DEV, MR. DEATH AND ME

I took the wrong direction and I got lost. I thought I would die alone, in the middle of the darkness in that gloomy wood. So many things still to create and destroy, so young, so beautiful, so dead... To welcome Mr. Death and Mr. Devil and get ready to get drag to the deepest confines of the Earth, I took my clothes off and lied down on the ground. I need to tell that the ground was pretty warm, soft and comfortable. I could have stayed there for the rest of my life, thinking about all the pain I may have caused, but Mr. Devil come to me to take with him.

- Hey, M. Veen! Your time has come - he said, with a very dark and scary voice.

- Oh, yes. I was waiting for you. How are you doing, Mr. Devil?

- I'm fine, thanks.

- You look great, Mr. Devil. The red of your skin is very beautiful and shiny.

- Thanks... call me Dev...

- Ok, Dev. Shall we go?

- Follow me. Why are you naked?

- I though I wouldn't need any clothes in Hell.

- That's true, it's veeery hot there, but the rest of the people might think that you're a horny...

- In fact, I'm horny.

-...

- You're soooo hot... I want you madly since the first time I saw you, 1 minute ago...

- Mr. Death!!!!!! Come here right now!

When Mr. Death appeared, a great roar filled the wood. You can't image how sexy Mr. Death was, so dark, so dead, with that beautiful golden scythe...

- For God shake! Dev, you can't do anything on your onw or what!!??!!

- M. Veen is hounding me...- he whispered in Mr. Death's ear.

- Come on, Dev...

- Miss Veen, may I introduce myself?- silence- My name is Mr. Death.

- Pleased to meet you. Can I call you De?

- No.

- Ok...

- Mr. Devil and ...

- Dev... - I said.

- Mr. Devil and I are here because you're about to die. This is not a game and we're not single. Mr. Devil got married two months ago to a white stone and I'm gay, so, please, don't try anything else with us...

- Ok, I will try not to fell in love with you...

......... TO BE CONTINUATED

"Little, dirty things" - a song for miserable people.

There are little, dirty things in my head,
very little, very dirty.
The more I fight against them,
the more they grow,
very little, very dirty, very strong.

There are little, dirty things around me,
very little, very dirty.
The more I fight against them,
the more they grow,
very little, very dirty, very strong.

I’m not going to fight anymore,
I won’t win
I’m a loser
I'm nothing
There are little, dirty things in my life,
I won’t defeat them.
They will kill me.
Maybe I deserve what I have.

There are little, dirty things in my heart,
very little, very dirty.
The more I fight against them,
the more they break my soul.

There are loads of little, dirty things in me.
Very beautiful indeed.

MY NEW LOVER IS A QUIET MODEL

I did it because I felt very sad and lonely. Yes, I know I had my red marble, but I started to have some deep and mystic feelings and thoughts about the reasons which led me to leave my wonderful boyfriend and start a new life with a red marble. My red marble was good in bed, but, well... a red marble is very limited... poor imagination... null experimentation. He, the marble, was quite quiet, but it was ok (“I like you when you’re quiet, because you’re kind of distracted, and you hear me from the distance, and my voice doesn’t touch you” as Neruda would say). He was great at listening, but pretty bad at conversations. In fact, conversations didn’t exist in our relationship. So, we decided, by mutual agreement, to break up. “I have nothing to share with you; you have nothing to share with me”.
And here it comes my confession: I resorted to a web for singles to find a couple.

So sorry. I feel that I hit bottom, but I needet it and I did it. I didn’t konw exactly what I was looking for. The only thing I knew I wanted from a man was that he should be able to keep an interesting conversation about deep and mystic things, like the colour of the sea and the sky, or why people don’t accept that they’re insignificant, because the only great thing in the world is the world itself, and we’re not naturally part of the world because we invaded it; it can’t pass its magnificient status on us because we’re bad, we invaded the world when the world lived very paceful... we broke its peace. It won’t forgive us for that, and we won’t redeem... because we don’t have any other place to go. The thing is that I’ve found someone at that page.

