The Stephen King Marathon – The Running Man

This is another of the Bachman books, and one that I was crazy excited to reread.
runningman1I remember thinking of the Running Man when I read the Hunger Games for the first time, and upon this reread I wondered if Suzanne Collins was inspired by this book when she came up with the idea. It definitely feels like the Hunger Games could have been an homage to the Running Man.

I read this book in only four sessions, it’s so intense and fast paced. Right from the get go, stuff is happening, and in typical Bachman style, it’s pretty fucked up. Dystopian future, televised game shows that pretty much guarantee death, and an Orwell-esque government. There’s something wonderful about a character living in poverty totally sticking it to the man by playing the man’s game but playing it their own way.

I honestly can’t sing enough praises for this book. It is fucking fantastic. I kind of want to watch the movie now, although I really just don’t understand how they figured Arnold Schwarzenegger was a good fit for Richards. I was picturing somebody more… I don’t know, not Arnold-y.

For The Dark Tower Fans: Nothing really, except for King’s beautiful writing.

Fear Factor: This book isn’t all that scary, unless you start to think about what it would be like if our world ended up like the one in the book. If killing people on live television was a thing, and humanity just ate it all up. It’s really fucked up to think about. That’s what King does as Bachman, though, he really makes the reader examine the human condition, and how deep our depravity can go.


The Stephen King Marathon – Cujo

I apparently had forgotten a lot about this book. I read it originally when I was a teenager, and all I remembered was a woman and her kid trapped in a car with a mean dog outside. There is so much more.


This book is fucking awesome. It had been so long since I’d read it. I look at his newer stuff like Under The Dome, and am so in awe of his ability to make a small town’s inhabitants so interesting. I was amazed to read something from so long ago in which he does the same thing, showing that he was gifted in this skill from the get go. Most of the book takes place in the lives of two couples, each with a child and a massive set of baggage and troubles. It’s so immersive and interesting, even though there doesn’t seem to be a lot going on. And because Cujo gets rabies right at the beginning and it slowly sets in over the course of the story, I found the dread and anticipation just building up in me. It is an intense ride.

I especially love the way that King writes from the point of view of the dog himself. He’s very good at vocalizing how I would imagine the thought process of a dog would be. I really felt the madness setting in, and found myself feeling badly for what Cujo was going through. On the flip side of that, now that I have a child, I was absolutely panicked at the thought of being stuck in a car in the heat of summer trying to protect my kid from a rabid St. Bernard. It was an intense ride.

Aside from the amazing writing and the masterful tale spinning, it wouldn’t be a King novel without some hint at the supernatural. As much as this is a very real story, with actual relationship issues and a normal real world disease on the dog, he manages to inject a little bit of creepy mystical shit. The kid sees a monster in the closet and it turns out that it’s the dog, and the father has dreams that point towards where they are, it’s just that little bit of signature King that ties the book together in a neat little spooky bow.

Love. So classic and awesome.


For the Dark Tower Fans: There wasn’t anything that jumped out at me here, but I did happen to read an article that pointed out that Song of Susannah takes place in Bridgton, Maine, where this book also takes place. So there is that.

Fear Factor: While this book didn’t have me sleeping with one eye open, it was definitely suspenseful. I was invested in the characters at the beginning, but once I got to the part in the car, there was no putting the book down. Heart racing, goosebumps, just wholly in that car with Tad and Donna.


The Stephen King Marathon – Danse Macabre

Ok, so full disclosure. I didn’t finish this book. Aside from the fact that I was in the middle of newborn hell and was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open, it just wasn’t holding my attention well enough. It’s non-fiction, and I usually love reading about what Stephen King’s thoughts on writing are, but in my desperate cross-eyed nighttime feeding state I needed something super absorbing. I tried for awhile, but just couldn’t do it. So this post is a placeholder for when I come back to it.

I just needed some good storytelling, because I ate through Cujo and The Running Man within a week and a half. So yeah. I’ll come back to this later.


