UPDATE!!

Its taken me five years to get back on track. My creative juices are flowing. I kinda lost track on where i was going with two of my stories, so either they stay the way they are or i just rip it up and change it. But hey who cares it will happen when the mood swings.

and i will also get started on proofreading what ive previously done. its kinda annoying but helpful when i get 'your story is confusing because blah blah'

I am going to change my 'finding myself story' focus more on the characters themselves rather then jump right into the storyline. well anyway. stay tuned.

im the almighty MINX!!

do YOU know what your kids have done this week?
do YOU know where they have gone?
do YOU know who they were with?
do YOU know how they came home?
do YOU even know when they came home?
-KEEP TRACK OF YOUR KIDS-by Mannie

guys...wink, wink, nudge, nudge, kno wat i mean, say no more, say no more, eh??
somebody shoot me, im a monty python fan...BRING OUT YOUR DEAD!!

"Pointed stick? Oh, oh, oh. We want to learn how to defend ourselves against pointed sticks, do we? Getting all high and mighty, eh? Fresh fruit not good enough for you eh? Well I'll tell you something my lad. When you're walking home tonight and some great homicidal maniac comes after you with a bunch of loganberries, don't come crying to me! Now, the passion fruit. When your assailant lunges at you with a passion fruit..."
-'Self Defense Against Fresh Fruit'

"Write on..."

BIO:
Well...
Nickname is Mannie or Mandie or Michiru, or Michi. depends on my mood because Michiru likes to bite and Mannie likes to play

Heinlen Rocks!!

The Moon Is Always Female
Marge Piercy

The moon is always female and so
am I although often in this vale
of razorblades I have wished I could
put on and take off my sex like a dress
and why not? Do men always wear their sex
always? The priest, the doctor, the teacher
all tell us they come to their professions
neuter as clams and the truth is
when I work I am pure as an angel
tiger and clear is my eye and hot
my brain and silent all the whining
grunting piglets of the appetites.
For we were priests to the goddesses
to whom were fashioned the first altars
of clumsy stone on stone and leaping animal
in the wombdark caves, long before men
put on skirts and masks to scare babies.
For we were healers with herbs and poultices
with our milk and careful fingers
long before they began learning to cut up
the living by making jokes at corpses.
For we were making sounds from our throats
and lips to warn and encourage the helpless
young long before schools were built
to teach boys to obey and be bored and kill.

I wake in a strange slack empty bed
of a motel, shaking like dry leaves
the wind rips loose, and in my head
is bound a girl of twelve whose female
organs all but the numb womb are being
cut from her with a knife. Clitoridectomy,
whatever Latin name you call it, in a quarter
of the world girl children are so maimed
and I think of her and I cannot stop.
And I think of her and I cannot stop.

If you are a woman you feel the knife in the words.
If you are a man, then at age four or else
at twelve you are seized and held down
and your penis is cut off. You are left
your testicles but they are sewed to your
crotch. When your spouse buys you, you
are torn or cut open so that your precious
semen can be siphoned out, but of course
you feel nothing. But pain. But pain.

For the uses of men we have been butchered
and crippled and shut up and carved open
under the moon that swells and shines
and shrinks again into nothingness, pregnant
and then waning toward its little monthly
death. The moon is always female but the sun
is female only in lands where females
are let into the sun to run and climb.

A woman is screaming and I hear her.
A woman is bleeding and I see her
bleeding from the mouth, the womb, the breasts
in a fountain of dark blood of dismal
daily tedious sorrow quite palatable
to the taste of the mighty and taken for granted
that the bread of domesticity be baked
of our flesh, that the hearth be built
of our bones of animals kept for meat and milk,
that we open and lie under and weep.
I want to say over the names of my mothers
like the stones of a path I am climbing
rock by slippery rock into the mists.
Never even at knife point have I wanted
or been willing to be or become a man.
I want only to be myself and free.

I am waiting for the moon to rise. Here
I squat, the whole country with its steel
mills and its coal mines and its prisons
at my back and the continent tilting
up into mountains and torn by shining lakes
all behind me on this scythe of straw,
a sand bar cast on the ocean waves, and I
wait for the moon to rise red and heavy
in my eyes. Chilled, cranky, fearful
in the dark I wait and I am all the time
climbing slippery rocks in a mist while
far below the waves crash in the sea caves;
I am descending a stairway under the groaning
sea while the black waters buffet me
like rockweed to and fro.

I have swum the upper waters leaping
in dolphin's skin for joy equally into the nec-
cessary air and the tumult of the powerful wave.
I am entering the chambers I have visited.
I have floated through them sleeping and sleep-
walking and waking, drowning in passion
festooned with green bladderwrack of misery.
I have wandered these chambers in the rock
where the moon freezes the air and all hair
is black or silver. Now I will tell you
what I have learned lying under the moon
naked as women do: now I will tell you
the changes of the high and lower moon.
Out of necessity's hard stones we suck
what water we can and so we have survived,
women born of women. There is knowing
with the teeth as well as knowing with
the tongue and knowing with the fingertips
as well as knowing with words and with all
the fine flickering hungers of the brain.

Es ist irgendwie komisch...

OK i feel alone, only ONe i repeat ONE person has reviewed my story, sob..I dont care anymore..hahaha...LeFox still loves me...

http:///grrl/scribescribbles/ I love scribe

http:///celtic.html

http:///fonts/fonts.htm

"One's real life is often the life that one does not lead."

going under by Evanescence

now i will tell you what i've done for you
50 thousand tears i've cried
screaming deceiving and bleeding for you
and you still won't hear me
don't want your hand this time i'll save myself
maybe i'll wake up for once
not tormented daily defeated by you
just when i thought i'd reached the bottom
i'm dying again

i'm going under
drowning in you
i'm falling forever
i've got to break through
i'm going under

blurring and stirring the truth and the lies
so i don't know what's real and what's not
always confusing the thoughts in my head
so i can't trust myself anymore
i'm dying again

i'm going under
drowning in you
i'm falling forever
i've got to break through

so go on and scream
scream at me i'm so far away
i won't be broken again
i've got to breathe i can't keep going under

© 2003 Wind-Up Records

hello by Evanescence

playground school bell rings again
rain clouds come to play again
has no one told you she's not breathing?
hello i'm your mind giving you someone to talk to
hello

if i smile and don't believe
soon i know i'll wake from this dream
don't try to fix me i'm not broken
hello i'm the lie living for you so you can hide
don't cry

suddenly i know i'm not sleeping
hello i'm still here
all that's left of yesterday

© 2003 Wind-Up Records