart beating, and then Like me She will want to scream when she hears Going up, a step on the stairs Like me

Darn That Dream ~ Doris Day

Just to change the mood I'm in I'd welcome a nice old nightmare Darn that dream and bless it too Without that dream I never would have you But it haunts me and it won't come true

Maybe I Know ~ Leslie Gore

"He really loves me", that's all I can say Before my tears fall, I just walk away

Graveyard ~ Halsey

You look at me With eyes so dark, don't know how you even see You push right through me

Little White Lies ~ Ella Fitzgerald

The devil was in your heart But heaven was in your eyes The night that you told me those little white lies Who wouldn't believe those lips Whoever could doubt those eyes

I Can’t Stay Mad at You ~ Skeeter Davis

You can run around You can tell me lies But there's nothing I can do I'll never say goodbye 'Cause I can't stay mad at you

Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool ~ Connie Francis

I told myself it's best that I forget you Though I'm a fool, at least I know the score Yet darlin', I'd be twice as blue without you It hurts, but I'd come running back for more

Boys Like You ~ dodie

You thought you could charm me And, damn it, you're right So watch me fall for every damn stereotype

Une chanson brisée ~ Cœur De Pirate

Mais qu'importe, tu m'aimes, oui Ça justifie tous tes oublis Mais qu'importe, le temps joue Une chanson sur mes plaies qui s'entrouvrent ~ But whatever, you love me, yes It justifies all your oversights But whatever, time plays A song about my open wounds

I Just Couldn’t Stand It No More ~ Dinah Washington

My heart is aching, My heart is aching He don't know how much it is a breaking I need somebody, yes I need somebody To take my love and help me to forget him...

I Guess I’ll Have To Change My Plans ~ Annie Ross, Gerry Mulligan Quartet

Before I knew where I was at I found myself upon the shelf, and that was that I tried to reach the moon but when I got there All that I could get was the air My feet are back upon the ground I've lost the one man I found,

Back To Black ~ Amy Winehouse

You went back to what you knew So far removed From all that we went through

Blue ~ Rebecca Black

Two years down the drain A whole life we had made It was ours for the taking

Une complainte dans le vent ~ Cœur De Pirate

Aux chaleurs oubliées À tes doigts longeant mes parures Tu m'aurais à l'usure Mais qu'importe les douleurs du présent Je ne suis plus la même, tu n'es plus un enfant ~ To forgotten warmth To your fingers along my finery You would wear me out But no matter the pains of the present I am no longer the same, you are no longer a child

You ~ The Pretty Reckless

I can't steal you, no Like you stole me

my tears ricochet ~ Taylor Swift

Even on my worst day, did I deserve, babe All the hell you gave me? 'Cause I loved you, I swear I loved you 'Til my dying day

Le monopole de la douleur ~ Cœur De Pirate

Tu n'entends plus rien Que je m'exprime tout haut, tu n'y vois qu'une maudite fin Et les lignes des épopées de nos nuits racontent leurs histoires Mais j'en ai marre qu'on broie du noir Tu penses que tu es le seul à souffrir Qu'importe que je saigne aussi ~ You don't hear anything anymore That I express myself aloud, you see only a cursed end And the lines of the epics of our nights tell their stories But I'm sick of us brooding You think you're the only one to suffer It doesn't matter that I bleed too

L’etang ~ BLOSSOM DEARIE

Là, le ciel, pour quelques instants Garde encore de l'or dans ses yeux Une étoile brille au fond de l'étang Pour les amoureux ~ There, the sky, for a few moments Still got gold in her eyes A star shines at the bottom of the pond For lovers

La Nuit N’en Finit Plus ~ Petula Clark

Je voudrais partir au hasard Partir au loin quitter mes souvenirs ~ I would like to leave randomly Go far away leave my memories

Hey There ~ Rosemary Clooney

Better forget him, him with his nose in the air He has you dancin on a string Break it and he won't care

Hard Feelings/Loveless ~ Lorde

I light all the candles Cut flowers for all my rooms I care for myself the way I used to care about you

Heartstrings ~ Leighton Meester

Had to save my own self from all your evil games

Happier Than Ever ~ Billie Eilish

You call me again, drunk in your Benz Driving home under the influence You scared me to death, but I'm wasting my breath

Cry Me A River ~ Julie London

Remember, I remember all that you said Told me love was too plebeian Told me you were through with me and Now you say you love me Well, just to prove you do Come on and cry me a river, cry me a river I cried a river over you

Gonna Get Along Without You Now ~ Skeeter Davis

Got along without you before I met you Gonna get along without you now Gonna find somebody who is twice as cute 'Cause I didn't want you anyhow

Kill My Boyfriend ~ Natalia Kills

And boy I'm so committed, I'm so deep, there's no more digging There's only one thing I can do to solve this mess, come on I gotta kill my boyfriend yeah...

