Ruth Nineke

Poetry: The Fuckening

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Mon, 14 Jan 2013 04:36:00 +0000

Things are like quick sand here.
Sometimes
time slows,
and songs play for longer
than I thought they were.
There's a fog laid atop our neighborhood,
and a mist inside my mind.
Nothing makes much sense.
Could I open the skies if I closed my eyes?
There is no after this,
there is no one day when,
or anything else, really.
There is just Now,
and The More
I push for clarity,
I sink into confusion.

copyright 2013

Too Easy

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Tue, 27 Nov 2012 03:02:00 +0000

Buy This Is Growing Up

Paperback, 130 pages

It had been almost too easy for Michelle to get Kevin when she first made a move, during the spring of their sophomore year. By that time Brenda was getting more freedom, and after a baseball game one Saturday Michelle joined her at a party at Kevin’s parents’ lake house.
They’d all enjoyed a water-gun fight outside in the setting sun. Michelle could’ve taken off her shirt and worn her bra, or a bikini top like anyone else. But instead, she asked Kevin where she could dry off in private. He could’ve given her directions to a bathroom, or linen closet. But instead, he told her to follow him. No one at the party, least of all Brenda, caught onto the cues being exchanged.
Michelle kissed him as soon as they were alone in a bedroom. Kevin didn’t bother pretending he wanted to stop her. Besides, she knew better. She'd had his number from the moment they arrived at the lake house. Kevin loved female attention, and he relished her forwardness. They fingered and groped for a few minutes before returning to the party, and their trysts continued for the remainder of that school year, throughout the summer and into junior year.
It didn’t matter to Michelle that Brenda thought they were best friends, that she knew her better than anyone else, or that she could always make her laugh. Their friendship faded to black when Michelle considered how deeply she and Kevin understood each other. It felt like they were the real couple and, as far as she was concerned, the only reason that wasn’t true was because Brenda had gotten there first.
The more she became involved with Kevin, the more determined Michelle was to have him all to herself, for good. She urged him to dump Brenda, but he wouldn’t hear it.
One night, after they finished fooling around in the bedroom where they’d first started nearly a year earlier, Michelle pushed for a decision. She told him Brenda would never satisfy him they way she did. She said they both knew he didn’t really love Brenda, or he wouldn’t keep coming to her.

Pleasure To Meet You

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Fri, 16 Nov 2012 02:34:00 +0000