Sliming Through The Wetlands – Chapter Fourteen

I’m running out of good verbs for these titles. Only a few more left to go, though. Are you excited? You should be. This is the chapter where Helen masturbates under her hospital bed.


When we join Helen, she’s laying in her hospital bed mid sex fantasy about Robin.

I lick each vertebrae all the way back down. To his butt crack.

Yes, this is where it’s going. I have to be totally honest, it’s an extremely well written scene.

My left hand makes its way underneath to his cock. It’s so hard it’s like a stone column wrapped in warm skin.

It’s hard to find anything that Helen does or wants to do remotely sexy, however. I applaud that description because it’s perfect and unique, but while in Helen’s head it’s completely impossible for me to get in the mood.

He’s a pig, this Robin.

Um. You’re the one fantasizing about eating his ass, Helen. Not judging, some people are into that. Just maybe a little pot/kettle here.

A knock at the door. With my luck it’ll be Robin and he’ll instantly figure out what I was just picturing. Nope. A female nurse. She asks whether I’ve had a bowel movement.

“No, have you?”

The nurse gives a pained smile and leaves.


Helen decides to go pee, and while she’s up and about, get some mineral water for her avocadoes.

I waddle to the washroom, lift my hospital gown and piss standing up, just the way an ass patient is supposed to. No need to flush. Nobody else is going to use it but me. Drives hygiene-freaks nuts.

Or just people that don’t want to smell old piss.

She fills a glass from the tap and thinks about how her dad taught her about surface tension in water, meaning you can fill a glass above the rim and it won’t overflow. She can’t remember the exact details, and is happy that she’ll have something to talk to him about when he visits, to avoid any long silences.

I drink the entire glass in one go. Nice change. Still water instead of sparkling.

I don’t really know much about Germany and their sparkling water, but I know that Hungarians are absolutely batshit crazy for it. The older Hungarians in my family that were born overseas are obsessed with Club Soda. One of my friends went over to Hungary for work for a couple of months and said that there is like no such thing as regular water over there. Every glass of water is carbonated, unless you specifically ask for tap water. I personally fucking hate sparkling water, so it’s a bit of a culture shock to me to imagine only having that around. I’m assuming from Helen’s sentiment that it’s the same in Germany? What is it with Europeans and carbonation?

Anyway. Helen decides to keep her ass hanging out as she leaves her room.


There are stacked crates of bottled mineral water (I guess that debunks my whole Germany-only-has-sparkling-water theory, unless this is just because it’s a hospital) near a visitor’s seating area, and Helen grabs three and then turns her back on the family sitting there.

I can hear that my rearview has created a stir among the family. Have a ball. I walk as quickly as I can to my protected cave.

She squeezes behind her bed to the windowsill where the avocado pits are hiding, and refills the glasses. She realizes that the water evaporates pretty fast in the window, and berates herself for not paying more attention.

She realizes that the room looks different from the corner, and shoves her bed out to hide behind it on the floor.

I feel the cold linoleum on my peach and ass cheeks.

Firstly, I forgot how much this book made me hate peaches. Secondly, I shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that she’s okay sitting her bare vagina on the hospital floor… but dude. No.

I feel between my legs with my hand. I stick two fingers in and use them like tweezers to pull out my homemade tampon. I put it on top of the shoulder high radiator.

Why? You could have thrown it in the garbage and made a new one later. You could have honestly kept it on the floor next to you, since you’re all about rubbing your bits on the floor. Why on top of the radiator? Why.

I take my middle finger and put the tip of the nail directly on my snail tail. I press on it with the edge of the nail. That must make an indentation.


My pussy immediately begins to drip with slime.

Every time she uses the word slime in reference to her vagina, I mentally gag. And that doesn’t often happen to me. I just can’t help but picture radioactive green goo.

You're welcome.

You’re welcome.


I spread the two fingers apart inside my pussy and make a twisting motion.

That just sounds uncomfortable.