Hermit the Frog ~ MARINA

Well, I, I wanna tell you a secret You can take your double standard love and keep it I can't help the devil likes to make my heart a double bed And I can't help he sometimes like to come And rest his little head

OKAY OKAY ~ Alessia Cara

My best friend said to me, "I know just what we need A song of yours that we could feel ourselves to" I said it'd be a test, 'cause you know I'm always stressed Come to think of it, I guess I've never cared to She said, "You won't know if you never commit" So here's me convincing myself I'm the shit

[metablood]

Aizawa mysterious injury (En/Fr)

In English

I have this idea...

That one day Aizawa appeared in the teacher's lounge sporting a black eye and a brocken collarbone. His arm tucked in his own capture weapon, he explained that Recovery Girl wanted him to have more sleep before she heals him.

As Aizawa pours himself a glass of water and take his pill, other teachers prey on Present Mic to get more informations. He won't budge.

Aizawa made him promise not to tell, and Yamada has the intent to use his secret as leverage for later... You never know when you are going to need a favor from Eraser Head!

The truth is Recovery Girl is outraged by the way he hurt himself and is now pestering him about his lifestyle. "You cannot go on patrol every night with a day job ! Naps and coffee are not a substitute for proper sleep !"

Hizashi laughed so much his ears are still ringing... One could expect more support from the love of one's life.

Other heros don't dare ask the terrible Eraser Head what happened, they know how reckless he can be in battle.

They should never know that he was simply too sleepy coming back from a patrol, so he tripped and fell in the stairs. The next step would me Midnight calling him "grandma" and urging him to be careful not to slip in the showers...

En français

J'ai cette idée…

Qu'un jour Aizawa est apparu dans la salle des profs avec un oeil au beurre noir et une clavicule cassée. Son bras calé dans sa propre bande de capture, il a expliqué que Recovery Girl refusait de le soigner tant qu'il n'aurait pas dormi.

Alors qu'il se sert un verre d'eau pour prendre un médicament, les autres profs se précipitent sur Present Mic pour gratter plyus d'informations. Il refuse de céder.

Aizawa lui a fait promettre de ne rien dire, et Yamada a bien l'intention de garder le secret pour s'en servir plus tard… On ne sait jamais quand on aura besoin d'une faveur d'Eraserhead !

La vérité, c'est que Recovery Girl est parfaitement outrée par la façon dont il s'est blessé et à présent elle le harcèle au sujet de son mode de vie. "Tu ne peut pas patrouiller toutes les nuits alors que tu as aussi un emploi de jour ! Les siestes et le café ne sont pas des substituts à une vraie nuit de sommeil !"

Hizashi a rit aux larmes, ses oreilles sonnent encore… On pourrait s'attendre à un peu plus de soutien de la part de l'amour de sa vie.

Les autres héros n'osent pas demander au Terrible Eraserhead ce qui est arrivé, ils savent combien il peut être brutal durant la bataille.

Ils ne doivent surtout jamais apprendre qu'il est simplement rentré trop fatigué d'une patrouille, a trébuché, et est tombé dans l'escalier. La prochaine étape serait que Midnight l'appelle "grand-mère" et l'enjoigne de faire atention à ne pas glisser dans la douche…

[jeanetjeannepatin]

Mercredi 8 mai 2024 à 19H, la Petite Boutique Fantasque accueille Monique Calinon pour sa chronique Fière de lettres. Aujourd'hui, elle nous dresse le portrait d'une vraie révolutionnaire, Olympe de Gouges. Nous l'avons intitulé : Fière d'être Olympe de Gouges. Cette chronique est précédemment parue dans la version numérique de Libération. Cette émission de RadioRadioToulouse est diffusée en hertzien, Toulouse : 106.8 Mhz ou en streaming https://www.radioradiotoulouse.net/ et pour tout le reste du temps et du monde sur les podcasts de mixcloud.

Programmation musicale : 1) Qui est homo extrait du Stabat mater (Antonio Vivaldi) Caroline Champy-Tursun / Ensemble baroque de Toulouse / Michel Brun 2) L'escalier (Imago) 3) L'innocence (Arthur H.)  4) les petites filles (Michèle Bernard) 5) Le lac Saint-Sébastien (Anne Sylvestre) 6) Boys and girls (Bryan Ferry) Brian Ferry jazz orchestra 7) Elevation pour la paix (Marc-Antoine Charpentier) Les Passions / Jean-Marc Andrieu 8) Hotel California (The Eagles) Jake Shimabukuro / Jake Shimabukuro / Earl Klugh

+ Chronique Fières de lettres de Monique Calinon : Olympe de Gouges, le courage tout azimut

Pour ceux qui auraient piscine indienne, ou toute autre obligation, il y a une possibilité de rattrapage avec les podcasts de la PBF : https://www.mixcloud.com/RadioRadioToulouse/fière-dêtre-olympe-de-gouges-la-petite-boutique-fantasque

Sus aux Philistins !