“Ooh,” he let out a low moan, sucked in his breath with a hiss. “Tori, that feels so good.” Linden unconsciously let his head and neck roll back. Hot water ran down his chest from the round stainless steel shower head above, and he let out another moan.
The hazel-eyed blond in the shower with him stood up, bringing his attention and head forward. He’d probably called the wrong name, again. “It’s Tara,” she said holding onto his sides.
He took hold of her, one hand on her back, the other on her neck.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, before pulling her body into his with a kiss.
As the steam filled the stall, fogging the green glass of his bathroom, Linden brought his hands to the top of his companion’s head, running them down her wet hair, and along her back and shoulders. He stopped at her waist, held her tightly, and increased the intensity of their kiss.
There was a ringing some where and they both paused for a moment. Then it was gone. Tori wrapped her arms around his neck, and taking the hint, Linden lifted her legs to wrap around his waist. The ringing came back then, and persisted without pause. He didn’t want to have to stop, but the ringing wouldn’t.
“It’s my door,” he said into her collar bone.
“So?”
“So, I have to get rid of them,” he relayed through gritted teeth. Whoever it was, he was going to make them sorry.
Linden set her down and turned off the shower. Tori sighed and followed him out of the stall. Throwing her a towel he said, “Meet me in the bedroom.”
He wrapped a towel around his waist and headed for the door, shouting to his unwelcome guest as he made his way down the stairs.
“I hear you, jerk. Stop ringing the damn bell!”
The ringing stopped just as he opened the door.
Marty stepped back with a gasp.
Linden felt his temper cool instantaneously. This was the absolute worst timing ever. He had to give it to her though, she always had bad timing. Marty smiled and cocked her head to the side.
“You look good wet,” she said breezily, letting herself in.
“Thanks,” he shut the door.
“You wanna go out tonight?”
Linden threw his head back and wondered if Marty was anybody else, would Tara go for it? He brought his head back down and looked right at her.
“I’ve got plans tonight.”
Her eyes widened with sudden realization. “You have a girl in here. You were in the shower with a woman?” she asked incensed. “Linden!”
“Marty,” he prepared himself. “Don’t start.”
She was standing by the foot of the steps, just before the living room. He could feel his temples beginning to pulsate.
“She’s blond isn’t she?”
“Marty, come on. Come on,” he pleaded.
Linden tried to get on the stairs before she did anything rash. She didn’t wait for him to make a move though. In seconds he was chasing her upstairs to the bedroom, trying to keep his towel about his waist.
Marty flung open the door and stormed the bed.
“Get up and get out!” she shouted, flinging his sheets to the ground.
Tara sprung up and away from her. She gripped a pillow to the front of her body. She looked petrified, her eyes darting to Linden.
“Who is this?! What the…?”
In a flash Marty scooped Tara’s clothes off the ground, climbed over the bed, snatched the pillow from her, and thrust them into her hands.
“I’m the other name on this lease,” she said. “Now get dressed and get out!”
Tara hurried to slip on her underwear, and Linden eyed her regrettably. Just twenty short minutes ago she was dancing out of them as he sat patiently on the bed admiring her legs.
“Hurry up!”
“Marty,” He shouted. “That’s enough!”
“Excuse me?” She spun her neck around to him with the snap of a camp fire coming to life.
“You heard me. Could you just cool it down a bit?”
She rolled her eyes, rotated her jaw and then, finally, shut her mouth.
“Tara,” Linden said, surprising himself by remembering her name. “I’m really sorry about this.” She was completely dressed, except for her shoes and jacket, which were downstairs by the front door. “I’ll walk you out,” he offered.
“I think I’ll pass,” she made her way around the bed and out of the bedroom with out a second glance.
He waited for the apartment door to slam shut before he looked at her.
“Linden!”
“Marty, do not start.”
She shut her mouth and squinted at him.
He took a deep breath, then asked her “What the hell was that about?”
“You say you want to be with me but you bring tramps named Tara into our apartment!”
“Oh my God,” Linden clutched his forehead with both hands.
“You won’t even move in. It’s not our apartment.”
“But my name’s on the lease!”
“So what? So what, Marty? What does that mean?”
“It means it’s our apartment!”
“So we’re almost roommates,” he brought both hands out to his sides and shrugged. “So what does that mean?” When she didn’t answer him, he went on.
“Oh, I know what it means. I’m not allowed to have sex with other women in our apartment that you don’t even live in. Is that right? Did I get it right?”
“You say you want to be with me, but you sleep with other women! Do you see why I can’t take you seriously?”
The same old fight.
Linden closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and let it out slow.
“You know I’m serious about you, Marty. But if you’re not going to commit to me then I don’t have to be faithful to you.”
“Oh, screw you!” she flung her hand in the air. “Just like you, full of excuses as to why you don’t have to answer to anyone. You do what you want and too bad whoever doesn’t like it, right?”
Linden made himself comfortable leaning in the door way. He figured she’d be a while, but this time he was wrong.
“Say something Linden,” Marty petitioned quietly.
He crossed his arms, watched her breathing slow down. Linden shook his head and shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”
Marty sat on the bed with her right leg underneath her.
He stayed on his side of the room.
“Look, Marty,” he said “it isn’t fair for you to come over here and treat my company the way you did.”
“What?” she dipped her head in disbelief.
“Let me finish,” he said. “It doesn’t matter who she is, that behavior’s uncalled for, and you know it.”
“You like my dramatics though.” She leaned back on her wrists, and brought her leg from beneath her. He loved her dramatics, but he wasn’t going to entertain her without making his point.
“You know I want to be with you. That’s never going to stop being true. I got this apartment for us. I wanted you on the lease, because I want you live here, and I know that one day you will. It’s going to be us, and we both know it. But you’re the one who keeps hitting the breaks. So what do you expect me to do? I’m a man, you know…”
“With needs,” she cut in, rolling her eyes.
He ignored her. “I’m a single guy. I can do what I want. If you’re not going to commit to us then why shouldn’t I sleep with other women?”
“How do you expect me to commit to you if you can’t keep your long john inside your long johns?”
“Marty,” he was exhausted, “have you heard anything I said?” Linden crossed the room and sat on the bed beside her. He turned his body toward hers and placed his right hand on the other side of her. “I want to be with you, and I can be faithful, but you have to let me know you mean it. All you ever say is you’re not ready.”
“You’re not ready,” she countered.
“I’m ready, Marty.” Linden inched closer to her. He brought her hand into her lap and held it there. “You know you’re the only girl I’ll ever love.”
Marty looked down at their hands. She was quiet for a moment, and then she looked up, into his eyes. She withdrew her hand, and stood.

You're So Vulgar

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Wed, 31 Oct 2012 09:07:00 +0000

David is Caitlyn's boyfriend. He loves her. His heart's in the right place, but Caitlyn is somewhere else. It's not that she doesn't love David. It's that she just wants to live her life free from the pressure of the implications that they're going to wind up together. Caitlyn honestly can't see her future. But David is content to see it for them both...