Normally, as I get more and more into it I stick my pussy fingers in my ass. That’s not going to happen, though. The ass is fresh from surgery and already occupied by a plug.

I’m impressed that that is stopping you.

I move the pussy fingers inside me toward the back. It feels like a very thin dividing wall between pussy and ass. I can feel the plug. Even though I’m in the pussy. I know this feeling. But not from a plug, of course. From shit.

Did you need this again?

I’m so sorry. Here’s that kitten again.

It’s often lined up at the exit before it’s allowed to leave. And if you’re in the pussy you can feel the log of crap through the thin dividing wall. I wonder if men have ever felt one in me when we were hooking up?

You know, I’m often morbidly curious about gross things. I will try a lot of things that other people won’t. But this, I am not remotely curious about. Neither about feeling this by myself, or somebody else feeling it. Honestly. Dude. This is what Helen thinks about when she masturbates.

I also like to feel the sphincter work from my pussy. I tighten it, cinch my ass closed, and feel it from inside.

There’s a cow on the grass, hallelujah. Opens and closes its ass, hallelujah.

Is this seriously a saying or a song for German kids? Or did Helen just make this up herself? Between egg holes and cow asses…

Now I want to feel the front wall of my pussy. The back wall has been sufficiently investigated.

Why do you need to ‘investigate’ your innards, anyway? It’s glaringly obvious that you know every inch of space in there already.

Here the pussy feels like a washboard.

Also the term ‘pussy’ has lost all meaning from this paragraph.

Sorry, kitty.

Sorry, kitty.

When I press hard against it, it feels as if I’m going to piss all over my hand and I usually come immediately. When I come that way, a fluid often shoots out, too, like sperm.


I need both hands now. I rub my dewlaps really hard with both pointer fingers.

Seriously, with the dewlaps. I don’t know why that word is so gross to me.

Suddenly there’s water all over me. It’s ice cold. No way I can come now. I’ve knocked over one of the avocado glasses and the water’s spilled onto my head and run down my chest.

Saved by the avocado glass! Helen tries to rub herself back into action.

It’s just not going to work. I can’t even quietly give myself a handjob hidden under the bed in my own hospital room. Usually easiest task.

Sorry, Helen.

Just as she’s about to get up, there’s a knock and somebody walks into the room.

They keep catching me with my hand on my pussy.

[…]I can see feet and a handle with a big mop attached to the bottom of it. The cleaning woman is making her rounds.

That cleaning woman narrowly escaped having to clean up Helen’s squirt all over the hospital floor.

That’s it for this week, folks. If you’d like to read a masturbation scene that’s actually sexy, check out The Boss by Abigail Barnette.


Straight Up Screaming Through The Wetlands – Chapter Thirteen

Thirteen is a magic number, folks. This is THE chapter. The one that I use to describe to people how gross this book is. You’re in for an extra special treat today.

The chapter starts light. As light as this book gets, anyway.

And so I come to one of my biggest hobbies. Popping zits.

I fucking love this book.

I’ve noticed a big blackhead in Robin’s ear. […] I practically grabbed Robin’s ear. I could barely control myself. But a lot of people aren’t cool with that. when you just pop their zit without asking.

I’m not quite sure how I’d react if someone just straight up reached over and popped a zit on my face. I can’t say I haven’t had the urge to do it to other people. I once dated a guy that used to get me to pop the zits on his back all the time, and I found it immensely satisfying. But yeah. Never without being invited.

I clench the blackhead on my upper arm between the thumb and pointer finger of my left hand and, with a squeeze, out comes the worm.

It goes directly from my thumb into my mouth.

Is it bad that I would find her eating this kind of worm less gross?

Is it bad that I would find her eating this kind of worm less gross?

Ugh. Here we go. Helen talks about how there’s a drop of blood left over from the blackhead (how fucking hard did you squeeze??) and then thinks about how that’s like when she shaves her legs by herself. She gets goosebumps and is so careless with her razor that she cuts open every bump while shaving. Then, when she puts her nylons on, they create stripes when she pulls them up her legs like patterned tights.