Photographie de Mrs Stewart sur une moto Rudge (Gallica) 

[alexlacquemanne]

Mars MMXXIV

Films

Le Petit Baigneur (1968) de Robert Dhéry avec Louis de Funès, Andréa Parisy, Franco Fabrizi, Robert Dhéry, Colette Brosset, Michel Galabru, Jacques Legras et Pierre Tornade

Coup de foudre (1983) de Diane Kurys avec Isabelle Huppert, Miou-Miou, Guy Marchand, Jean-Pierre Bacri, Robin Renucci, Patrick Bauchau et Jacques Alric

Agence matrimoniale (1952) de Jean Paul Le Chanois avec Bernard Blier, Michèle Alfa, Julien Carette, Marcelle Praince, Madeleine Barbulée et Anne Campion

Les Suffragettes (Suffragette) (2015) de Sarah Gavron avec Carey Mulligan, Helena Bonham Carter, Brendan Gleeson, Ben Whishaw, Anne-Marie Duff, Meryl Streep et Natalie Press

Titanic (1997) de James Cameron avec Leonardo DiCaprio, Kate Winslet, Billy Zane, Frances Fisher, Danny Nucci, Gloria Stuart, Bill Paxton et Suzy Amis

Boléro (2024) d'Anne Fontaine avec Raphaël Personnaz, Doria Tillier, Jeanne Balibar, Emmanuelle Devos, Vincent Perez, Sophie Guillemin, Anne Alvaro et Alexandre Tharaud

Le Coup de l'escalier (Odds Against Tomorrow) (1959) de Robert Wise avec Harry Belafonte, Robert Ryan, Shelley Winters, Ed Begley, Gloria Grahame, Will Kuluva, Kim Hamilton et Mae Barnes

Sister Act, acte 2 (Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit) de Bill Duke avec Whoopi Goldberg, Kathy Najimy, Wendy Makkena, Maggie Smith, Mary Wickes, Lauryn Hill, James Coburn et Jennifer Love Hewitt

Le Discours d'un roi (The King's Speech) (2010) de Tom Hooper avec Colin Firth, Geoffrey Rush, Helena Bonham Carter, Guy Pearce, Michael Gambon, Timothy Spall, Jennifer Ehle et Derek Jacobi

Downton Abbey (2019) de Michael Engler avec Hugh Bonneville, Elizabeth McGovern, Michelle Dockery, Laura Carmichael, Maggie Smith, Allen Leech, Brendan Coyle, Rob James-Collier, Joanne Froggatt et Tuppence Middleton

Dune, deuxième partie (Dune: Part Two) (2024) de Denis Villeneuve avec Timothée Chalamet, Zendaya, Rebecca Ferguson, Josh Brolin, Austin Butler, Florence Pugh, Dave Bautista, Christopher Walken et Léa Seydoux

Katia (1959) de Robert Siodmak avec Romy Schneider, Curd Jürgens, Pierre Blanchar, Antoine Balpêtré, Françoise Brion, Monique Mélinand, Michel Bouquet et Bernard Dhéran

Séries

Maguy Saison 1, 2

Crise cardiaque - Aux armes mitoyens ! - Le prix concours - Fou et usage de fou - Le péril John - La position du démissionnaire - Changer de look, quel souk ! - Échec aux maths - Ni fête, ni à faire - Maguy lave plus blanc - Un ami qui vous veut trop de bien - En avant l'amnésique - Connu comme le loulou blanc - Pour le meilleur et pour le Pierre - Play black - Médecin malgré elle - Juste a rigolo - L'entre deux mères - Cœur de pierre - La plus belle girl - L'homo, ça pince - C'est grève, docteur ? - La marche funeste - Un mari classé ex - Électrode à la joie - Le vide par le nettoyage - Héla ! Elle est là - A votre bunker, messieurs dames - Souvent l'infâme varie - Fossiles et marteaux - Recherche sosie désespérément - Macho effroi - La comtesse aux pieds noirs - L'humour en héritage - L'amère porteuse - Hip hip hip Oural - Ça déménage à trois - Papy fait de la résidence - L'envers du jeu - Silence, hospitalité ! - Des flics et des claques - Une Maguy… démagogue - Épouse et maire - Fiançailles aïe ! aïe ! aïe ! - Tiens-toi �� Caro

La croisière s'amuse Saison 2, 3, 4

La Fête à bord - Meurtre au large - La Fête des mères - Tiens mon frère - Mais vous êtes toujours jeune - La Sérénade - Sauve qui peut ! - Du rythme, toujours du rythme - Un peu de cœur, que diable ! - La Perfection - Bizarre, bizarre - Sacré Gopher ! - Les Amis - Ah ! C'est la fête - Qui est le maniaque ? - Amis et Amours - La Proposition : première partie - La Proposition : deuxième partie - Un trait de génie - Folie double - Boomerang

The Grand Tour Saison 4, 1

Seamen - Virée à l'Italienne

Les Simpson Saison 2

Aide-toi, le ciel t'aidera - Le Saut de la mort - Simpson et Delila - Simpson Horror Show - Sous le signe du poisson - Le Dieu du stade - Mini golf, maxi beauf - La Fugue de Bart - Tous à la manif - Toute la vérité, rien que la vérité - Un poisson nommé Fugu - Il était une fois Homer et Marge - Tu ne déroberas point - Jamais deux sans toi - Fluctuat Homergitur - Une vie de chien - Un amour de grand-père - Le Pinceau qui tue - Mon prof, ce héros au sourire si doux - La Guerre des Simpson - Un pour tous, tous contre un - Le sang, c'est de l'argent

