Mea Umbra

The Fish from the Tinder Cesspool Taste Like Stinking Excrement

An excerpt from a recent Tinder exchange:

I would encourage you to reread my actual words, and distance yourself emotionally from the presuppositions you have toward me. This cookie cutter narrative of what you think I'm all about is not only inaccurate, it illustrates your lack of creativity.

I never said I'm looking for sexual favors. On the contrary, from our first exchange I made it clear I have no real expectations from anyone...except my abounding curiosity into their psyche.

I'm sorry if you're getting upset Amber, but you're reacting rather than digesting. Nothing in life is ever as it seems. Sadly, as humans we have the flawed tendency to over-simplify that which is difficult to decipher. Rather than exert mental effort and struggle with the nuanced complexities that interlaces any given situation or individual, people seek reprieve from those psychological knots.

And your assumption that I've been abused as a child, well, that's just a generic hypothesis that unimaginative types use to conveniently define and articulate those whose behavior and actions are nebulous and irregular.

I don't blame you though. Our society brainwashes us to believe in these overarching labels/categories/definitions. God forbid people like me delve into the abyss, and gleefully play in its sandbox.

Tagged:

Reflecting on My Mortality

On this day last year, I coughed up some blood while shampooing my head in the shower. I remember chuckling to myself as I remembered Sweet Brown's timeless lines, "...I got BRONCHITIS. Ain't nobody got time for that!"

I wasn't too concerned on the drive to the ER–I even remember being mildly annoyed at the inconvenience of having to go to a county hospital on a weekend night and wait among the cockroach people, a result of my shitty insurance, and poverty of my own. I figured I had acquired bronchitis or pneumonia over the past few months, after all, I usually washed my darkroom prints outside following my all-night printing sessions, sometimes in the rain.

"Fuck, I knew I should've worn a jacket more often," I grumbled to myself.

To my surprise, I didn't have to wait too long, and at 9:19 pm an ER nurse called my name and escorted me inside to be assessed (apparently breathing problems are taken serious, so if you ever want to game the system and be seen ahead of everybody else at the ER, just tell them you can't breathe).

At 5:23 am, the following morning, I walked out of there, not with bronchitis or pneumonia, but with cancer. In the following days to come I would return to that building, be placed in the ICU as the aggressive tumor that housed my chest cavity threatened to send me into cardiac arrest, and started emergency chemotherapy.

A year later, and I'm grateful to say I'm alive, living with a dead tumor spooning my heart and lungs, but alive nonetheless. Thank you to all the Filipino nurses, online strangers who sent me words of encouragement on here, and IRL friends who brought me food during my week-long chemo sessions, I appreciate you all.

Origins: The Epistemology of DragnMastr13

And in those early years I was met with much derision. My ideas were spat on, and My appearance mocked by the popular majority, or "the head lice" as I preferred to call them. I was a vagabond in their hearts, and in that sparsely-imaginationed town, they were weary of vagabonds.

I had never particularly worried about superficial things like My blameless poverty, erratic dance technique, or acne-prone skin, but the rabid women and their court of white knights made sure that their grievances with Me were internalized–and so it came to pass that I developed a vitamin D deficiency from My aversion to the outside world, but nothing a prescription couldn't handle.

Piece by piece I started assembling a little nest for Myself, which later would become the current incarnation of My "shadow lair"–a working studio/darkroom where I could lose Myself in the limitless depths of My imagination–a space where I could nurture My budding photography obsession. Books too became My escape–dead thinkers who provided much-needed companionship, guidance, and warmth during those formative years. Staying in became something I looked forward to, instead of something I self-pitied over.

But when the day came, it was as clear as the void of light reflected from My raw obsidian collection–it was time to emerge out of the wilderness, and make My personal legend known to the world. I no longer dreaded the head lice people–I saw their opinions of Me for what they were–a minor nuisance, but nothing of consequence.

And thus DragnMastr13 was conceived.

 

Wrong Number, Right Victim

Last night I received a wrong-numbered phone call.

Not allowing this opportunity go to waste, perhaps against My better judgment, I engaged in an impromptu phone sex seduction.

Five hours later, as daybreak eased itself into the early morning, I realized that I had been the victim of orgasm vampirism.

After the 11th ejaculation, I turned My nightstand light on, looked down, and witnessed how raw and inflamed My turtleneck flesh was.

I hurriedly ended the marathonian call, something that was a lot easier said than done, as she denied My attempts to flee from her psychological clutch.

Let this be a lesson to you who are weak of will: there are those among us who feed from our vices.

Thus spoke, The DragnMastr. 

A Twilight Recommendation From the Sage in the Bark

I made it to Sopherocles by dusk, and found the sage in the bark awaiting My arrival.

I wanted to seek her advice on how to become a killing tree after I died. Preferably, I would specialize in unsuspected vengeance.