David was being encouraging.
“You’ve got two days. You can totally do it.”
It was a miracle she’d gotten him on the phone to begin with, and Caitlyn really hated that he was going to make it difficult. She was trying to get him to understand that her visit this weekend was out of the question. With the Portland report due Monday morning, a bus trip just seemed irresponsible now.
“David, it’s not about getting it done,” she sighed. “I know I can put together a report in sixteen hours.”
She had just gotten into her apartment. They’d been on the phone for most of her walk from the train, as Caitlyn tried to explain the importance of this particular harvest to the quarter, to her progress this year, and to her future with the company, and in the industry.
“So what’s the big deal?” he asked. “Bring it up here and we’ll go over it together.”
He didn’t get it. “No way.”
“What, you don’t think a librarian could help?”
“It’s not that.”
Caitlyn slipped out of her footwear, the cell phone propped between her ear and right shoulder. She was in her bedroom, and dropped her work bag onto her bed.
“I can’t get out of work early on Friday. There’s just no way.”
“Why?”
Caitlyn licked her lips, and sat down on her bed.
David put her on the spot, “You didn’t ask yet did you?”
“No,” she admitted. She could hear him flick his tongue at the roof of his mouth.
“Come on, Caitlyn. Were you really going to wait to the last minute to ask your boss if you could leave an hour early?”
“Apparently.”
“What are you going to do now?” he demanded.
“David, I have to make this report count. This is my chance to really shine.”
He was quiet a moment and then, “Why don’t you just come out and say it?”
Caitlyn sighed. “Because you’re just going to get mad at me and hang up. And I’d prefer it if you could be an adult for one second and realize that this is my career.”
“Well, what kind of career adult can’t just admit when she doesn’t want to see her boyfriend?”
“I want to see you, David,” she promised. “I’m going to be there next week for Thanksgiving.”
“Whatever, Cait,” he went from dismissive to accusatory in the same breath. “You were going to pull this all along.”
Caitlyn rubbed her forehead, but she didn’t answer.
“Just admit it,” he pushed. “You didn’t want to come up this weekend anyway.”
“Fine,” she jerked her hand away from her head, “I didn’t. But that was because I was pissed at you before, and then I wasn’t. So I was going to come, and now I can’t.”
“Wait, what?” David asked. “How and when were you pissed at me? What did I do?” His indignation and projected innocence released her honesty.
“You’ve only come to see me once since I moved,” Caitlyn revealed. “You e-mail me with times when I’m allowed to call you. You never answer, and then you call me back at eleven at night when you know I have to be up for work at six. Everything’s about you and grad school, but I have a life that demands my attention too, you know.”
“Wow, Caitlyn,” he remarked dryly. “I had no idea your boyfriend was such an asshole.”
“Yeah, me neither,” she returned.
Both were silent for half a minute and both spoke again at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“If you don’t want to come,” he said, “then don’t come.”
“Davi,” she tried, but he’d already hung up.

When she opened her bedroom door, Paula was in the living room with Samantha. They were watching last week’s saved Revenge before the new episode aired. Sam had the night off for the first time in three weeks.
“Hey, Cait,” she asked, “can you pass me a water?”
Caitlyn obliged.
“When’d you get in?” she asked, taking a seat on the blue sofa beside Paula, and opposite Sam. She tossed her the bottle.
“About an hour ago,” her roommate answered, twisting open the water.
“ Wanna smoke?” Paula offered. She leaned forward and pulled a sandwich bag of pot off the coffee table.
Caitlyn shut her eyes and sank in the chair. She rested her head against its top.
“I wish I could. I’ve got this report to get on my boss’s desk first thing Monday morning, and I’m only just at the beginning.”
“How much more are you possibly gonna get done tonight?” Paula pressed.
“I don’t know,” Caitlyn shrugged, and took the bag from her. “So, I take it you didn’t get raped today?” she asked, referring to Paula’s dealer.
She rolled her eyes. “No. He keeps asking me to ‘just come to the crib and chill.’ He’s like how his mom cooks and brings him stuff over to the house ‘and it’s so good.’ I don’t really know which part of that is supposed to exactly slide my knickers off.”
“Definitely the mom part,” Caitlyn reached for the piece on the table, closer to Paula.
“Right,” she rolled her eyes again. “He’s cute and everything. And he has a nice car, and I know he has money. But what am I? Sixteen? I’m sure his apartment is just as bangin’ as he claims, and I bet his mom is regular Emiral Legassi, or whatever. But like, no way in hell am I going to this guy’s house to blow him.”
“Aw, Paula,” Samantha said. She was skipping through the commercial break. “Maybe he’s just lonely. I bet you he’s already got two sixteen year olds, and a nineteen year old girlfriend. He probably just wants some adult company to talk with him about adult stuff.”
“Sure. I bet," Paula scoffed. "I get my coke from this same guy. ‘Adult things’ to him means porno and blowing lines off my hips.”
“God, Paula,” Samantha shook her head. “You’re so vulgar.”

