Edward Lorn's Blog, page 109

To Be Read List: Suggestions Needed

E. here.

I have a goal of reading fifty books in 2013 (no worries, we’re not going anywhere December 21, 2012, trust me). I know some of your read that much in three months, but I’m a slow reader. In the comment section below, list your suggestions.

Genre doesn’t matter. Only stipulation is that you have to have read the book and liked it. I trust you guys not to steer me wrong. 

And yes, if I haven’t already read your book you can shamelessly plug yourself, as well.

LYF,

E.

Why Parenthood is like the Saw Franchise:

If you’re not paying attention, you could wake up chained to a bathtub.

 

You’ve looked for your child everywhere. How the hell did they end up in the safe?

 

Your house is full of deadly booby-traps.

 

Right now, somewhere in your child’s room, there is a creepy-ass doll. Tricycle is optional.

 

At least once a day, your child will come to you and say, “I want to play a game.”

 

Though you’ll go through trials and tribulations, if you survive, you’ll be a better person for it.

 

Boo-boos will pop up from time to time. And yes, there will be blood.

 

E.

Life Coaching with E.

To all my friends in relationships, but not yet married.

If someone asks you, “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?”

Simply respond, “Because I like hamburger.”

Then, watch them run away.

Ruminating On: A Dead Child

I cried myself to sleep last night over a photo I came across while on Facebook. The picture was a side-by-side. On the left, a bubbly, vibrant looking toddler, all smiles and full to the brim with life. To the right, that same child, dead; her face yellow-skinned and splotched with purple bruises. I hid the post instantly, but decided to come back and comment on the picture. I told the person who shared it that I would block them if they ever posted anything like that again. This unnamed individual was a very good friend of mine. I didn’t take my decision lightly, but I couldn’t stand to remain silent. Moments later, this friend contacted me on Skype, as did their significant other. The conversation went poorly. It was brought to my attention that the message behind the picture was one of awareness. Seems the person responsible for beating the child to death got away. The significant other asked me what my problem was, or, more accurately, “what crawled up my ass?” I immediately blocked both people and ended our friendship.

Now, I fully understand the concept behind the post. Someone wants justice, and they should have it, but why not post a picture of the child from when she was still among the living? Why not describe the tragedy in the comments or the tag of the post? Why am I the bad guy for not wanting to see a recently deceased little girl? What the fuck is wrong with people? The significant other, before I blocked them, said that I should know the other person was sensitive, that they’d took my threat of blocking them way too hard. I’m not sorry to say, I don’t give a damn. All I could see were my own children, broken, bruised… dead. All I could feel was heart-shattering fear at the possibility of losing my babies to such a tragedy. But if that were to happen, would I post pictures of their abused forms? Bet your life I would not. Had the picture been of the child alive, tagged with the story, I would have shared the post, given my condolences, and kept the family in my thoughts. The picture of that baby girl in death overshadowed everything else, though. I wanted the image out of my head but could not expel it. The last thing I wanted to think about was her, which defeated the entire purpose of the post. Even now, I see her clearly…

If you follow me on Facebook, be warned, I’m about to repeat myself.

It is never okay to post a picture of a dead child. Ever. I don’t care what the message is. If it’s for shock value, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I really can’t decipher who’s worse in this instance. The person who killed the girl, or the parents that allowed their precious little one’s photos to be paraded around. Yes, I feel both are equally abhorrent. I will not apologize for that. It takes a vile human being to want to pass that kind of atrocity along. You are neck-deep in grief, I get that, but she was your child for Christ’s sake. Have some respect.

You might say, “Well, image how they feel. They’re the ones who lost her.” Okay, granted, but the hunt for justice could have very well been done without that picture. I haven’t the foggiest what I would do given the death of one of my children, but I’m damn certain I wouldn’t post pictures of their corpses for everyone online to see. She was a child. Don’t you get that? It doesn’t take a photo of her battered body to convey the message that this was an appalling act of unforgivable violence.

I lost two good friends over this. I cared a great deal for both of them. So why did I cut off ties? I cannot associate with someone that does not see the problem with sharing such material. These two have been known to post pictures of bloodied or dead animals as well. I overlooked those because I weigh human life over an animals any day of the week. The abuse and murder of our four-legged friends is sad and tragic, but I feel human beings are a little more sacred. Sue me.

So, what crawled up my ass? A picture of a dead child did. I’ve seen plenty of terrible things on the internet and in real life that could last me twelve life-times, so excuse me if I choose not to want to see baby corpses in my timeline. If you feel this kind of behavior is acceptable, I don’t want to know you. I don’t care what the message is. It’s lost on me. I don’t know that child’s name, nor will I ever. I want to forget about her. And that, my friends, bothers me a great deal.

Hug your children a little harder tonight, kiss them a little longer, because this ends, sometimes all too soon, and you might only have today.

LYF

E.

Why Parenthood is like an Indiana Jones Movie

Some diapers are like the Ark of the Covenant. They might melt your face off.