Affaires sensibles

La malédiction du triangle des Bermudes - Les Brigades rouges : la fin de l'exil ? - Qui a eu la peau du tramway ? - Le « Grand smog » de 1952 : Londres asphyxiée - 1972, le rapport Meadows : premier cri d’alarme pour la planète - Le roi maudit de Pyongyang - Mediapart, l’indépendance en bandoulière - Jeffrey Epstein, le prédateur de la Jet Set - Front National : petit meurtre en famille - Ku Klux Klan : histoire d'une Amérique de la haine - La rumeur d'Orléans : l'histoire d'un délire antisémite - Les zones d'ombre de l'affiche rouge

Coffre à Catch

#157 : Goldust ne vieillit pas! - #158 : Prochain arrêt : Night of Champions 2009! - #159 : Christian ECW Champion 2.0 ! - #160 : Extreme Rules avec Dimby !

Messieurs les jurés

L'Affaire Lusanger - L'Affaire Hamblain - L'Affaire Savigné Montory

Les Petits Meurtres d'Agatha Christie Saison 3

Meurtres au Pensionnat

Kaamelott Livre V

Corvus corone - La Roche et le Fer - Vae soli

Commissaire Dupin

Un cadavre disparait

Castle Saison 5

Après la tempête - Nuageux avec risques de meurtre - Œil pour œil - Meurtre dans les Hamptons - Sans doute possible - Tueur intergalactique - Rock haine roll - Seuls dans la nuit - Pas de pitié pour le père Noël

Alfred Hitchcock présente Saison 4, 5, 7

La Gentille Serveuse - La commère - Flic d'un jour

Top Gear France Saison 9

Ceux qui partent en Allemagne - Ceux qui infiltrent la police - Ceux qui revivent leurs années tuning

Inspecteur Barnaby Saison 23

La fin du monde - Secrets et mensonges

Les Brigades du Tigre Saison 2

Collection 1909 - L'Auxiliaire - Les Compagnons de l'Apocalypse - Le Défi - La Couronne du Tzar - De la poudre et des balles

Meurtres au paradis Saison 13

Une vie gâchee

Spectacles

Billy Cobham & George Duke Band Live At Montreux Jazz Festival (1976)

Deux sur la balançoire (2006) de Bernard Murat avec Jean Dujardin et Alexandra Lamy

Billy Idol In Super Overdrive (2009) Live from Congress Theater, Chicago

Bungalow 21 (2024) de Jérémie Lippmann et Sarah Gellé avec Mathilde Seigner, Emmanuelle Seigner, Michaël Cohen et Vincent Winterhalter

Livres

Une enquête du commissaire Dupin : L'inconnu de Port Bélon de Jean-Luc Bannalec

Kaamelott, tome 2 : Les Sièges de Transport d'Alexandre Astier, Steven Dupré et Benoît Bekaert

Kaamelott, tome 3 : L'Énigme du Coffre d'Alexandre Astier, Steven Dupré et Benoît Bekaert

Deux sur la balançoire de William Gibson et Jean-Loup Dabadie

J'écris mon premier roman de Louis Timbal-Duclaux

[albapuella]