I love him very much and he loves me very much, but I love him only when I feel lonely, and he loves me when he feels hot. Our love is not mutual “in time”; it’s parallel "in space": we love each other in the same direction, but in different levels. My family hates him. He’s a model. He’s also very quiet (“I like you when you’re quiet, because you’re kind of distracted, and you hear me from the distance, and my voice doesn’t touch you”... what else can I do?) My family says that he has a dirty look in his eyes... and he has bloodshot eyes.

I think he’s just sad.

WE SPEND OUR LIVE IN SIN AND MISERY

My father is playing “The house of the rising sun” with his carboard guitar.

He’s not a gambling man. He has nothing to gamble with.

My mother is a gambling woman.

She spent all our money in a bingo hall: her money, my father’s money and my money, my inheritance, hers and my father’s...

And now we’re fucking poor. Poor as rats. Poorer than the poorest Dicken’s character, poorer than the poorest westerner on Earth.

We spend our live in sin and misery.

We steal, kidnap and kill.

We eat what we found in the rubbish bin, bad, smelly and disgusting things, mainly.

Once, my lovely mother killed a cat for us to eat, because those posh and conceited neighbors of us didn’t have anything good in their rubbish bin.

My father plays his cardboard guitar and my mom has a problem. She’s a gambling woman and the only time she’s satisfied is when she’s asleep.

She’s the most satisfied woman in the world.

MY BOYFRIEND FOR A RED MARBLE

Once, I had a boyfriend. He loved me very much and I love him very much. He was the perfect one. Intelligent, attentive,polite, loving, rich, positively thinking, hardworking, funny, supportive, handsome, creative, veeery nice... what else could I ask for? When I felt down, he cheered me up. When I didn’t know what to do, he helped me to chose the right direction. When I didn’t have money to pay my rent, he paid it for me and didn’t ask his money back. When I committed a crime or offense, he, who was a great lawyer, changed the escene of the crime and the proofs so that I could get away with it. Everyone trusted him. And everyone loved him. He did everything perfectly: in his job, in my bed, on the street, with the poor, with the old people and children, with his family and mine, with our friends, in the beach, in the discos and pubs (you can imagine how amazing he was on the dance floor!)... everywhere and with everyone he knew how to behave accordingly.
However, anything, and I mean ANYTHING, can’t be perfect for too long. Through the weeks, I found out that he had some little funny ways... or, let’s call a spade a spade: manias, disgusting and unbearable manias.

When he woke up, he used to go to the bathroom, look at himself in the mirrow and lick his reflected image with huge pleasure for five minutes.
- Why are you doing that? - I asked him once.
- I want to taste me. It’s a good way to start my day.

When we were in bed, just after an incredible session of wild, loving sex, he held himself tight for five minutes, with his eyes closed. He seemed to be in love with himself, rather than with me.
- Hey! I’m here! What are you doing? - I asked him once.
- I want to feel me. It’s a good way to start my day.
- But your day started 15 hours ago!
- You’re right, my darling, my working day started 15 hours ago. The time of the feeling, the love and the perfection in a more deep sense, has just started.

Everyday, he worked out for two hours. When he arrived home from the gym, he put his sweat in a jar and in the evening, while he was watching the sports, he took the jar, took the lid off, and smelt it deeply for five minutes.
- What are you doing?
- I want to smell me.
- That’s really disgusting!
- My sweat is part of me. If you don’t like it, you don’t like me. But I’m sure you love it,isn’t it?

When he help some lovely old lady to cross the road, or some kind old man to paint his fence, or when he looked after his little nephews and nieces, he pulled out one of their hairs, kept it and put it in a folder. And he had a room full of folders!
- This will remind me: You’re a great person, you help others.

The thing with the hair was sickly. He collected the remaining hairs in our bed after sex, or the hair I left in my comb and put them in an photo album, with the date and location.
- I love every inch of you, and I don’t want anything to be lost.

When he cut his nails, he put them in a big, pink box. He had loads of these pink boxes! He told me he had been collecting his own nails for years.
- You never know if you will need them again for anything.