Wearing nylons over my bloody legs has another advantage, too. I like to eat my scabs.

Why am I reading this book again? I CAN’T LOOK AWAY.

[…] and new scabs form. Then, once they’ve hardened, I can pick them off and eat them.

Tastes almost as good as sleepy seeds. The snack brought by the sandman and left in the corner of your eye closest to your nose.

If this were CinemaSins, I’d remove a sin for ‘sleepy seeds’, because that’s hilariously disgusting. Hisgusting? Helen talks about how she starts getting ingrown hairs from treating her skin so badly. She lets them fester and get infected, and then this happens:

First I stick a needle into the infected lump and squeeze out the pus. From my fingertip into my mouth with that. Then it’s the hair’s turn.

You are so fucking gross.

She randomly notices a magpie outside, and talks about how they steal eggs from other birds and slurp the insides out. She remembers when she was a kid, they used to chant “go climb a pole, you egg hole”, which doesn’t make any fucking sense, but whatever. Is this a German saying? She doesn’t know what it means, but of course she has a theory that she acted out once with her friend Kanell, the guy that shaves her.

The pussy was the hole, obviously.

Into it an egg. For egg hole.

Why? How does that even make sense, that an egg hole is a vagina? Your logic is flawed, Helen!




At first we tried a raw egg. But it broke in Kanell’s hand at the entrance to the pussy. The pieces of shell didn’t cut me or anything. It’s just that everything was covered in goop, and it was cold.

Imagining the feel of a raw egg on my girl junk is making me shudder.

They decide it would be easier to boil the egg first. I really hope that they let it cool first.

And inserted it. So I finally had the egg hole I’d always imagined from this playground rhyme.

Since then it’s been our inside secret. In the most literal sense of the phrase.

I’m trying to imagine what kind of guy Kanell is. Because I can’t imagine any dude being especially receptive to a girl going ‘hey, since I was a kid I’ve always wanted to put an egg in my pussy’. Also, why did she need him to do it for her? Why didn’t she do it herself? She eats her own bodily fluids but she can’t shove an egg inside herself? Am I reading too much into this?

She talks about the other thing she wants to ask Kanell to do, and that’s to trace her lymph nodes in her groin with a sharpie to ‘accentuate them’. Whatever, Helen, I’m sure he’ll do it, if he’s down with shoving eggs inside you then I’m sure he won’t mind drawing on you with permanent marker.

She notices the magpie is now fighting with another one, and thinks about how weird it is that people think they’re evil birds because they eat the young of other birds, but we humans eat the young of all animals. Then Robin strolls by the birds with a female nurse and Helen gets all jealous.

I feel a claim to him just because he’s taken a picture of my wounded ass and I gave him a titillating lecture about modifying my underwear. And because the nurse can walk and I can’t.

At least she admits that she’s jealous. She decides that she can walk, just very slow, and wants to go to the cafeteria. For coffee, of all things.

Good, Helen, do something normal. Don’t think anymore about Robin and his fuck-pie or about my parents in a bed boning each other.

Yes, please, let’s not think about that.

Pictured: Robin's fuck-pie.

Pictured: Robin’s fuck-pie.

Coffee always makes me have to go to the bathroom. I’d like to secretly have a bowel movement, without telling anyone here. Just for me. Just so I know I still can and that I haven’t grown together and sealed shut. I won’t tell anyone. That way I can still use this venue to try to bring my parents together. That way the things that are supposed to be together will grow together.

Yay, instead of parents boning let’s think about taking a shit. Whoo.

She decides to actually put something on so that her ass won’t be hanging out all over the hospital, but doesn’t want to try to attempt pants for fear that bending over will stretch her too much. She decides on using her bed sheet as a toga.

This is fine for walking around a hospital. The two ass-piss stains could have been caused by something else. They could be the result of my drooling on the sheet while sucking on a Werther’s Original. Very believable, Helen. Nobody’s going to ask you about it. People aren’t like that. They don’t want to know.