Fiction: Paula

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Wed, 24 Oct 2012 04:11:00 +0000

From "Money Tastes Like..."

Paula was twenty years old, and somewhere close to 5’ 5”, putting her close to the average height for females in her age range. This was precisely where the young art student’s proximity to normalcy ended.

She was a thin girl, though slender wasn’t exactly the first word to spring to mind when someone saw her for the first time. Slender would imply a figure neatly wrapped within itself, a fluid form with smooth movement, one whose appearance was highly sensual, and visually pleasing – as opposed to curious.

Paula’s body was much more curious than slender.

She was neither athletic nor curvy, but boney and awkward-looking, as though her body had been pieced together of children’s building blocks. Except for the exaggerated S curvature in her spine (the result of years of deliberately poor posture), her protruding shoulder blades, and a pair of breast implants the exact size of oranges Paula was an unimpressively shapeless co-ed.

A native of wealthy Queens’ suburb, Douglaston, Paula was nearing the middle of her undergraduate studies at Brooklyn’s Pratt Institute. She was pursuing a BS in Fine Arts with an emphasis on Painting. Her obsession with her medium, with visual stimulation and expression served as the basis for Paula’s life-long experimentation with her personal appearance.

She took great joy from, and pride in, her irregular physical formation; adorning the canvas of her ghostly pale skin with adequately spaced and memorably sized tattoos, occasionally spray tanning and adjusting her natural complexion. Segments of her dark and dingy, wavy brown hair were frequently bleached, colored, cut, pressed, and braided to suit the theme of whichever live art installation Paula fancied to exhibit for any amount of time.

Two distinctive make-up styles maintained her face. Her favorite was dark and dramatic, with heavy eyes, powdered cheeks, and coated lips fashioned after the New Wave era of the 1980s. Other times she opted for a light and shimmery application of Earth tones, especially green and golden hues, to lend sensuality to a fabricated faerie persona she was known to employ.

Either despite or because of her unusual presentation, Paula was – according to Paula – undeniably alluring. Her extreme commitment to accentuating her features in varying degrees of absurdity, she once revealed to Caitlyn, was what attracted people so intensely to her that they couldn’t help but want to be near, and have contact with, her. She was unbelievable to more inhibited people, she said, because she was conscious, live, human art.

Caitlyn found Paula interesting enough; she was friendly and entertaining. In the past year she’d never experienced the same strong compulsion for contact with her which Paula described so many other humans as having. Caitlyn presumed overexposure to her neighbor had given her tolerance and immunity to Paula’s artistic powers, though it was actually probably Paula’s own revelation that her weirdness was entirely constructed and fabricated.

Click here to witness Paula in action.

Poetry: Dear Johnny

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Thu, 18 Oct 2012 20:21:00 +0000

Dear Johnny,

You’re it kid. You’re the one I wanna be with.

And I know it’s me as much as it’s everything else

And if it aint perfect, we just can’t commit.

Baby you’ve got to meet me halfway.

Are we even on the same page,

I sometimes wonder…

You came into my life that night

And I couldn’t even tell right away

If you liked me, but I left with a new crush anyway.

So calm and self-assured,

You looked into my eyes

And settled my nerves.

But didn’t I know it; I could’ve told us both

Soon I’d be sliding down that hill

The devil on wheels would have more control

Than me

And I don’t even know what I’m holding onto

Except that I can’t let go

Do you have any idea how many there are?

Of course you don’t.

You don’t want to know

Cause if you had to think about it,

you’d have to fight back the basic urge

To grab me by my hair

Throw me over your shoulder

And lock me away somewhere.

Well hell, Johnny

I wouldn’t mind it.

At least that’d show you cared.

Man, so many I tell ya…

I spend my time with all these boys

Stupid boys, loud, funny, nice old chums

Sophisticated, well-dressed, and

Polished old farts, young really

But fuddy duddies at heart

I don’t have a phone but you can

Bet your bottom dollar

I’ve got plenty of gentleman callers.

I spend time with boys I could whip, abuse, and destroy

They’d do anything, anything

Let me get away with everything

I spend time with meanies

Grouchy, disheartened playboys

Who beg for hugs and kisses

Well-to-do horny toads

That for all their good sense

Still don’t know why I don’t like them

There’s that one and this one too

Who always felt we had a little something

And would, if they had the chance to, stop at nothing…

And there’s Mister Mister, oh so far away

Well that’s another letter

For another day

You see the point I’m trying to make

Johnny, do You see

What I’m trying to say?

I don’t really care, not for one of them

Not the way I care for you

And it makes me such a fool

To keep hoping

That one day

This dream’ll come true

So what if everything’s always a mess?

If I really wanted to I could fix all of it

I always get around to it anyway

But Dammit,

Johnny!

Damn you!

