Strange Land

Sometimes I look at myself from across the room. There I am on the suede chesterfield watching odd documentaries with my husband about Adolf Hitler's sexual fetishes. My husband whom is in a corset. I am in my pajamas and high heels. Odd canvases slobbered with my imagination cover the walls. Strange artifacts and photos of odd people from around the world fill the shelves. Sipping on some of the best bourbon ever made. How lovely.

To think this is not how the people live. To think they have to hide out under disguises of normalcy when no one is really all that normal. To live shielded by a job, religion, particularly plain clothes and accessories. To come home at night and watch what everyone else is watching. All in the home furnished from the store that everyone else goes to and purchases a duplicate of the same thing.

No, it's much better to be myself with all the other people who want to be themselves. The domme queens and plumbers in sissy uniforms. The midgets who like to dress up like pirates. The metal heads relieving themselves on loud. There's no shame or guilt in a true lifestyle. There's nothing wrong with daddy wearing a diaper for kicks or your climbing a mountain to worship no body. 


It's always been a circus that I've slaved my way towards. A good release of personality into a Rocky Horror Picture Show life. To think they'd want anything else. Jesus on a crucifix and a three piece suit life? They'd prefer it. It was death to me. Death to a great imagination and death by a non-existent shameful guilt. Yet they run towards that because they're scared. Too scared to be who they want to be. Whatever that might be. Maybe because it's a little too hardcore and nobody gave them their safe word.

I'll stay up here. I'll keep watching the Sheeple move along and think it must be some odd Sci-Fi series. No one needs to tell me it's real. Surely no one in their right mind would want the things they say they do. Crazy is sane and sane is crazy down here on planet Earth.