I didn’t know what to do. He was so perfect! Except for those little things...
But there was a thing that I coulnd’t bear. I tried to convince him to stop doing it, but I couldn’t. I tried to convince myself that I wouldn’t find anyone better than him. A relationship needs tolerance, but I didn’t have enough of it with this. He left me because he thought I didn’t undersand him. I could stand their fetishim with the hear, even the thing with his sweat, but this was too much!! He collected the little ball of shit that he had between his toes. He put every single ball in a wonderful little box, those little box which are used to keep rings.
- Why? – I asked once.
- I don’t want anyone to use my dna to do strange genetic experiments.

One grey Monday morning, I met a man in the street. He told me he would give me ten millions pounds, if I gave him my boyfriend’s house’s keys.
- No way – I asked him.
- Ok. I buy you for ten millions pounds that handmade t-shirt you’re wearing. It’s handmade, right?
- Yes, it is. I designed it.
- It’s the most beautiful t-shirt I’ve ever seen in my life – he stared at me and I blused - and I think your creative work deserves that amount of money, although it may seem it isn’t enough. I hope it doesn’t offend you.
-Oh, no, not at all... I’m flattered...
- So...?
- Done.
- And... I change a red marble for your boyfriend.
- Done.


Now, I am rich. And I have a red marble.

THE PSYCHOKILLER IN ME

I used to watch those kind of films labelled as physchothriller, or thriller, or serial killers films... those where there’s a muderer, a serial killer, who loves to kill young, blonde girls who stydy phylology at the University. There is also a policeman or detective or professor of criminololy from some University in North America who tries to catch him because the serial killer sends him encrypted signals, or leaves notes at the crime scene for the detective/policeman/professor to find him. I used to love also those films about people who are at the death row, waiting to be executed with a lethal inyection, and then there’s a journalist, a young lawyer or a nun who is forced to help him because nobody wants to do it, discovers that he (it’s always “he”) is innocent, tries to free him and has to act against the clock. Finally, he or she doesn’t achieve it and the innocent dies (yeah, some other times he’s not innocent).
Then, one fine day, I realised that my mind was being consumed by those films but it was to late for me... I couldn’t do anything to prevent me from my dramatic ending...
I started to think that I wanted to kill young, blonde girls who study biology at the University. First of all, I though for two whole days, 11 hours, 7 minutes and 39 seconds, what my hallmark would be. I decided I would force her to write the following sentence in her right leg: “a bloodthristy serial killer killed me, and it was fucking painful”. I’d take a scalpel and write the same sentence at her left leg. Then, I’d paint her toenails with a klein blue varnish. The next step would be to drive coloured knitting needles under her fingernails. And finally, I’d behead her with an axe.





As I was a young, blonde girl who studied biology at the University, I killed myself to start spectacularly my series of muders.



Yeah, it was pretty painful.

THE DAY I MET THE DRUG ADDICTED UPHOLSTERER

I was sitting in a bar, drinking a glass of tape water, eating stale pistachio nuts and talking to myself about deep and mystic things. A fucking drunkard tried to get off with me.
- I’ve got a feeling. I’d love to love you tonite. I mean, I think you and me will love each other forever after this night. I feel it, I know it. I’d love to nibble at your tits... but with love. I mean, with real love...
- I don’t like your hair, sorry.
I kicked his balls with full force. He fell backwards and his head rebounded from the floor brusquely.
- Don’t worry, I’m... I’m ok... yeah, I’m ooooook... – And he stayed there for the rest of the night, lying on the squalid and sticky floor, grabbing his balls.
After this contingency, I kept talking to myself about the absurdity of the existence of the human being and planning a way to kill myself without feeling any pain. Again, someone interrupted my trascendetal meditations.
- Excuse me, miss, would you be so nice to tell me the time?
- No, sorry, I’m not that nice.
- Excuse me, miss, would you be so kind to tell me what time is it?
- Excuse me, sir, would you be so nice to leave me alone?
- Excuse me, miss, I’m an upholsterer.
- WHATTT?... what the hell has that to be with the time?
- Well, an upholsterer needs to know the time.
- Why for?

