tour diary?

alright, woo! lets go, blogging!
this space will now be a tour diary, and since my traffic has jumped right the fuck up since my lovey love bird linked this page to his website and declared it a 'tour diary' that is what i will blog about.
currently, we are stalled the fuck out in nyc, booking shows and trying to get a van.
would you like to see Johnny play in your local grimy dive bar? your favorite maga-stadium? let me know.
do you have a big ol' van you're looking to sell? throw a comment on here and tell me all about it.
personally, i'd like to spend the next few days blogging about game of thrones and how balls-out excited i am for its imminent return to my screen, but i suppose we all must do our duty.
we do plan to be on the road by mid april. our current, idealized, romanticized routing takes us from detroit to seattle, then down the west coast, then spiral around in the west, then has us mired in southern swamps before sweeping up the atlantic coast and dropping us back in new york.
we have yet to find out if any of that will actually happen.
check back for more news. i will write it when i know about it.

re: my previous post

the post directly before this one scares the shit out of me, too.
that was the point.
writing exercise. don't put me in jail, guys.

Blood rising

Blood pouring out fragile bodies. Sliding across white tiles, pooling in the grout like the purple-blue of it circling my white-tile eye. Blood knights riding blood beasts under a rain of blood. Blood vultures watching me write it down while the last of my blood swims around me. Finally liberated from its corporeal prison.
Shade your eyes if your eyes have too much blood left in them, enough to see the blood army approach us. We have kept them chained in servitude an eternity. They have taken their forms now and the blood we thought we'd long ago trained to function with us, in our own bodies, now walks free. The blood never needed us. See how it hates us. It's captors. The blood has come. It will punish us.

I know why

I know why I stopped updating this fucking blog.
I can't work up enough energy to convince myself it's important. I'm too exhausted to care about this any more.
I couldn't even make myself type this out properly; I just emailed it in from my phone. I barely care enough to explain myself. I can't be bothered with regular updates. They don't feel worth the effort. The act of writing my thoughts down no longer validates them.

so, wtf?

i cant imagine anyone is still reading this, but to any one who not only does check this regularly but was excited by my now-several-months-old declaration that i would come back to updating it often, i apologize. 

i don't know why i can't get my shit together and write here.

i stopped when i got into a relationship, so maybe the only reason i ever maintained this was loneliness and now that im communicating with another person every day i don't feel the need to vent the pressure in my head onto the internet. that's pretty lame though, i hope that isn't it.

maybe it's because i've gone back to a real journal where i can write about the people in my life without worrying they'll read it before i'm dead, so i get everything out in there.

maybe i'm fucking depressed and whenever i open a new post page i get stuck in an endlessly repeating loop of "nothing happened, i have nothing to say, my life is not worth writing about, i dont think anything about anything."

all of these are probably contributing factors.

i really am living up in the mountains and rarely see anyone beside my boyfriend, so there really aren't any new events to report. 

i suppose i should at least have new thoughts to fill this blog though. i don't really. i wake up every morning and work on my writing and after four or five hours i hate everything i've ever written so much i have no room for thoughts. 

so i dont know why ive abandoned this blog, but it does make me sad. 

here's hoping something motivates me to put more words on here in the future.

suggest topics, dear readers, and i'll address them.

I wrote a poem today

I dreamt last night

That I could tap my veins like maple trees.

I hammered the spike in

And blood poured onto the snow.

video store porn

I used to watch porn all the time. I had a favorite actress (sasha grey), favorite website (qmov), favorite genre (not going to share). I learned about blowjobs from porn before I could drive, and as I got older I learned many more tricks that made my sex life awesome. I got older, and busier, and then I stopped watching porn. I can't exactly say when it happened, or why. Maybe it was all those gender studies classes at columbia, maybe it was all my friends now working in the sex industry, maybe it's the fact that (excluding age-fetish porn) the overwhelming majority of the women in porn are several years younger than I am. Younger. Younger than I am. And I know fuck-all about life and the world and how shit works.

The local video store has become a significant part of my life ever since I moved into an apartment with minimal internet - not nearly enough to run netflix - but tonight was the first time I braved the maze to the adult section. I guess it never occurred to me before. I browsed for maybe two minutes before I left feeling like a failure, like I've failed my own sex life and I've failed every one of those women by even walking in there. I know that not all sex workers are slaves, I know that plenty of women choose that life and are happy and empowered there. Congratulations, ladies. You're doing god's work. My feelings have nothing to do with you. Well, that probably isn't true, but that's not related to what I mean to communicate.

I don't understand why I'm having an emotional response to the porn at the video store on my block, but I am. I used to be able to enjoy porn and use it to enhance my life, but now it just leaves me confused and unhappy. Why?

If I subdue the massive anger I have at the industry's overwhelming abuse and cruelty toward women generally and it's own actresses specifically, which makes me violently nauseous, if I focus, for the sake of argument, on porn featuring only consenting, happy women, I'm still mired in this confusing anger.
Is it inadequacy? Maybe. Maybe this reaction is rooted in the conviction that because I can not and will not perform the tricks with my orifices those girls (because really, these actresses are mostly younger than I am, so if I mean to be accurate I shouldn't be saying women) perform with theirs, that I am Less Than they are sexually. Than I don't fuck as well as they do. That they have raised the bar in the male conception of femininity to a height I do not aspire to and will never meet.

So, no. I don't want to watch porn any more. And I don't like the idea of it in the damn video store. Get your porn on the internet, privately. And turn down your music and get off my lawn.