2020 Summary of Art

Well, I can't do the traditional "Art of the Year" summary thing since I'm not a visual artist, but I figured, why not do something similar with my writing? A paragraph I worked on or posted during each month. January: Time isn't the only problem, of course, or even the main one. Your powers of telekinesis are pitiful, too—the only thing saving you out on the field currently is your, admittedly, impressive physical strength, but you can't depend on that forever. The best Pushers don't rely on pure brute strength like you do. How can you ever hope to reach the level of your hero, Xultan Matzos, without the mental powers to match? February: It was his picture. That was Ciel's first thought. Then he realized it couldn't be him—the boy in the picture was older, yes, but what drew Ciel's attention was the boy's eyes: both were visible and clear. Which was impossible—the contract showed up in photos, and he was bound to Sebastian until the demon consumed his soul. Looking closer, peering over Dipper's shoulder, Ciel noticed something far more alarming: the part in the boy's hair was opposite to his own. March: Motherfuckin’ paydirt. “He better be happy to see me,” you say, although it’s hard to say whether he actually will be or not. You two are bros, and you get along fairly well when you’re both not going out of your ways to be dicks to each other (ironically!), but he can be unpredictable. You know he isn’t going to like how much danger you’ve put yourself in for his sake. His poor self-hating heart just can’t accept that other people actually give a damn about him. It’d make you cry if you weren’t such a stone cold bad ass. “Where is he?” April: Klink wasn’t sure if he was more amused by this display or infuriated. That the American could sit there and say such ridiculous things with a straight face... Either Hogan was being fanatically naïve, or he thought that Klink was fantastically stupid. His hand clenched around the damp handkerchief. More likely than not, it was the latter. He didn’t know why the thought stung so much—it wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. “Victory?” he echoed, allowing Hogan to hear his scorn for the notion. “You think this,” he threw his hand out to indicate the space around himself, “is a victory?” May: “Well you’re looking older and dumber,” Karkat returned hotly. He didn’t turn his back on the adult human, but he backed up to the door. “You’re not my Dave, and I’m not the Karkat you know, so this must be paradox space fucking with me once again, because the universe loves nothing more than shitting on Karkat Vantas.” June: When Karkat pulls down his pants, Dave finds all thoughts of heat stroke leaving his mind. What the hell... It's a fucking tentacle. It's all Dave can do not to break down in hysterical laughter. Oh God. He gets it: this is a hentai. His life has become a fucking anime. Karkat is the eldritch horror, and he is the Japanese school girl about to get tentacle fucked within an inch of her life. This is his fate. July: "yea like we're peak middle school up in here passing notes to each other," Dave is clearly gearing up for a ramble, and Karkat smiles despite himself, "do you like me or like like me but weve got to keep it on the downlow so the teacher doesnt notice and find our note because our reps will never survive if she reads it to the class and she will because thats how teachers roll" August: Dave is still frowning into the mirror, his hands coming up to trace the lines on his chest. He's muscular, but in a wiry way. Trim like Karkat isn't. Pale in a way that begs for a tan. He's beautiful. Karkat has thought this before, but seeing him like this makes the thought rise up again: Dave is beautiful even if he's glaring at himself in a way which reminds Karkat uncomfortably of similar looks Karkat has directed towards a mirror more than once. September: “That’s not how you say those?” He shrugged, watching with barely contained glee as Karkat’s face darkened. “It’s like I told you, Kitbit, I don’t do that boujee shit.” And now, for the piece of resistance: “I’m just here puttin' in the time, spittin' my rhymes. You know I do this on a dime. It ain't work for me; it's play the way the insults fly, leavin' you with l'esprit de l'escalier when I say goodbye.” Then he lifted up his glasses and winked, enjoying the view of Karkat realizing he’d been being played in full color. October: Karkat’s head is pounding from all the thinking he’s had to do to learn Davuh’s words, but it’s a good pain--the kind of pain that means something is growing stronger. He enjoys the warmth of the human next to him, feeling drowsy. He doesn’t always sleep well… he rarely sleeps well. But it’s different with Davuh there. There’s something in his belly, his head aches, and Davuh is warm. November: It was… Xefros doesn’t have the words to describe it. Joey, going around, treating trolls like… like they were the same as her. Like they would just return her kindness and trust because she gave it to them first. Kind of incredible how often she was right. And then she was wrong. Very wrong. December: “No!” The boy’s anger should be frightening what with his sharp teeth prominently displayed in a snarl, but the combination of the drying, cracking green slime coating and the pure offense in his tone makes his posturing more funny than threatening. “No, you don’t get to break into my hive, drag me out of my recuperacoon, feel me up, make weird ass concuspiant passes at me, *and* tell me I need to *chill*! I am the perfectly sane amount of chill for this situation!” Homestuck features pretty heavily this year :D

[marie-bradshaw]

Ma premiere robe de créateur

22h: je suis plongée dans la penderie de l'appartement de ma mère sur Bordeaux pour faire le tri de ce que je rapporte avec moi sur Toulouse et de ce que je laisse.

Je n'imaginais pas retrouver autant de trésors cachés.

Au milieu d'une paire de rolliers et de boots de snow, je retombe sur une pépite: ma petite robe noire Marc Jacobs.

Ma première robe de créateur, une merveille.

La première d'une longue lignée de bijoux de designers chinés.

Assise en indienne devant mon armoire, je laisse glisser mes doigts sur le satin noir et les souvenirs remontent comme par magie.

Dénichée sur une vente privée, je me souviendrai toujours de la première fois où je l'ai portée.

J'avais 17 ans.

Je donnais des cours de danse contemporaine dans une petite salle de sport sur Ste Foy La Grande où j'ai passé mon adolescence, près de St Emilion.

Terre de mon coeur.

Je pourrais presque repasser le film dans ma tête de ma première rencontre avec lui, le seul homme duquel je ne me sois pas sentie à la hauteur.

En le voyant arriver à la salle pour s'inscrire, par la vitre teintée, mon coeur s'était arrêté- littéralement - et il s'est avéré être ma plus belle histoire d'amour.

4 ans et demi de ma vie.

Cyril.

Un charmant jeune homme de 24 ans, oenologue de profession, ultra sportif mais épicurien, et fraîchement débarqué de Limoux.

Les cheveux blonds comme les blés, les yeux bleu/vert, le sourire de l'homme qui n'a pas toujours eu de succès et qui ne demande pourtant qu'à être aimé. Il est divin, mais il semble l'ignorer.

A notre premier échangé, j'ai bégayé.

Son accent du Sud, à couper au couteau, moi je le trouvais chaleureux.

La promesse de longues matinées ensoleillées passées à ses côtés.

"Cherche pas ma fille, un mec comme ça ça sort avec les Mean Girls du lycée- les top model en devenir, pas avec l'intello de service"

Je le voyais 3 leagues au-dessus de la mienne, et il avait tout de même 7 ans de plus que moi.