At least she can acknowledge that normal people don’t want to know about her ass piss.

She briefly wonders if she’s allowed to be walking around, but then decides she doesn’t care and starts to slowly make her way down the hallway.

There are bad religious paintings hung all over the place. The nurses probably put them up to please their parents. They all end up here sooner or later. The parents.


Helen gets to the glass door towards the elevators and realizes that she forgot money. She shuffles her way back to her room.

My memory’s gone to shit. In any event, I’ve got money now. I hold it in my hand as I walk. They don’t make sheets with pockets yet.

You know, I would never want to be within twenty feet of Helen, but I’m glad that this character exists. Because Charlotte Roche makes me fucking laugh.

Beyond is a whole new world. Here different diseases mingle. Ass patients and ass nurses aren’t the only ones out and about.

Seriously, her inner monologue, while sometimes abhorrent, is entertaining. And I love that even Helen shuffling along a hallway to the cafeteria can be taken in through her eyes and made interesting somehow.

She notices an old lady with a serious bunion walk by, and then reflects that she knows all about bunions because everyone in her family has them on their big toe. She admires the old woman’s ‘spider veins’, and then reaches the elevator. She gets in alone.

Here's a cute kitten. Hang in there.

Here’s a cute kitten. Hang in there.

I use the ride down to hoist up my toga with the hand holding my money and pull out my homemade tampon with the other hand. Bloody and slimy as it is, I’ll put it near the panel of buttons, the most scrutinized place in this moving crate. […] [I] balance the bloody, sticky lump right int he middle of it. Success.


The doors open and two men are standing there. Perfect. […] I greet them, beaming with joy. “Good day, gentlemen.”

And walk out with perfect posture.

You are a horrible, terrible, no good person, Helen.

There’s no way they’ll clean it up themselves. They’ll never figure out that it’s just harmless menstrual blood. It looks like something that fell out of a wound. You can’t even recognize that it’s gauze. Soaked with blood as it is. It could even be a piece of flesh. Human flesh.

Harmless menstrual blood? No matter what kind of blood it is, it’s fucking gross, and I think they’d be just as disgusted if they knew it was a homemade tampon instead of a hunk of flesh. She fantasizes about how a nurse will be called to come and pick it up.

Then my masterpiece will end up with the medical waste.

I really hope so. I hope it gets dealt with quickly and not too many people need to be traumatized by this. Fucking gross.

Don’t worry friends, it’s not over yet.

The bills have in the meantime been passed between both hands and smeared with blood. The finger that was inside me also clearly has blood under the fingernail. Blood turns brown when it’s exposed to the air. So it looks more like crap or dirt. So my period-hands now look more like the dirty hands of a kid on a playground. I’ll nibble it all out from under my nails later.

I’m so sorry.

I pay with a bloody bill. Pleased that this bill will sooner or later make the rounds. […] Whenever I get a bill with blood on it, my first thought is always of a nose bloodied from snorting too much coke. A bit of blood often gets on the part of the rolled-up bill that was stuck into the nose. Bit of snot, bit of blood. Maybe I should rethink that. There’s more than one way to get blood on a bill.

Does anyone else not want to touch money ever again? I mean I know that money is pretty unsanitary as it is… but next time I get change for a twenty, I’m going to wonder if some weird young girl smeared her period all over it. Gah.

She drinks her coffee in the cafeteria, thinking about how to prolong her stay in the hospital. She thinks about how most people want to get out of the hospital as fast as they can, with the exception of maybe homeless people. She thinks about this homeless guy Willy downtown, that her mother says never to give money to because he’ll just spend it on drugs and alcohol. Whenever she was downtown she’d get really close to talk to him, and never smelled booze or saw him being all drugged out.

I believe him. So I stole some money out of mom’s purse and put it aside. Then the next time I went into town without mom, I gave it to him and told him it was from my mother. She sends her best. I told him he shouldn’t ever thank her, though, because she wouldn’t want it to seem as if she were seeking a public show of gratitude. He took her for a generous, humble lady rather than a hypocritical Christian.

