DisorderRatingParanoid:LowSchizoid:HighSchizotypal:ModerateAntisocial:LowBorderline:LowHistrionic:ModerateNarcissistic:ModerateAvoidant:LowDependent:LowObsessive-Compulsive:Low
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makes no fucking sense ( Read more... )

This came to me from someone I know. Please tell me what your reactions are; and/or would have been had you been me ( Read more... )

( Read more... )

Muscles and sinews containing people meet and join and undulate against one another in a language too poignant to be spoken. Suddenly, quietly, i lose anchor and i am falling, slipping out of this reality and into my own. My eyes refocus and i vortex into the vision of her body, every line of it rebranding itself into me with unerring memory of ( Read more... )

Напившись в гавно, figureof8 выдал себя: figureof8 на самом деле является крашеной блондинкой!

Узнай правду о своём друге!

The heretofore indecipherable to me process of utter humiliation of the pupil by the master (as in martial arts, for instance) has suddenly gained an interesting perspective. What if the purpose of such machinations is to allow the pupil to absolve themselves, for a time, of the responsibility of self-direction, to wholly and unthinkingly give ( Read more... )

the life containing triad - vein. artery. nerve. sheathed in soft skin, inviting truth. clarity. understanding. release. a blade. it passes over the pulsing invisible life giver, it traces the outline of the bluing evidence of days passed. it catches on millimeters of skin. "tissue". it is - milky, opaque, hiding nothing. anything. one ( Read more... )

Я просыпаюсь, немножко носом, немножко ушами. Ушами лишь настолько, чтобы удостовериться, что все звуки на месте, и что Воскресенье будет правильное. Все в порядке, два женских, один мужской, слова не важны. Перестаю прислушиваться и начинаю принюхиваться. Пахнет солнцем - под одеялом теплее чем ночью - значит, если открыть глаза, будет светло и ( Read more... )

I want to trace the pattern of my thoughts on the skin of my arms. Like a staphylococcal infection, they would trickle through my veins, up from my wrists (whoever appointed wrists as the repository of personal woes?), wind their way through capillary beds, soaking up everything which cannot be expressed, but which wants out anyway. They would ( Read more... )