Thursday, March 10

not on top of it

How could that happen?
How could that happen again?
Where the fuck was I looking
When all his horses came in?




We wanted to find love
We wanted success
Until nothing was enough
Until my middle name was excess


dear pj harvey. once again the voice of my angst. both lyric excerpts come from her 'stories from the city, stories from the sea' album.

when i started this blog, this dorothy black thing, it was a bit of fun you know, a little side-line project to life.

now.

well, now it's a whole beast by itself. a beast i feel terribly compelled to feed. it is an alter-ego that demands constant attention. me and my twin.

i joke often about the whole (ir)relevancy issue. but in my small world, where i like to do other shit that isn't SM related it becomes problematic.


so every now and then i suffer from the FOB ('fear of blogging' for those of you new to the site), usually when i see my hit count shoot up and stay up, and new plums clickety clicking daily... it freaks me out a little... like performance anxiety on a soap box -- sad, amusing, a little pathetic

but there you go. i'm in the middle of a full-blown case of the FOB. overwhelmed by information i don't have, that i should have ... overwhelmed by keeping my two realities from colliding ... just overwhelmed

i kinda wish i lived in america where sex writers mean something. enough to make a focused living off of, instead of trying to squeeze everything in into a working whole...

anyhoo. that's my yadda yadda for now.

nevertheless:




aiee nick nick - i still think of you

catch you later
dot
xx

2 comments:

sameasbeinglost said...

nothing to say ? is that as same as saying all the answers to none of the questions?

kyknoord said...

In this country, the only people who make real money out of sex writing are Steve Hofmeyer's maintenance lawyers.