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Showing posts from February, 2016

Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Man: I want happiness.
Buddha: First remove 'I'...that is ego. Then remove 'want'...that is desire. All that remains is happiness.


You get up, you go to work, you come home, you eat dinner, and you go to bed. There has to be more to life than paying bills until you die, right?

Of course there is. There hasn't exactly been a shortage of people telling us as much, over the millennia. Not just the heavy hitters, Buddha and Jesus and Muhammed and such, but the myriad people who have also embraced their true selves and brightened the world in so doing.

I've been blessed to come across many such people in my short time of limited awareness...people who make a difference, lights unto the world ("enlightened" would be a fair description), souls that have touched and enriched mine and many others besides. I know...I don't believe, I know...that I will discover many more. I strive and struggle to be one of them myself.

I've read a fair number of 'spi…

Love: A Biography In Verse

I’ve always loved too easily, too many, more than two And I refuse to say it’s her I love, not you, or you. I love you all, no matter what. An ‘us’ there’ll always be— I love you ‘cause you’re loveable. Is that so hard to see? 
Remember back in days of yore— high school, eleventh grade, That girl I’d blithely kill for, if she asked me, if she made just one small step towards me? I was mincemeat in her pie She never did. Almost, not quite. She knew it, so did I.
I played along, I had no choice. She had me in her thrall. I’d take a scrap of love from her, or anything at all. She cornered me and took my hand and spoke. “Here’s where it’s at: “There’ll never be an ‘us’,” she said. “I don’t love you like that.”
Fast forward several years to university and lust I’d lay anything with half a chance. I’d even lay the dust. But laying close brings love for me, that’s always been the case… Love wasn’t in the cards for us, she said. She needed space.
I gave her space, I gave her time. I loved her from afar. And t…

To my readers:

"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." --Ernest Hemingway

Dear Readers,

The Breadbin turns 12 this year. Twelve years, coming up on  1600 posts, well over a million words. Definitely a few clunkers in there, as well as some ancient entries of which I am not proud. (I advocated for STEPHEN HARPER. More than once. Dear God.)  A fair bit of repetitious repetition: whenever I've repeated a theme, I've tried to write in wider and wider spirals, covering at least a little new ground each time.

There's a lot of good writing in here, if I do say so myself. I've bared my soul to the world, warts and all; covered a wide variety of topics, some requiring (ugh) entirely too much research; tried to make you laugh, cry, and think.

My end goal is to make a living off my writing. That is wildly optimistic of me. I'm not putting myself down in saying so: A fraction of a fraction of a fraction of the people who consider th…

It Bothers Me.

This is going to be a challenge to write, on several levels.

One, I find the subject matter repulsive in the extreme. As I hope I made clear in my last post, BDSM is so far out of my comfort zone that I actually recoil whenever it comes up. I can intellectually grasp the appeal of bondage, sort of, but anything involving pain or humiliation mystifies and horrifies me. In any other context, deliberately causing pain to another human being is inhuman and monstrous, and deliberately courting it is proof of extremely low self-esteem at the very least. But in the most intimate of contexts, it's "just another way to love".  I'm not sure I can express just how much this bothers me.

Two, and related, I have no idea what I'm talking about. There must be a lure to BDSM, and a powerful one: otherwise  Fifty Shades of Grey wouldn't be the top-selling book written for adults in all of history.  (Gag...literally.) What that appeal is, I can't even fathom, and I freely …

Love and Marriage (and Sex!)

NSFW post. Adult themes up the ying-yang, graphic language, probably a trigger or two, reader discretion is advised, etc.

"Hardon You"

I know my constant horniness gets hardon you
Sometimes it seems I'm always in the mood
If that is so, I truly beg your pardon, too
It wasn't my intention to be rude
My love is like my horniness, in that it never quits
But I'd love you if you didn't have those tits

Men have only got the one thing on their mind
It gets so repetitious it's a crime
Somebody said a hard man is good to find
As long as you don't find him every goddamn time
You are not only something that I lust for, that I hunt
I would love you if you didn't have a cunt

I'm neurotically erotic, with a taste for the exotic
And your body is hypnotic when it's next to me
I'm dementedly attentive, and in need of no incentive
But you know you represent much more than sex to me. . . 

You know that I was horny for you from the start
And that's the way it's alwa…

The Need To Explain

A dear friend of Eva's--which makes her a dear friend of mine--sent this to me the other day:



I have to admit, I stared at it for a while, not entirely sure what to make of it. Many of those things are personal bugaboos of mine, little insecurity traps. I feel some pretty intense guilt over one of them, defiance over a couple of others, and I probably spend far too much time thinking about almost all of those things as a group.

Check that, all of them.

This is supposed to be a liberating poster, something to take to heart. I'm supposed to let go of the need to justify each of these things, because they're none of anybody's business.



And yet I still looked at that first poster and thought, she's telling me to shut up about all of this stuff.

Apparently I still care too much about what others think.

I don't have to explain any of this...except sometimes to myself. And in doing so, you, dear reader, get to ride shotgun. Ready?


1) One of the biggest regrets, if not…

Going Moldy....

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