I seem to travel constantly between the psychic villages of lust, craving and guilt, and then back again, hopelessly traveling in circuits along the rutted tracks of the road of a dirty mind to the place I might call Filthyland.
I think one of the reasons I have such a proclivity for the pack is that I am just enough of an exhibitionist that I want the exposition of my slut-mind, my little slut-rants to be stored someplace. The fella’z have their little oral histories of street talk, but what about me? All I have is just this journaling, blogging, these little word pictures of my travels in Filthyland. Telling on my self, telling about things a bad girl gets used for on the streets of Filthyland, telling on myself about these little forbidden subjects "good" girls never (as we all know), think about.
We chronics have to feed our addiction. Either we masturbate constantly to let the steam out, or we live it out vicariously in the porn, or else take our compulsions out to the street and share it physically with other beings, such as ourselves, or we do something of all three from time to time.
On the one hand, I think to myself, nobody should be seeing behind my eyes shades like this, and I think about ripping it all down.
No matter, I know that out in our virtual community of souls, there are other passengers on this Greyhound Bus ride though Filthyland. They read me, I read them, and then we smile and nod at each other for a moment, in that quaint virtual community way we have, even if it's from behind the computer monitor.
Every time I write, I feel some sort of contentment in knowing there are at least two tickets, mine and another, for the ride to Filthyland.
Peace!
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