Mais qu'importe, mon coeur désirait ce qu'il désirait, et j'étais comme envoûtée par ses yeux. Par son sourire. Par son allure.

Persuadée de n'avoir aucune chance, et après une vague tentative, je décidais de m'épargner en me focalisant sur mon art: la danse.

Cette petite salle de sport familiale, mon refuge.

Chaque jour de l'été de mes dix-sept printemps, j'étais fourrée là.

Que ce soit pour donner des cours ou m'entraîner, la salle de cours collectifs du fond, nichée derrière les machines, aura toujours un air d'abri à mes yeux.

Je revois le parquet en bois, les grands miroirs, la vieille chaîne stéréo sur laquelle je branchais mon téléphone - et surtout les heures passées à danser.

De Gotan Project à Roxane, les sauts de cabri s'enchainaient à vive allure, passant d'une arabesque à un grand écart - je donnais tout ce que j'avais à mon art et il me le rendait bien.

A bout de souffle, mais vidée de tous mes tourments, je couchais sur papier mes chorégraphies les plus folles.

Vous me direz: "quel rapport avec la robe?".

Mais tout, vous allez voir.

J'y viens. Patience !

C'est là qu'il m'a vraiment repérée.

Quand personne ne regardait, lors de ses entrainements, lui m'épiait danser par la petite fenêtre de la salle.

Hypnotisé, c'était presque devenu un rituel pour lui - dont j'ignorais tout à ce moment-là.

Et puis un beau jour, en sortant de ma session, fraîchement douchée, et éternellement maladroite - je lui rentre dedans dans l'escalier qui conduit à l'accueil.

J'éclate de rire-nerveusement- si il y'avait bien une personne à qui je ne voulais pas montrer ma maladresse c'était bien lui.

Epic fail.

Alors autant en rire, la vie est courte et cette énième boulette ne me surprend même pas.

Il est resté bloqué sur place l'espace d'un instant, abasourdi.

"Quand je t'ai vu irradier de bonheur comme ça, ton sourire, ton rire, je me suis dit qu'il fallait absolument que je sois avec toi" me confiera-t-il plus tard, lors de notre premier rendez-vous officiel.

Je vous épargne l'entre-deux, et notre premier baiser, électrique.

Mais disons qu'il aura fallu qu'il m'embrasse au détour d'une soirée entre copains de la salle pour que je comprenne enfin que je lui plaisais aussi.

Moi, je lui plaisais.

Inconcevable.

Il avait tout du gendre idéal, et moi, eh bien disons que 17 ans à croire que je ne serai jamais assez bien pour personne, notamment mes parents, avaient déjà causé pas mal de dommages.

Des dommages entrainant une douleur profonde, et une période très sombre dont je n'ai pu sortir que grâce à son amour.

Je vous en dis plus dans les lignes qui suivent, et ceux qui ne me connaissent pas depuis longtemps vont sûrement mieux comprendre mon parcours et la raison de ma force aujourd'hui.

Attention âmes sensibles.

La préparation aux concours des grandes écoles était le paroxysme de l'investissement que mes parents avaient misé sur leur "cheval de course" préféré.

Avec mes notes, et mes résultats je pouvais littéralement faire tout ce que je voulais.

Sciences-Po, la Mecque dont je rêvais depuis des années.

Mais voilà, à force de pousser, sans jamais ressentir d'amour ou de soutien, rien que des reproches et une déception/un désintérêt quasi permanents entre deux 19/20, j'avais bien compris que le seul moyen pour moi d'obtenir un peu de reconnaissance et d'affection serait de continuer à briller.

Sauf que plus je brillais, plus la barre se rehaussait.

Toujours plus inaccessible.

Alors j'ai fait une bêtise d'adolescent et j'ai repoussé mes limites beaucoup trop loin.

Peu importe les efforts que je donnais, les heures à étudier, je sentais bien que ce n'était pas assez.

C'est à ce moment-là que j'ai décidé de commander des amphétamines sur le net sous forme d'éphédrine.

L'objectif: oublier ma fatigue, en faire plus, aller plus loin.

Beaucoup d'étudiants sous pression ont recours à ce genre de choses, et je ne vous le recommande pas.

Votre coeur s'accélère au point de vous donner l'impression qu'il est sur le point d'imploser.

Vos capacités mentales sont exacerbées, c'est vrai - mais l'effet ne dure pas.

Et pour le maintenir, comme pour toute drogue, il faut en prendre plus, plus souvent.

Vous devinez peut-être la suite, j'en ai pris plus, plus souvent, et s'en est suivi un joli malaise cardiaque au milieu d'un cours d'athlétisme au lycée.

Ainsi que deux jours d'hospitalisation, un déni parental de toute responsabilité assez dingue, et une très longue période à ne trouver que l'auto-mutilation comme source de réconfort.

Sentir mon sang couler, la douleur de chaque coupure quand j'enfonçais les lames de rasoir plus profondément sur mes bras, quelque part ça me soulageait.