Kids are like treasure. Getting them is fun, but once you have them, the world is full of obstacles you must overcome.

It can feel, at times, like someone is trying to rip your heart out.

Your own parents pop up to help you out but end up treating you like the child.

Kids are like finding the Holy Grail. They can make you feel immortal or age you incredibly fast. You choose.

Kids will hide anywhere. Nuclear blast or not, you might find them in a refrigerator.

Sometimes you don’t want to believe they’re your child, but in the end, you love them just the same.

Leave your own examples in the comments below.

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Ruminating On: The Importance of Being E.

The title of today’s blog is not a matter of ego, but of self-preservation. I split myself into two people a long time ago. I needed an escape-personality, someone with enough self confidence to meander their way through this tumultuous world. There is me, and there is E. Many of you only know the entity that is the former. He’s the one that writes the books and deals with the outside populace. I remain static, waiting for the final shoe to drop. To me, it’s not a matter of if I will fail, but when. No matter how hard I try, I cannot get rid of my father’s voice. I was indoctrinated at an early age to believe I was worthless, that everything I would ever strive for would be a constant struggle that would bear no fruit. It’s easy enough to crawl into a ball and cry myself into a comatose state, but I have other people counting on me. Namely, my family. During my younger years, E. served as the support beam that held me up, that allowed me to put on a happy face and deal with the unceasing barrage of hatred spewed forth by bullies and detractors. When I finally met my wife, she replaced E., became my life support system, and E. went away for a while. All that time, I never stopped telling stories. Whether in my mind, or on paper/computer screen, I was constantly writing. The day I finally decided to show my work to the world, I let E. out of his cage. He was to be my PR guy, the dude that fronted the questions, my face in the public eye. But, at some point, the creation became the master. Now, you may not think that’s a bad thing. E.’s a pretty cool guy if you just give him half a chance. Sure, he’s foul-mouthed and dirty-minded, but aren’t we all at times? Still, E. is not everything that I am.

I would love for E. to have his way twenty-four-seven. He doesn’t require pats on the back or social acceptance. E. really couldn’t give a flying fornication if you like him or not. He doesn’t need you. Hell, don’t feel bad because he doesn’t need me, either. He only needs to be heard. I, on the other hand, want to be liked. I’m not much different from you at home. No one wants to be hated.

Nowadays, when I look in the mirror, I see E. looking back at me. I like the guy and am in no hurry to rush him off, but I feel like I’ve lost a part of myself. I seek out the bad in people. I’m not very trusting. If someone or something seems to have good intentions I automatically start looking for chinks in the armor that will show me their true motivations. There has to be something bad about them. We’re all horrible people, right?  Yet I have met plenty of you that are just as awesome as you seem. I’ve thanked you in my books and on this blog. I love your face for being exactly what it seems to be. I appreciate that it’s not a mask. You wanted to know where “LYF” comes from, well, there you go. You are you, and nothing more. I admire that, because I can’t be that.

You don’t want me to be myself, believe me. I’m not a very entertaining person, hence the dire tone of this post today because E.’s away, working on a new book. I wear a mask so that I can be social, so that the boring, indoctrinated Edward can hide behind the outspoken, self-assure E. That’s funny, though, because everyone seems to enjoy my honesty, yet I hide so that I can be open and honest. If you’re confused, welcome to my world.

There are a few traits that E. and I share. Empathy is one. We tend to feel for humanity as a whole, but we deal with it in different ways. While I mourn the crumbling edifice of our superficial society, E. arms himself against the tide of indifference, is a warrior against intolerance. We both value honesty, but once again, for different reasons. I’ve been lied to enough over the years to have acquired a voracious hatred for all untruths. Also, I lied quite bit as a child and my ass still hurts from all its meetings with my mother’s belt. E. appreciates the need for lies in fiction, but sees no purpose for it in everyday life. He finds the subtle lies to be the worst. Bloated, exaggerated praise for crap that could be better, irks him to no end. E. feels that if you lower the bar, eventually, you will trip over the fucking thing.

This is the dichotomy of me; the importance of being E. No bullshit passes these gates without thorough inspection, and I love E. for that. He also doesn’t allow me to go half-assed into anything. Because of him, I always strive to be better. Though E. doesn’t give a damn about your acceptance, I appreciate each and every one of you. Please, don’t let E. scare you off. He’s an asshole, but a useful one. Like every rectum, he expels waste. However, E. does suffer from explosive, verbal and literary diarrhea, so if you get shit upon, I apologize. It’s not entirely his fault. I created him.

Ah, the ramblings of an fractured mind. Not broken or damaged, just segmented on purpose. Gotta love it. But my insanity is justified and manageable. If I wasn’t crazy, no one would give me, or E., a second thought.

LYF

E.

WIPP

Diagnosis: WIPP

Clinical definition: Work-in-progress parasomnia.

Symptoms: Too tired to write anything coherent, yet brain activity is heightened, causing mind to run rampant with new ideas. Tossing and turning results in mumbled dialogue followed by lucid dreams involving people and places that do not exist.