Damn your stupid requirement height

Damn your lazy eye

And your beautiful, hidden smile

Damn you cause I never know

Where you are until you’re here

And I never know for sure if you’ll come back again

Damn you, Johnny!

What’s it gonna take

For me to make you stay?

Signed with Love

Always,

Your Silly Girl

The Dog Eat Baby Dream

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Sat, 25 Aug 2012 17:59:00 +0000

So I'm waiting for the L Train to Manhattan, and I see this man with two dogs and a baby. The dogs are snapping at the carriage, trying to get the baby. At first the man has them on leashes, but he quickly gets so fed up he takes off the leashes and hurls the animals into the tracks.

Anyone that's ever told me a story, or been to the movies with me knows how dramatic and frequently I gasp. I don't know if I actually, physically gasped while lying in my room, but I definitely heard the gasp in my dream.
...Keep Reading

Fiction Friday: Passionate Ambivalence

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Fri, 24 Aug 2012 17:21:00 +0000

“How long do you see yourself doing this?” David asked.

He cut a piece of salmon and awaited Caitlyn’s reply.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Till I make it?”

“Make what?”

“Well, Agnes said she thinks I could go far in the industry.”

“Who’s Agnes, again?”

“My supervisor, my boss,” she reminded him.

“That’s right,” David nodded. “D’you ask her what she meant by that?”

“No.”

Caitlyn chewed a piece of salmon and red pepper on the left side of her mouth.

“I’m assuming job placement,” she replied, “head-hunting. Stuff like that.”

“You really want to do that?” his brows came together.

“Sure,” she nodded. “It pays great at the top.”

“Everything pays great at the top,” David picked up his wine as he spoke. He took a sip and held her eyes over the rim of the glass.

“Duh,” she smiled.

Caitlyn reached her hand across the island, taking hold of his finger tips.

“What’s on your mind?” she asked.

“I’m just curious about your job. Is it what you really want to do?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged again. “Agnes says…”

“I know,” he cut her off. “She says you can go far.”

“So yeah, I want to explore that.”

Caitlyn let go of his fingers.

“This report is a chance for me to prove myself, to build a foundation for my career. I mean this campaign, and this report, is going to lead me there.”

“Lead you where?” he asked, picking up his fork. “To the top?”

“Maybe, whatever,” She waved her hand.

“Well, good for you,” David said. “If you’re invested in this job I want you to do well.”

“You don’t sound like you mean that.”

...Keep Reading

Let's Talk Slut.

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Thu, 23 Aug 2012 17:18:00 +0000

(FYI - Hella Bad Bitches is on ice.

I approached a team of bad bitches I thought would be down, and only a few actually came through, and as of right now I'm accepting the Universe's hint that maybe now isn't the time. I am a bad bitch because I say so, and I've already mastered and committed to the idea that a person is whatever/whoever they say they are. That's essentially the premise of Hella Bad Bitches.

The magazine will be full swingy by January, but as of right now it's on ice, coolin.)

The topic of Slut/Whore is something I would love to address and explore with a team of broads.

Right now I'll throw out some questions:
...Keep Reading

Dots of Disconnect

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Wed, 22 Aug 2012 08:08:00 +0000

Lately, I'm feeling delightfully fulfilled and satisfied with myself.

So maybe I'm obsessed with the cosmos.

Perhaps, dare I say, content even - with everything.

As previously mentioned, I lost two friendships so far this spring/summer, had to learn the hard way (at my age, for shame!) that I was *allowing myself* to be toyed with by a man, briefly fell for - and recovered from - a charming liar, and then reached an eye-opening awareness of my ideal situation.

After the fact it's very easy for me to see the people and experiences in my life less as individuals or unique, all consuming situations, and more like symbolic explanations regarding Life in general.
...Keep Reading

It's Not Real

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Mon, 20 Aug 2012 16:41:00 +0000

I feel like the only sensible person in a house full of crazies. Except it's a world full of them.

My mother used to pull a line on us when we were younger. If one of us did something wrong because the other one did it and we said, "but so and so made me do it," my mom would respond "No one can make you do anything."

Boom.

Society is trapped, locked, bound, and gagged by an imaginary government.

There is no reason that a body of suits should be, or even is, able to decide what you can and can not do with your body. As long as you subscribe to the idea that the suits are in charge of your life they will be in charge of your life.

Period. Point Blank.

Look, I stand with the gays on the marriage thing. It's about equality, and rights, and love, etc etc. But as long as you're playing someone else's game then you're bound to their rules.

Why is it so important to fight for rights in a riddled society that is always changing the rules? What is the purpose of your fight? Why do you need this validation when you know the system is fucked? Will it really make your dreams come true to change the system's mind?

The only way to change the system is to turn it over and topple it. Scrap it, the WHOLE thing. Fuck it. Or, maybe just accept the idea that it doesn't control you and your happiness is not going to be found fighting with a system that doesn't even care about you.