- Time is important for an upholsterer.

- But, why?
- Excuse me, young lady, you are making to many questions and taking up my time.
- Sorry???
- What time is it?
- For god shake, I don’t know what the fucking time is!
- I’m an upholsterer.
- Ok, you’ve already told me about that.
- And I have problems with drugs.

- Very nice.

- I'm a drug addict and I'm also an uphoslterer. I upholster things for a living...

- Yes.

- I'm an upholsterer and I do drugs, very much.
- Ok, anything else before talking the bouncer?
- I’m a drug addict. I keep saying no, but they just don’t listen to me, don’t pay me attention.
- Who??
- The vooooooicessssss... I will tell you about the voices, if you I have time...

That day I decided to kill myself without worrying about the pain, but I haven’t found the way to do it properly yet...

SEX WITH BOYS IN BANDS CLUB

I don't like being part of anything and I don't feel I'm part of anything. I'm not that kind of person who needs to be part of something to reinforce my personality. I don't belong to any club, association, group, bunch, gang, guild, brigade, corp, company, fraternity, alliance, federation, circle or whatever. I don't even have friends because I'm so deep and mystic that having any friends could divert me from my noble purpose, which I can't reveal untill it's done, but it's something very deep and mystic and outstanding, excellent, perfect, superior, supreme and extremely brilliant...

But I'm bound to say that, if I were an ordinary person, I'd like to be party of the Sew with boys in bands Club (SWBIB Club). They pursue the perfection of the human being through the realization of the inner feelings of the females, who are the best representation of the intelligent sexuality of the human being.

Sex with boys in bands Club is not a superficial club about fucking with any boy in a band. No. It's more than that, but you have to be part of the club to find out more about it.

If you're a girl, you MUST be in this club.

If you're a boy in a band, you MIGHT be in this club.

Go figure!

MY RAT BETRAYED ME

I have something really shameful to confess… a human being have been defeated by an animal… a woman has been defeated by a rat…
My rat (I won’t name names, just because I’m a real lady) betrayed me. I trusted her. She was my best friend. On weekends, we went out together, made racket wherever we went, got wasted and stoned… I kept her secrets and she kept mine. Me, naïve thing… I didn’t know she was trying to win my confidence just to let me down … it was a stab in the back. Two months after we first met and become friends, I found out that she didn’t want to be my friend, she was just trying to pinch my lovers and my teeth. She succeeded in one of her goals. A friend of mine warned me about her, but I didn’t believe him. He told me: “Your friend is not a good thing. She’s got no good intentions… She’s a Ratoncito Pérez’s (Fairy Tooth) cousin and I reckon she’s helping him to build his teeth-mansion... Watch out..." One fine day, after a night of friendly confessions and drunken laughs, she poured some poison in my wine and I fell asleep. When I woke up, I found this note:

“Dear Marie Veen,

I’m so sorry… voices told me to do so… every night, every single day they were there, white, lovely, young… they whispered in my ears… their words fell harshly on me… “Do it, do it…”. My cousin, Ratoncito Pérez, was also trying to convince me to do so… I didn’t mean it! I swear I didn’t! But I finally did it… I have your milky teeth and you have the holes… They will be with me for the rest of our lives and they’ll remind me of the love and friendship you and me once had. Please, forgive me…

Love, xxx”

I AM SORRY THAT I KILLED YOU

I'm sorry that I killed you...

... and you don't exist anymore.

I'm sorry that I made you cry...

... for that small thing.

I'm sorry that I killed you...

... and you won't be in my next birthday party.

I'm sorry that I made you bleed...

... because probably it hurt real bad and I couldn't clean up the blood before leaving.

I'm sorry that I killed you...

... but ... you actually deserve it.

Yeah, you did.

NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION(s)

I’ve decided to become a good person this year.

How?

Being a good person.

How?

Being a human being.

How?

…. It’s something to do with your lungs and nose, I think…

Uhum... suit yourself….