(Là vous vous dîtes "mais elle est dingue")

Il faut savoir que votre cerveau ne peut traiter qu'un signal de douleur à la fois, il choisira donc le plus récent/urgent selon lui.

Selon le mien, une douleur physique éphémère valait mieux qu'une douleur morale trop importante.

Une sorte d'expiation de mon manque de perfection.

Sous mes tatouages, quand je passe mes doigts sur la peau de mes avant-bras, je sens encore les cicatrices que les lames de rasoir ont laissé comme souvenir de cette période où ma lumière était mutilée par la toxicité de mon environnement.

Bref - vous comprenez mieux d'où je venais, et le peu d'estime que je m'accordais à ce moment de ma vie.

Alors, après une semaine à se voir chez lui, lovée dans ses bras d'où il ne voulait plus que je parte, quand j'ai compris qu'il n'était pas là pour me blesser et qu'un vrai lien a pu commencé à se tisser entre nous, il m'a invitée à dîner à l'extérieur.

Sauf que j'avais 17 ans, encore mineure donc, il me récupèrerait à la salle plutôt que chez mes parents.

J'en reviens maintenant à cette fameuse robe.

C'était la plus belle que j'avais, un décolleté en coeur, ceinturée à la taille, d'un tissu élégant en satin noir avec des bretelles qui se nouent autour du cou par trois petits boutons.

Une robe aux allures de pin-up vintage à mi-chemin entre les années vingt et les années cinquante.

J'avais préparé un sac avec mes affaires de rechange, et en l'enfilant dans les vestiaires, en arrangeant mes cheveux, en appliquant avec soin mon rouge à lèvres sur ma bouche entre-ouverte, j'oubliais progressivement mes angoisses, mes doutes, ma peur de ne pas être à la hauteur.

C'était comme une transformation par marraine la bonne fée Marc Jacobs.

"Wow" me dirent les premières paires d'yeux qui posèrent le regard sur moi, fraîchement préparée.

"Tu es sublime, là tu fais vraiment femme, juste incroyable"

Les compliments s'enchaînèrent, gonflant ma confiance à bloc, et mon coeur palpitait d'excitation en regardant la pendule accrochée à l'accueil faire danser les aiguilles en direction de l'objet de tous mes désirs.

Oui, je me souviens très bien de ce rush d'adrénaline.

D'enfiler cette robe, c'était un peu comme d'avoir enfilé une tenue de super-héros ou de devenir la princesse de Cendrillon.

Elle me rendait belle à l'extérieur, aux yeux de tous, éblouissante, et ce sentiment de beauté me donnait l'impression d'être invincible le temps d'une soirée.

Il en eût le souffle coupé, me baisa la main avec beaucoup de respect et m'ouvrit la porte de sa voiture comme un gentleman.

Cette soirée -là, pour la première fois, je me suis sentie femme.

J'ai senti le pouvoir que j'avais, que je pouvais avoir.

Voilà tout ce que cette robe Marc Jacobs me rappelle...

Mon éveil, ma prise de conscience de ma féminité et de la puissance qu'elle me conférait autrement que par l'art de la danse, par l'art de la mode, de l'élégance, de la séduction.

Biensûr, je ne pense pas qu'elle ait déclenché mon histoire d'amour, mais elle m'a permis à un certain moment décisif de me donner les ailes dont j'avais besoin pour prendre mon envol.

C'était il y'a bien longtemps, je me vois à cette époque depuis le moi d'aujourd'hui et j'aimerais pouvoir lui dire qu'elle ne sentira plus cette absence de tout quinze ans plus tard.

Que cet amour inconditionnel qu'elle avait tant espéré, elle le trouverait dans son cercle d'amis, des gens extraordinaires.

Et pour finir, que son dressing deviendrait un lieu de refuge tout aussi extraordinaire, où se multiplieraient les trésors et les rappels de son pouvoir: celui de se sentir assez forte, assez bien, assez belle.

[wordsonly]

1985

The little girl

Is sideways glancing

Checking you

Before broken dancing..

She knows all the moves.

Erratic midi-systematic 

Grinding cacophonic static

Snippets 

Sequenced 

Gyrating 

Vintage bloated lips

Vibrating

Punching there, below the belt 

Her face 

Soft-sculpted 

Judgements dealt 

Eyes- roll

Reprimanding 

‘Get Back !’

And foot on neck 

Palm twist

Aggress

Afraid to take the single step 

A giant leap

Upon the moving stair 

l'esprit de l'escalier

Move on and up, to the illuminated

Kodachromium

Silver

Disconsolated 

A chequered chemistry to adore 

36 or 24

Super-primed yet so well hidden 

1 hour processing the inhibition.

Because here on the first, 

We are rubbing carpet 

Electrifying...To Jump start it! 

The walls are tiled in pictured vinyl 

Androgynous angels,

Permanents spiral

High-lights 

Snake eyes 

Steel zipped.

Grease black leather 

Power clipped.

Tranced in Liquid Crystals

Unbending 

Separated.

Aisles unending 

Equalised In flashes green

Towering

Surrounding

Personal machine.

The walking men

Small 

Exhailing.

