no going back

For me, what I love most about rp, is ic interaction
with people. There's streetspeak and that makes it clique.
Sadly not at the same level as aco, possibly a good thing.
Some people have got it. Some are laser iris hot.
Some users bother and it makes the difference.
All the difference.

rp : roleplay/ing

ic : in-character

ooc : out-of-character

irl : in-real-life

girl : guess-in-real-life

gfy : go-fuck-yourself

url : web address

aco : A Clockwork Orange

ns : newspeak (1984)

nl : Naked Lunch

This is a place I return to, for me; so much of what I do is for other people, I deserve this space, its where I can fully let my hair down and be myself even if irl is so fuckedup that I have to pretend to be pretending someone else to do it.

I don't know where it all started because there has been so much of it and most of that got washed down the gutter where it crawled form wand where it belongs. I'm only a rung up myself despite striving continuously striving for constellations, the desperate surge of life-flow, nymphetamine for blood with a twist of dry whiskey to soften the edge; jumping a ledge and landing intact on your feet, what do you do next?

I took Angel in because she had no-place else to go and was running from the man and his dog pack; cops, the outfit, vampervs, the works. I was lucky to have a grotty conapt a the time, a useful hide-away despite its notoriety. A few weeks later she was gone, missing persons, I was the last one to see her and despite epic proportional attempts by everyone to find her, nobody has yet asked me about it.

Angel left some of her stuff and superstitious though it seems I blame a book she left behind, 'girlfriend in a coma', which I could never bring myself to read, to be a part of a voodoo hex. The other part I blame on the shitty lofi glitch electro I was writing on a boyfriends musicbox, for what happened to
Sofi.

Going into that mental-emotional space of creativity I had been seeing visions of people wired to machines, wondering if I could get a sample recorded from a hospital machine that goes ping to mix into the techno. I was happy with my trancedelia because it was creepy freaky, enough to play to someone; happened to be Sofi when she stayed over, trying to impress.

She told me her soul-name and I knew there was a reason for it. Soon after I wept as I called her down, white cold dead hands heavy as a .55 lead slug, shock contrast to the jovial lightness of her spirit. She came out of the coma and got offworld gods bless her beautiful butterfly soul, went to work
some paradise resort to make art and romance with the rich.
And I never did get that soundbyte.

So thats my story; consumer-disposable relationships, bisexuality, drugs, pimps, dark electro hardcore clubs, cops, meat-hangers, fifty shades of sex and spirituality, too much fucking gutter and pain, the endless dirty rain eating away us like it does the endless supply of chemical graffiti paint stain wearing our skin as much as the concrete.

I got off downers and came here on the cheapest one-way ticket I could find after whoring my way to a reputation as one of the best, thanks to femme training and desperation. A place to reinvent myself. And I still have the soundbox, so; this future has potential. No more looking back.

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