It's like staying with a cheater. Like, look at you begging and fighting with your boyfriend, and calling, and having long talks, and going in circles over attention...when all you really want (and deserve) is a partner who's interested and committed and down to fuck. Meanwhile you guys are spending all your relationship time together bickering. What's the point?

Dump that sucker and get a new one. But you can't do that until you acknowledge your own worth separate from any mate, and then you attract the right conditions to you.

Cause you know, the government is your boyfriend. It should be licking your clit and getting you real nice and ready, as opposed to stuffing it's prick in your b-hole with no lube. RUDE!

Time Out. Am I An Adult?

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Fri, 17 Aug 2012 06:40:00 +0000

WHEN THE FUCK DID WE GET ICECREAM?

Somewhere along the road, I got my shit together, and it feels like this:

All I ever ever ever wanted was to be able to do what I want. Duh, right. But seriously. I just want to be able to come and go as I feel. I want to eat what I like, screw who I like, drink as I like, and smoke how much ever I feel. I want to look pretty and go out, and sleep in, and get paid, working a job I enjoy. And well, shit.

It just sort of happened. I have an apartment with a lease. I have a budget. I have auto-bill-pay. I have a gym membership. I have a job. I cut ties with people who weren't my level, and I no longer engage those who intentionally, or ignorantly, seek to suck my energy. I do what I like and I like what I do, and I press nothing with urgency. (Hooray for me!)

Life feels good and I like it. And I still read the Gita everyday. And if the world goes poof in four months I'm still as okay with it as I ever was. And if it doesn't go poof, I'm still good.

Because I'm not this body or this computer, or this apartment, or Brooklyn or anything.
I am Freedom because I broke the chains on my mind and put myself in this position.

Man.

Last Night's Dream

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Mon, 06 Aug 2012 14:20:00 +0000

Last night I dreamt I was in the woods, along a river bank, at some wildlife preservation-type place. There were pandas in a fenced-off area, but the deer and skunks roamed free.

I sat among some rocks set up like chairs, which caught really good golden light, and meditated a long while on my stubborn streak. I was visited by little faeries who dispassionately dropped glowing gems of logic on my lap. And I took everything they told me for what it was, and by the end of my meditation I accepted my stubborn streak (because I'm stubborn) and I chose not to surrender it.
...Keep Reading

Gaslight This, Bitch

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Wed, 25 Jul 2012 09:28:00 +0000

Anyone try to fucking gaslight me and I will light the whole goddamn block on fire.

A few weeks ago Kerri Lowe informed me of the term "gaslighting." According to trusty Wikipedia gaslighting is a method of manipulation used by abusers to make their victims doubt themselves.

I'm so happy to be educated of this word and this process. I feel like that one idiot kid who finds out they have dyslexia. It's like, "it's not that I can't actually read, it's that it's harder to do because..."

I mean I'm not one for chalking everything up to disorders and convenient excuse of circumstance. The last thing I ever want to be is a victim (which is why I often attack others). But as a woman I know this happens too often. People insult you, lie to your face, or otherwise disrespect you, and when you voice your displeasure you are overreacting. Because you're a woman and you ought to [fucking] know your place. Um....

It's happened to my friends. It's happened to me - tons. Granted, I'm an extra personality. I've already decided I'm fucking amazing. The world is obsessed with me. You guys fucking love me and it's cool. But aside from my huge bright eyes, my stellar smile, my magnificent social energy, and my propensity for genuine empathy (I know! What a combination) I also have good intuition and intelligence. I'm not the kind of woman who can be bullied, manipulated, or tamed. Ask anyone who has ever tried. It always backfires, while I shrug in your fucking face.

People have been trying to gaslight me my whole life - my abusive mother, my manipulative siblings, my racist teachers. I mean, it's cool. Part of me is a little nuts. But there's always a little insanity with the genius. And if I wasn't so stellar then a) people wouldn't want to get next to me as much as they do, and b) other people wouldn't try as hard to stop my shine, or throw as much shade as they do. This is all very logical really.

And if my "abusers" and "haters" were smarter they'd know better to just leave me fucking be because when you try to play with me it just always gets worse.

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Get Gone Then

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Wed, 25 Jul 2012 07:18:00 +0000

Sigh.

Look let's start with this: No one out here is doing what I do, or doing it like me. I'm out here being wild and crazy, sticking to my guns, having the balls to hustle, to stand up for myself, say what I believe - period point blank. Shit doesn't always work out how I think it will or want it to, but I don't fucking run from my life. I stand my god damn ground and I engage with my life and get the best out of what looks like the worst.

You're not doing that. You're still trapped in a box, playing by someone else's rules, and fearing what you don't know without pushing to find out and learn. That's cool. I can't judge you. We're all on the path and we all get to where we're going in our own time. Cool.