And this is where I’m not sure if I want to punch or kiss Charlotte Roche for grossing me out so badly and then making my heart swell for Helen. She’s so weird and gross and damaged, but then she goes and does something like this and I can’t help but admire her. And the asshole in me thinks it’s hilarious and awesome that she gave him money on behalf of her mother, knowing that her mother actually is a hypocritical Christian and wouldn’t want to give him anything.

I also stole a sleeping bag, food, and clothing for Willy from home. As far as he knows, it all came from her. Whenever I walked past him with mom, he and I would look at each other briefly and then lower our gazes with knowing smiles.

Willy is probably happy when there’s something wrong with his leg or something so he can spend a night in the hospital.

It’s hard keeping up with her. Girl with fetish for spreading her blood and ass piss around for strangers to touch… has enough empathy for a homeless person to steal living supplies and money for him and wonder idly how much he would like to be in a hospital bed.

Helen thinks about how it would be great to be able to pay someone for their disease so she could stay in the hospital, but knows it isn’t possible. Much like how she wants to trade breasts with her friend Corinna.

Whenever I see the way her tits bulge out of a T-shirt, I want to trade. I picture the two of us going to the plastic surgeon and each having our breasts reattached on the other. […] It breaks my heart that something like that isn’t yet possible. And besides, I’d still have to ask Corinna whether she was cool with it. I couldn’t do it without her consent. Or maybe I could. But then I’d definitely lose her as a friend.

Note to self: If you’re friends with Helen Memel, beware of being forced into breast swapping surgery with her.

She chastises herself for thinking in circles and realizes that there are too many ‘inmates’ around to distract her. She also notices that her gut is starting to gurgle because of the coffee. She thinks about how she did a coffee piss-test one time.

[…] when you’ve pissed yourself empty in the morning, you can pretty much assume there’s basically no more pee left in your body. Now, if you drink a cup of coffee with breakfast, your body feels so poisoned that it leeches water from itself in order to wash out the poisonous drink as quickly as possible. You have to go to the bathroom as soon as you finish drinking it and piss out more fluid than you just drank in the form of coffee. I’ve confirmed this by using the coffee mug as a measuring cup. The pee always sloshes over the edge. So to the delight of my father I proved the dehydrating effect of coffee. My mother wasn’t pleased, though, because she doesn’t think urine belongs in a coffee mug.

No shit! If you’re doing a piss test, at least use a beaker or something.

Helen realizes that she might be soon having an emergency, so she gathers herself together and starts heading back to her room.

Just in the nick of time I remember that I got rid of my do-it-yourself tampon for the sake of a prank. I’m squeezing everything down there together as best as I can. […] Thanks to my pussy’s good musculature, I can hold blood in for quite a while. Then, when I sit on the toilet and relax my muscles, it all sloshes out of me at once.

I kinda wish I could do that.

She inspects the elevator and sees it’s now super clean, and then hurries as fast as her sore ass can take her back to her room.

I’m worried about what’s going to come out and how. I stand over the toilet bowl with my legs spread apart, pull the gauze plug out of my ass and let nature take its course. I don’t need to paint a picture,

Then don’t, please.

but it takes a while, hurts a lot, bleeds heavily, and now I’ve done it. The thing everyone here is waiting for me to do. But they’re never going to know.

She makes herself a new ass plug, and then airs out the bathroom by opening the window and turning the shower on. She does a smell test by going out in the hallway and re entering.

Mission accomplished. I turn off the water and make a new homemade tampon to handle my menstrual blood. Done.

And we made it, friends. No more ass plugs until next week.


Collapsing Through The Wetlands – Chapter Twelve

Ah, Helen, I missed you. Picking up this chapter was like coming home. Or maybe not home, because this book is fucked, more like going to a cottage that you’ve been to a few times so it’s cozy but not necessarily homey. This metaphor is going off the rails. Anyway. I was happy to be back in Helen Memel’s head. It’s a clusterfuck of beautiful grossness in there.