Within My foliage would be an armory laden with timbered bayonets–camouflaged and ready to gash the eye sockets of defilers of dreams and butchers of innocence–human tumors of which I have no remorse surgically incising from the face of this density.

She looked at Me with her infinite gaze, and whispered into My left ear, "Maybe you should be a dandelion instead."

The Irrevocable Rapture of a Pious, Yet Curious Virginess

Unabashedly, over the spell of a gaping week, her initial fascination had transmuted into chronic and ineradicable obsession.

Ensconced with a feigned innocence, and in hostile opposition to her moral upbringing, she digitally revealed herself to Me, exposing abounding carnal pleasures that I looked to ravage and defile with predatory intent. It was only a matter of time now before I would be navigating her smooth, caramel fleshscape with My wanderlust tongue.

The destination? A pink oasis that promised to satisfy, almost as much as the satiating flavor of virginal conquest–a sweet and selfish aftertaste that indwells the palate of My carnivorous raptures.

The Shifting of Sui Ipsius Scientia

"Who am I?", you ask The Oracle of Sui Ipsius Scientia.

A crooked smile negotiates their austere face, as they respond with the following:

"Who you are is who you have been. And who you have been is who you will become. And in your becoming, therein lie your departures–scattered throughout the catacombs of I-ness, like the dismembered remains of the past–vignettes of life.

"As the rattlesnake rattles, and the quarter moon moons, you too are palpable in the shifting expanse of consciousness."

At once, your eyes swell with disarray as you realize that the Oracle is Me, and I am You.

The Double-Penetration of a Groveling Simp

I watched from afar as she collected her simps with rapacious delight, a predatory delirium seething from her meat mausoleum.

I couldn't help but to chuckle, as they willingly handed over their Self-sovereignty in servile and meek fashion in pathetic hopes to gain her fickle attention, only to have her spit in their faces and castrate their impotent manhood once the brutal clarity of reality set in.

Cockroaches–every single one of them. Their lot in life would consist of a lifetime of groveling–face down, ass up, as the void of their Self-respect and worth are double-penetrated from behind.

A Sweat-Seething of Anatomies

The music gripped Us by the neck, inserted a grubby finger inside Our accepting mouths, and a willful coercion ensued. We danced amidst primal delirium.

Thereafter, Our sweat-seething anatomies entwined and serpentined, amongst drowned-out tachycardia and hedonism. Our flickering, tungsten-lit shadows delineated My lair's walls like the Paleolithic cave paintings of Lascaux. It was a frenetic mating ritual, suffused with the bodily fluids needed to pacify the nausea and trepidation of temporal existence. 

It was Our first encounter, but unfortunately for her, it would be the last. She was a feeble-minded ideologue engrossed with politics, and babbled too much about petty things that didn't really matter after you were dead, especially post-ejaculation.

Provocations of the Phantasmagorias

In her gaze existed an unrelentingness that adhered itself on the cryptic walls of My antechamber.

Though the air was dense from the ashes swirling from the charnel house below, our level of understanding was impenetrable, crystalline almost in its purity.

We were what you would call phantasmagorias, son et lumière with our cruel sensuality. The promise of love was but a fata morgana that would impel our victims over the perilous cliffs of their obsession for us. How can you possess that which does not belong to you you swine?

Ha!

Their bottomless fates into the depths of their delirium would be our afternoon amusement. Forever and ever. Amen.

I Am

I am The Impeccable One–anointed to thrust His sword.

I am The DragnMastr–DragnMastr13–and I am mastering the shadow serpent within, having slain The Great Dragon clad in red, black, and white scales of deception.

I have walked alongside The Grim Reaper, looked over the eternal cliffs of dreamless sleep, and hardened Myself against the vertigo of looming death.

The outcome?

A metamorphosis of mind–I am a mountain.

Nothing can move Me.

Nothing can shake Me.

Nothing can diminish Me.

And yet, I have been moved. I have been shaken. I have been diminished.

But I am a blackhole–swallowing the fears, doubts, and insecurities that cross My event horizon–infinitely in a state of expansion.

A Cremation of Pity

The pyre from Her self-indulgence cremated any pity we had preserved for her, as she continued on:

"O inoculator, I am weak.

Your virile insertions bring me to your feet.

The logical part of me is indignant by this experiment you've performed on me, but there is another side–a more instinct-driven side in which you've bored into me during one of your unrelenting sessions.

This side of me is thrilled by your creation, this side feels complete having been injected with the serum you've infused from me. Complete, but desiring more.

Was that the plan, inoculator? To get me addicted to your great syringe? If so, then go and rejoice because though I suffer the consequences of your actions, your plan has succeeded."

There was something of a grotesque understanding of what she had expressed. My demigoddess, My idol of devoted worship, was descending into the molten depths of self-annihilation, where the inoculator reigned supreme over her body, mind, spirit.

May she have mercy on her own soul.

 

A flash fiction collaboration with: @its.cherry.sister