But I think we can all agree on the insane amounts of awesome I possess. This is just an obvious fact. Bitches sweat me. Dudes wanna fuck me. People are drawn to me. I'm attractive. And not just physically. I have a light, I know I have a light, and I try my damn best to take care of my light. And you can say all sorts of shit about me, but the truth is you're here reading this and I'm not even about you. The truth is you're on my shit and that's what we both know.

The more you rock my jock the more I get like this.
I'm not perfect, but I do my work.

It used to bother me when friendships were lost and people betrayed me. Betrayal still hurts, but I'm a ton better at not letting anyone get close enough to do it. Losing friends is okay though. People are people, and people fuck up. Nothing lasts forever. And sometimes the truth is they were never your friend to begin with. Sometimes it's not that you lost a friend, it's that you gained perspective.

It's with that in mind that I'd like to invite everyone who expects something from me to take a long walk off a short cliff. And for those of you whom I may have extended something toward, I will not wait forever. In fact, I've already stopped being concerned.

My scope is wide, and there's a big world/Universe out there with a lot to learn from. I'm not stuck on playing games with people. You either want to grow, or you don't. I'm about dynamic change and expansion. If you're not on my level then it's peace out and see you next life time.

And if that response hurts your feelings then you need to toughen the fuck up.

Fiction Friday: Nothing To See Here

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Fri, 20 Jul 2012 10:36:00 +0000

At the suggestion of everybody! and my own gut, I've decided to move my fiction works off of here and onto their own individual blogs.

The roll-out will happen like this: Today - Steel Resolve & Chasing A Boy Up A Hill. Next week - ~~This Is Growing Up~~ & ~~We Are The Warlords~~.

I promise to throw snippets at you often. I swears it. Now, I'm to the gym. Because I just fucking LOVE working out when I haven't slept!

Hella Compiled Reflections: Just Go With It

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 15:07:00 +0000

Image by Jen Saunders/ from Wild Sister Magazine

An interesting thing about thinking you're smart is being constantly aware of how much you have yet to know. I mean, what is knowing? Do any of us know anything? Let's not go down that hole for now. I'm already lost enough as it is.

You know those cliches about life being full of lessons, and lessons repeating until you learn them? I think I keep getting left back, man. I like to go through my life experimenting. I like unexpected developments. I enjoy extending my adaptability. It makes me feel resilient, powerful. Sometimes though, too much rapid change can throw me, and I resist, and I worry, and I stir.

It's true, I hide behind my astrological sign as justification for everything. But it's also true that I don't enjoy feeling weak or vulnerable. I don't relish the idea of depending on, or needing other people. I don't look forward to forming deep attachments to anything because whatever's on the other side of the "meaningful gratification" that brings is called loss. And deep down, I don't get excited by the idea of losing. I mean what the fuck. I want to be smart! I want to out smart winning and losing and the human inclination toward conquest and competition. I want to surpass all my basic inclinations. But really, how basic is it to want to disprove the obvious weakness that is my humanity. I don't know anymore if I'm an Aquarius because my personality matches the description or if I've thought/taught myself to behave this way. It's a mess, really.
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Pretty Little Hearts

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 13:22:00 +0000

You already know how I feel about romantic feelings, relationships, love. The whole thing is a disaster of gross proportions - but then I listen to Robin Thicke and he convinces me otherwise. And you already know how I feel about Robin Thicke and all that white-boy swag of his.

So 'Pretty Little Heart' has been on continuous play for about 36 hours, and there are inappropriate amounts of Mmm-Mmm-Mmm going on with this song.

I mean he seems so insecure, so needy, so in love, so vulnerable and I love it. Because, truthfully, I've been there. I've wanted to say "Tell me that somebody won't get in our way." I mean, who hasn't had that thought? Who hasn't wanted reassurance that the chance they take wont blow up in their face? And who hasn't had to pick up their pretty little heart and leave?

Damn those horns and those keys and that sexy percussion (on the album version).
Damn Robin Thicke and that voice. Damn the whole damn thing.

...Keep Reading

Slow Posts

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Thu, 12 Jul 2012 17:55:00 +0000

Optimum Online Cable Vision turned off my internet and forced me to change modems. I would've done this a lot sooner except - do you have any idea where FLATLANDS Avenue is? Exactly. I got it done, so now I have internet again. (Success!) Unfortunately for you, if you were expecting a bunch of posts about babes, or reflections on the power of positive thinking, or encouraging you to grab your life by the balloons and fly away, or any such sorts of things, you're out of luck.

I'm doing that thing again, where I'm going through something. I've been feeling very, very moody lately and it's been manifesting in my body as various states of heartburn, nervousness, weakness and headaches. And quite frankly, until I get to the bottom of it I'm not blogging anything.