I once had a really old lover. I love to say “lover.” It sounds so old-fashioned. Better than “fucker.”

True. People don’t often use the term ‘lover’ anymore. Usually fuck buddy or FWB or something. I kind of like ‘fucker’, though, that should be a thing.

Helen talks about how this guy showed her all kinds of things about sex, so that she would be super experienced, for whatever reason. Then she drops this gem of wisdom:

[…] you should always stick your finger up a guy’s ass during sex. Makes him come harder. So far I can certainly concur. It’s always a hit. They go wild. But you shouldn’t discuss it with them beforehand or after. Otherwise they’ll worry they’re gay and get all uptight.

I don’t know why this made me laugh so hard, but it did. Also, kids, don’t go just willy nilly sticking your finger up dude’s asses without saying anything. I can’t imagine that is something that they really want as a surprise.

Can't quite tell if this is unpleasant or pleasantly surprised.

Can’t quite tell if this is unpleasantly or pleasantly surprised.

Helen talks about how she watched a ton of porn with this guy, and it was through that that she saw a black woman’s vagina for the first time.

That’s something. Because they have dark skin, the interior colors of the pussy really pop when it’s spread open. Much more than white women, where the contrast isn’t as extreme. Something to do with complementary colors, I think. […] Brown skin complements pussy-pink.

The new crayola colour, pussy pink!

Helen says that this beautiful colouring impressed her so much that she started putting makeup on her bits before going out on sex dates.

I use standard makeup that you’d normally put on your face. I have yet to find pussy makeup at the drugstore. A gap in the market.

LOL. The sad thing is, this would probably sell like crazy. And not just in Germany, either.

She describes in detail exactly how she rubs different makeup on and inside herself, including but not limited to her actual asshole (which she refers to as her ‘rosette’). Now I’m wondering if shoving lipstick up your ass causes hemorrhoids.

It makes the pussy and rosette more dramatic, deeper, more beguiling.

Your pussy beguiles me.

Your pussy beguiles me.

Also, as a dude, would you not be a little freaked out when your dick came out covered in purple and blue makeup? Because yeah, that would rub around everywhere. The sweat would be all tinted weird colours… yeah there is just nothing attractive about that.

Helen goes on to talk about how she could only see black pussy in porn or if she went to a hooker, because there weren’t any black women around willing to have sex with her all the time. Because every woman should just be available for Helen to inspect their genitals all the time.

She talks about this bad experience she had with a white hooker, where she was so excited for this redhead’s tits but when she got undressed she was disappointed by her flat nipples.

It’s as if someone has pushed the nipple back into the breast and it stayed there, cowering in fear. Like a little collapsed souffle.

Pictured: Sad Nipples. Now I want souflee. Thanks, Helen.

Pictured: Sad Nipples.

Now I really want souffle. Thanks, Helen.

She says that some of the hookers told her that men who weren’t happy when their lady got naked would come out and demand a different one without paying. I give Helen major brownie points here, because she says that she wouldn’t have the heart to tell the hooker to her face that she didn’t look good. For all her faults, Helen cares about other people’s feelings. It’s refreshing.

Then she goes on to say that this hooker was lazy, and Helen had to grind herself on her knee to come. The hooker asks if Helen has ever had anal sex, and then proceeds to ask her what it was like.

What? Who’s the hooker here? I decide that as a young client it’s not my job to explain anal sex to a hooker. I leave. But I pay. I did come, after all, even if the collapsed souffles were no help at all. It was simple mechanics.

So Helen pays for her orgasm and reflects on how even though the hookers are older than her and have sex for a living, they’re not always more experienced than her. She doesn’t understand why a lot of hookers say no anal. She wonders if maybe there are a lot of clients that don’t properly prepare before anal, and then it hurts too much. She talks about how she likes to take plenty of time to stretch out her own asshole before anal, or at least be really drunk.