Drug regime: Caffeine and other things.

Other treatment(s): Working until body finally shuts down. 

Quality of life: Parasites (characters) outlive host (author) to infect high-risk individuals (readers).

Nuttin’ For Christmas

Ruminating On: Sex

I know I said I wouldn’t be back until December, but here I am. Deal with it.

Mmm, sex. Copulation, coitus, fornication, making love, and yes, even fucking. Sex is how we procreate, but I hope to Tom Cruise you already knew that. If not, you’re either too young to be reading this or the rock you’ve been living under your entire life is so large that it should have crushed you to death a long time ago. Though orgasm is natural, there’s many an unnatural hole by which we come by release. That, among other things sex-related, is why we’re here today. The prudish need not read beyond this point.

We’re not the only species that enjoys sex. If you’re to believe the internet, (the place where I came by this knowledge) pygmy chimps and dolphins also have sex for fun. How these scientists came by this conclusion is beyond me, but hey, they’re smartness far exceeds mine. I just hope that they aren’t judging the levity of dolphins post-coital by going on a sea cruise. Also, Is smartness a word? Spellcheck says so. Funny, Spellcheck, itself, is not a word. I doth believe Spellcheck hath self esteem issues.

Back to sex. Let me talk to the men for a second. We stuff our maypoles in many a hole. We make playgrounds of sewers and offer up eats as digestible as cardboard. But why? There’s a perfectly good slot for our deposits, so why not stick with the proper spot? I know there’s some of you gentlemen that don’t go for the back-door trash-dump hump, but you’ve thought about it, I’m sure. I’ve done it. I don’t like it but… been there, done that, bought the t-shirt, and so on. My point is we’re not suppose to be there. It’s an exit, not an entrance. Still, some girls like it. Hell, some even prefer it. Begs the question, though. Is it merely for pleasure? No matter how many times you have heard the term “butt-baby” that race of children does not exist. You cannot create life through an anus, sorry. So maybe it’s a form of subconscious birth control. Maybe you don’t think it “counts” if you do it in the butt. Who knows? The fact of the matter is, the people who partake in anal deeds on a regular basis do it because it feels good to them, and maybe even to the receiving party. Which brings me to the oral part of our discussion. A vagina does not have a tongue, but if you travel deep enough, a cervix can be an adequate stimulator. Suction isn’t only attributed to a mouth, so that checks off that box. So, why do we like mouths? If you say it’s because oral feels better, you’re obviously not with the right woman (I can’t wait for the comments about how I obviously haven’t had a good BJ). Also, vaginas (unless you’re in a horror movie) do not have teeth. Having fellatio performed on me is the greatest vulnerability imaginable. All it takes is one bite. Doesn’t even have to break the skin. Just… chomp! You wouldn’t stick your penis in a meat-grinder, would you? Well, what do you think a mouth does to a steak? I kid, because I enjoy it just as much as the next guy, but I still want to know why we do it when the right place feels just as good. The comment section is yours, guys.

Ladies, you still with me? Maybe I should have started with you. Oh well, here we go. I understand that you perform dirty deeds because you like to see your man happy. I get that. Some of you get off on just the notion that your man is enjoying something you’re doing to him. I applaud you. But I think you undervalue your lady-parts. Kegels are an amazing tool. Do them. Learn how to manipulate those muscles. Blow jobs and buttholes are all fine and dandy, if that’s your thing, but why risk the chance that your man’s going to other locations because your love tunnel is as animate as a block of concrete. I know, I know, sex is not a one-sided coin. It takes two to tango, but it also takes practice and experience to do it right. So, back to the guys for just a second. Figure out what you’re doing down there. A simple parry and thrust is not all that’s required during a sword-fight  You must bob and weave and rotate and gyrate. Learn your tool, or risk doing the job poorly. Which brings me to question-time for the ladies. Do any of you prefer oral stimulation (cunnilingus) over vaginal penetration? How about fingers? Don’t be scared. Comment below.

On to loving thyself. The act of masturbation can come on out of boredom, or necessity. It’s different for both genders. But let’s talk about the teaching aspects of manual stimulation. Women must learn where their spot(s) is so they can guide and direct their partners. If you don’t know what feels good, how the hell are we supposed to? Every single woman is different, with only slight commonalities between them. Men must practice firing their gun to get rid of that pesky hair-trigger. Self-appreciation isn’t sick or sad. It’s training. Find what makes you happy so you can drive your partner to the brink, until… pop! goes the champagne. And if you can’t hold back or are packing inadequate equipment, (guys, I’m talking to you) you should then study the art of Finger Fu and mouth-to-vagina resuscitation. I hear licking the ABCs works. If you’re illiterate, just pretend you’re drawing a tree over and over again with your tongue. You’re welcome.

Lastly, and most importantly, love each other. A good pounding is wonderful, but when you really care about the person you’re hammering, better times have never been had. Be safe. Wear protection. Take your pills. Or just stick with the finger and palm parade.

Alfred Kinsey, eat your heart out.

E.