Okay, that was a bit dramatic. The truth is, right meow I have nothing much to say. I wish I did. In a week or so I suspect (really hope) I'll snap out of it and be filling this thing with verbal punches, thought-out musings peppered with cuss words, and of course...babes.

Power on, power rangers. (I don't know)

Fiction Friday: Best. Saturday. Ever.

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Fri, 06 Jul 2012 19:52:00 +0000

Coming Soon! (lol, get it?)

From Chapter 4 of "Money Tastes Like..."

The instant Caitlyn heard David’s key enter the lock, she sprang up from the sofa. She set The Immoralist spine up on the black glass coffee table, and hurried around the front of the chair to reach the door before it opened. As soon as he stepped inside the apartment she reached for David's face and welcomed him with a hungry kiss. Her fingers spread wide against his cheeks Caitlyn all but swallowed her boyfriend’s bottom lip.

He groaned his appreciation at the come-on into her mouth, and dropped his worked bag at their feet. She heard the door shut as David pushed further into the living space. Caitlyn tightened her lips around his tongue and rolled her own back and forth along its tip. David gripped her sides with his hands, fingers digging their way under her shirt, and up her flesh, to meet at the clasp of her bra. He pulled apart the garment and lifted it away from her body, taking off her tee shirt at the same time.

“Oh man,” he exhaled, taking the moment their lips weren’t touching to admire the form of her upper body.

Caitlyn loved the way his eyes widened in earnest pleasure at the sight of her breasts. She rolled her neck from side to side and threw her head back. With a teasing, thirsty grin she bit her bottom lip as David looked in her eyes.

He ran his long, steady index fingers along the waist of her sweatpants.

“Best,” he started, “Saturday,” he dipped his head forward, nibbled at her neck, “ever.”

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Honesty

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Thu, 05 Jul 2012 18:42:00 +0000

If you look for truthfulness you might just as well be blind...

Yesterday was an interesting, telling day. I don't know how much clearer I can make it to everyone that reads what I write that I observe, reflect over, and analyze everything. All I ever do, all I've ever done is think about life and people, and try to reach conclusions. I'm not afraid of pushing to understand. I chase knowledge, and people can be fascinating.

I went to a backyard party for the 4th. The backyard happened to belong to a little girl I happened to slap up about a month ago. What's past is past, etc, etc. Two wrongs don't make a right. Still, I'd be much more inclined to pour out apologies if this little girl weren't an alcoholic maniac with her own violent tendencies. I mean, if you can give it you'd better know how to take it.*
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Words For You Are Lies

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Tue, 03 Jul 2012 13:55:00 +0000

I think we can all agree that more songs need sax, and more ~~bathrooms~~ deserts need round-bulbed vanity mirrors. Cause, I mean - WHATHUHFUCK?
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Romney, You're Lookin Hella Soft, B.

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Sun, 17 Jun 2012 15:47:00 +0000

This is me sucking my teeth.

Mitt Romney thinks the President is playing politics. Bro. Bro, come on. It's politics, what do you expect him to do? I mean they play politics everywhere. I bet there were hella politics getting played during the NBA lock out. They play politics in Bushwick bro. Politics is everywhere. That's human nature. You've got to know where the majority of the power is, and you've gotta get in there with some butter and shortening, and you have to give those bitches candy, and you have to get yours.

Politics, bro. Of course he's playing politics...

So the other night Obama decided that he wants to keep the estimated 800,000 illegal immigrants in the United States and not deport them. I don't know why Republicans have to be dumb. If we put on our greedy corporation thinking-caps for one second, we can see the the vast potential for cheap in-house labor here. This is how you bring jobs to America, bitch. You let them come to you and then you keep them!
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Body Misuse

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Sun, 17 Jun 2012 11:43:00 +0000

Below, a very short and personal poem about me:

Please follow this link for more of this artist's work

my ass is fat

my legs are skinny

my tits are flat

and I've got a beer belly

ugh.

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Fiction Friday: This Is Growing Up

noreply@blogger.com (ruth nineke) — Fri, 15 Jun 2012 18:14:00 +0000

Click To Download

He unlocked the front door, pushed it open and stood aside. Michelle didn’t know what would happen next, but she ushered herself and her child into the house anyway. She was glad to be out of David and Jaclyn’s force field of recovery and spirituality. She didn’t belong in their house anymore than she felt she belonged in this one. Though the house seemed foreign to her, she knew it was only the unfamiliar feeling of having been away so long, so quickly after having it remodeled. This was still her home, and it still housed her wine, and her future.

Grace hopped quickly through the house, probably happy to be home and eager to be inside her own room. Michelle inched inside, and turned to see Kevin make his way back from the car with the bags. He caught her eye and made a brief, almost reassuring smile. She jerked her head away quickly and headed for the bathroom.

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