Overall it was a bad experience with the redhead. […] she’s lazy in bed, has no hair – anywhere, like an alien – eats goldfish and has never had anything up her ass. And her nipples don’t stick out.

Helen decides to stare out the window in the hospital and ponder nature for a while, which is a nice change of pace.

Her thoughts stray to how much her dad knows about nature and the outdoors, and how she seems to remember his facts and lessons better than her mother’s. She reflects on how her mother hates the natural world, and fights against it.

 There seems to be nothing my mother isn’t bothered by. She once told me that sex with my father caused her pain. That his penis was too big for her insides. This is not information i wanted to know.

Does anyone want to know that about their parents? Gee, I wonder why your kid is so fucked up.

Boredom is creeping back.

Mom always says, “Boring people are bored.”

Oh well. She also says, “We aren’t put on this earth to be happy.”

Not your kids, anyway, mom.

What a fucked up life.

Helen decides to focus on the trees outside again instead of thinking about her parents’ sex life, which is probably a good idea. She notices a staghorn sumac tree, which her father has taught her to be afraid of because their not native to the area and they grow so fast that they don’t build a sturdy base for themselves.

This scares Helen. But masturbating with a razor handle is okay.

This scares Helen. But masturbating with a razor handle is okay.

I always walk a wide arc around staghorn sumac trees. I wouldn’t want one of them to become the epitaph on my gravestone.

I feel like that tree probably couldn’t kill a person. But that’s just me. This whole passage seems like it’s more for showing how religiously Helen listens to her father.

Unfortunately, not everyone has a father like mine who can teach them such useful things.

She talks about how the branches and leaves get so big and wide so fast that they kill everything underneath them by blocking the sun. I’m wondering if this is an allegory to Helen’s relationship with her parents. Her and her father are afraid of these trees that block the sun and kill everything below it’s overbearing branches, aka: her mother.

The chapter ends with her speculating about how the trunk is smooth and would feel nice if one were brave enough to walk underneath to touch it.

Til next time.


The Stephen King Marathon – Roadwork

So, this book took me almost a year to read.

Dun dun dun! The 80s had the best book covers.

Dun dun dun! The 80s had the best book covers.

As with any of the Bachman books, this book follows a man sliding into complete lunacy due to the fact that the city wants to build a freeway on top of his subdivision, and he just can’t seem to let go of his house. He’s messed up because his son died, and in putting off moving out of the house even though the city is breathing down his neck, he ruins his marriage, his job, and his sanity.

I honestly don’t know how to feel about this one. One would think that because it took me so long to get through it that it sucks, but every time I picked it back up again it felt like coming home. There’s nothing quite like curling up with King, his words are like a warm blanket of imagination that just sucks you into a cocoon of awesomeness.

The whole time Bart is going nuts, I’m tumbling into insanity with him, watching him be a witty motherfucker even when he knows that he’s hitting rock bottom. He’s likeable even though he’s a complete antihero, which King is fantastic at, that is making characters so flawed and thus relatable. I found myself actually kind of rooting for Bart, wondering what he was actually going to do and where he was going to end up.

And then… I guess I just found it a bit anticlimactic. King has a knack for ending things just the way that they’re supposed to end, and I know that it was naive of me to think that Bart was going to just fuck up some machinery and then skip off to Las Vegas and party it up with Olivia while trying to find himself. But I feel like it ended too fast. For him to go out the way he did… and then nothing really changed anything.

That’s reality, I guess. One man in a billion suffers, goes out with a bang, and the world moves on. Depressing, but that’s Bachman. Nothing supernatural here, Freddy, just the human mind, which can be scarier than any ghost or evil clown.


For the Dark Tower fans: Nothing really, except the Bart on the cover above this sentence kinda looks like Roland.

Fear Factor: I would call this more of a psychological discomfort.

“[…]there’s a place in most of us where the rain is pretty much constant, the shadows are always long, and the woods are full of monsters.” -Bart Dawes, Roadwork, Richard Bachman