A Wild Woman Drunk on Ink Always Writes Her Wicked Tell-Tale Heart Out

always trust
a tongue drunk on ink
to tell tales

I shall be mostly off line for the next week and a half. But worried not, my Luvs, I will post on Instagram every now and again. And I’m leaving you a creative mission to keep your brain-housing-group busy while I’m away.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to leave a comment sharing one thing (all right, you can share three *I, too, am greedy*) that happens to a wild, sexy, intelligent, funny, extremely modest writer while she travels.

Remember, my Wicked Luvs, your imagination is the limit… and everyone knows Lady Imagination is in total lust with Mistress Borders Unknown.

I plan to write the tale during the trip back. So, try to have your suggestions in by next Friday (Feb 23rd). Read you in a day (or 13). Be wild and wicked while I’m gone. Then tell me about it.

really, an Ink Woman is always quite loose with her tales

Of Blacking Out The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, and… a Skull-Full of Chili

I wrote a letter to Freud’s ghost, inquiring about his stance on ink. Freud’s ghost didn’t respond. But I received replies from his superego, ego, id, and… a wraith, named F. Slip, who follows Freud’s ghost around, moaning, “Are you my mummy?” The superego letter included a discount coupon to the Pi circle of laser surgery hell. The ego sent a 1001-page essay on how I hadn’t been properly potty-trained. The id wants naked photographs of my deepest inner self… in color (the word color was underlined and italicized). F. Slip wrote sex, anger, dreams, angry sex dreams, dreamy angry sex, blacked out the initial attempts (not very well), and ended with, “Are you my mummy?”

After all this, I’ve come to the conclusion that Freud’s ghost is probably too busy to care about me turning The Psychopathology of Everyday Life into blackout poetry. So, it’s getting inked… along with one of his biographies, and a half-drowned copy of Lady’s Chatterley’s Lover. It felt… appropriate.

.
some wee notes…
– for my dear Y, who asked for something hysterical that included Sigmund Freud, Doctor Who, and food that tastes yummy, but “looks slightly gross.” (Y is having stomach surgery in a couple of days, and she wanted “a riotous belly laugh” while she can still feel it in the tummy she was born with).
– I’ve always thought the superego is way too sanctimonious to actually pay attention to what’s going on. The ego is probably a mad scholar so focused on research that it can never see people. And, let’s face it, the id is a pervert. If a Freudian Slip was personified, his eternal confusion would make him a great companion for Doctor Who’s “Are you my mummy?” creepy kid.

scripts on autumned leaves
waiting for my muse and ink
to spring them anew

 

And, the slightly gross bit…

woman needs not be
a zombie to crave what lies
luscious in a skull

Y, I hope you laughed.