Electro fighting with lethal spin 

Thick rubber cables

Tangled

Three pin

Weighted Bakerlite 

Ivory 

Calling loud, for an auto-reversal. 

A return to the known.

To the largest of waves.

Airbrushed into extinction....

There, 

on glass 

at her level 

You see him!

Hi-Fidelitised excitement 

A son 

A father 

A truth incitement  

Moulded 

By injection;

The Ubermench

In mint perfection 

This is prized

Above all else 

Agog.

Bright teeth painted 

Grinning lightning

Filaments of polymer

Entwining 

Flowing glossy bouffant 

Slides

To bestial-bicep

Mal-proportioned size

Regal blue spandexed 

Physique 

Posable knock-off

Adonized

Freak 

This is not to be treasured. 

Enhancements 

Sculptured grotesque 

High density polyethylene chest;

Emblazoned  

Metallised 

Gold 

And red 

House of

Emulation 

Doggy Daddy 

Dead.

[signify-nothing]

In French they have L'esprit de l'escalier to describe that feeling when you think of the perfect witty comeback after you’ve reached the bottom of a flight of stairs after a party, but in English I think we should call that the curse of the send button because every time I go to submit a short story anywhere it seems totally perfect and then as soon as I hit the send button I realize I went on a two-page tangent about a girl trapped in a refrigerator between the eggs and some rotting kale without first explaining that this happened in a nightmare.

[empoweredbythehumanerror]

S.S. GUTS// Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk

Inhale.

Take in as much air as you can.

This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.

A friend of mine, when he was thirteen years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkstand, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.

So, my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.

Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.

At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.

Then, this kid, his mom yells it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now.

He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.

After dinner, he goes to find the carrot and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.

This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them.

That something too awful to name.

People in France have a phrase: "Spirit of the Stairway." In French: Esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party…

As you start down the stairway, then -- magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.

That's the Spirit of the Stairway.

The trouble is even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.

Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.

Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around the kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look… better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad, teen suicide.

Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.

It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.

After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school. That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital.

He's got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked on. He says how they all have to share the same television. All he's got for privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit. On the phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother in the Navy.

On the phone, the kid says how -- the day before -- he was just a little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do the job. A ball-point pen's too big. A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle, there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin.

Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he gets to work.

Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've totally re-invented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore.

The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.

From downstairs, his mom shouts it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people, but we all live pretty much the same life.

It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax so he figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his back hurts. His kidneys. He can't stand straight.

This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people screaming. Game shows.

The X-rays show the truth, something long and thin, bent double inside his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and more rough, coated with crystals of calcium, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.

This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black X-ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.

On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.

They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid mistake, and now he'll never be a lawyer.

Sticking stuff inside yourself. Sticking yourself inside stuff. A candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to be big trouble.

What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents' swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two, three, four minutes.

Just from jacking off, I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.

After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each handful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my Mom.

That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister, thinking she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father AND the uncle.

In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.

The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sitting on it.

As the French would say: Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked?

Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute you'll never be a lawyer.

One minute, I'm settling on the pool bottom, and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow-striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.

One minute, I've got enough air, and my dick's in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed to be home for hours.

My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.

I do this again and again.

This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.

And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls.

It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.

Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida.

People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about EVERYTHING.

Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.

Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head getting loud and fast.

The bright sparks of light crossing and criss-crossing my eyes, I turn and look back… but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue-white and braided with veins has come up out of the pool drain and it's holding onto my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.

That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.

So… I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.

Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill vitamin my Dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega-three fatty acids.

It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.

It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call, prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.

Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working - unraveling my insides -- until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit, and you can see how this might turn you inside out.

What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctor's call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.

That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unraveling out my ass, me holding onto what's left, even then my first want is to somehow get my swimsuit back on.

God forbid my folks see my dick.

My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible.

You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lamb-skin condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then, try to tear it. Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you can't hold on.

A lamb-skin condom, that's just plain old intestine.

You can see what I'm up against.

You let go for a second, and you're gutted.

You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.

You don't swim, and you drown.

It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.

What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby they brought home from the hospital thirteen years ago. Here's the kid they hoped would snag a football scholarship and get an MBA. Who'd care for them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.

Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged, torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow-striped swim trunks.

What even the French won't talk about.

That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian phrase. The way we say: "I need that like I need a hole in my head…" Russian people say: "I need that like I need teeth in my asshole…"

Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse

Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of being dead.

Hell… even if you're Russian, some day you just might want those teeth.

Otherwise, what you have to do is -- you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air, and you will chew through anything to get that next breath.

It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night.

If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.

It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got in trouble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my Mom said, "You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And she learned how to cook poached eggs.

All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me…

I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.

Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my guts for longer than a couple hours, it comes out still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet.

After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don't digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was thirteen.

Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swimming pool. In the end my Dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vitamin pill still inside, even then, my Dad just said, "That dog was fucking nuts."

Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my Dad say, "We couldn't trust that dog alone for a second…"

Then my sister missed her period.

Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my folks never mentioned it again.

Ever.

That is our invisible carrot.

You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.

I still have not.

End