you don't really want anymore from me

possibly the greatest drum work since the first guy started banging on stuff.

Sometimes I feel I've got to

Run away I've got to
Get away
From the pain you drive into the heart of me
The love we share
Seems to go nowhere
And I've lost my light
For I toss and turn I can't sleep at night

Once I ran to you (I ran)
Now I'll run from you
This tainted love you've given
I give you all a boy could give you
Take my tears and that's not nearly...
Oh...tainted love
Tainted love

Now I know I've got to
Run away I've got to
Get away
You don't really want anymore from me
To make things right
You need someone to hold you tight
And you think love is to pray
But I'm sorry I don't pray that way

Once I ran to you (I ran)
Now I'll run from you
This tainted love you've given
I give you all a boy could give you
Take my tears and that's not nearly all
Oh...tainted love
Tainted love

Don't touch me please
I cannot stand the way you tease
I love you though you hurt me so
Now I'm gonna pack my things and go
Tainted love, tainted love (x2)
Touch me baby, tainted love (x2)
Tainted love (x3)

If You Would Like To Leave A Message...

[the phone line answers to a pregnant pause]

caller: hello?

voicemail: hi, you've reached overboy's voicemail. i'm on an extended holiday while I sort a few things out in my head and will be back at some point. i check this line every so often, so leave a message and we'll catch up when i return -- thanks. oh, wait for the, you know...

[beep]

caller: over, its me... again; listen. i know you needed to duck out for a while, but you can't do this for too long. there are people that need to talk to you. i can hold them off, but only for so...

[phone line clicks over and voicemail beeps as the reciever is picked up]

overboy: [pauses and silence]

caller: hello?!

overboy: i'm getting your messages and i heard you fine the first time.

caller: but, you haven't called...

overboy: i heard you the first time; i said. now you'll get my call when you get my call.

[reciever clicks off to the phone line tone]

caller: but, i really need to talk to you...

over analysis of the under analyzed and the uninteresting

word(s)  [wurd]
–noun
1. a unit of language, consisting of one or more spoken sounds or their written representation, that functions as a principal carrier of meaning.

are [ahr; unstressed er]
pres. indic. pl. and 2nd pers. sing. of be.
–verb

in⋅ad⋅e⋅quate [in-ad-i-kwit]
–adjective
1. not adequate or sufficient; inept or unsuitable.
2. Psychiatry. ineffectual in response to emotional, social, intellectual, and physical demands in the absence of any obvious mental or physical deficiency.

The Curious Case of OverBoy Aristocrat

Normally I'm writing three times the number of words to describe a thing, but in this case all I can say is: Its beautiful. 

Overstatedly simple, 

engulfing in every scene 

and every character is thoroughly and completely explored for their depth and complexity and contribution to the overall.

It is a beautiful film; but not in the sappy way. But people who enjoy sappy will love this film as well.

-over

files of the stalker: I ran out of film before her craving was satiated.

Her hands are bound behind her back with her own panties. She balances on her toes to keep herself from being strangled by the noose around her neck. Her breath is shallow and her head is light, she knows that if she passes out he'll leave her there. He's an animal, she knows that now.

Tears have flowed and dried and flowed again. There's a timer just in sight, and it's counting down. His boot is resting on a stool, her toes are pushing up against his boot -- it looks like he has her balanced on one foot, or like those ballerinas in the music boxes; toes pointed down. 

He's sitting back flipping through photos. She wants to scream, but can't. All she can do now is cry and mutter. Why was she so taken with him, she screams in her head, why did she come with him here.

Her name is Lauren, and not long ago she started visiting that horrid place. She knew she shouldn't be there alone, in that kind of bar. The pole dancers were bad enough, but it was all punctuated by the moans in the back rooms and dark places. And that red head that was working the place over, jealousy became admiration. She loved every corner of it and wanted to be like her. She knew what the place was when she walked in, directly under the corroded sign, 'bangers' is all it read anymore; its where she met him.

She stops to reflect on herself and the choices she's made. She shouldn't even be here tonight, she should haven taken the offer for drinks from, from -- she can't even remember his name. So many risks she's taken up until now, up until what is lining up to be the last risk she'll ever take. She knows she's about to die, there's nothing she can do to stop it.

---

She's wonderful, and I am so proud of these shots. I never dreamed they would come out so well. This remote shutter and lipstick cameras are genius, screw the cost, they are worth every dime and I can put them anywhere and they are barely visible.

Dancing. With me in the background even, I almost wanted her to see me.

Some random swinging dick. I heard every grunt and moan as the camera snapped away and he pounded her cunt. 

This shot -- i will cherish for sometime. She was a workhorse that night. I ran out of film before her craving was satiated. I will not share; I did not join. But my turn is coming soon.

---

His head leans back as he looks up at her face; studying it. She's fodder, something to pass the time while the work progresses. He hasn't even fucked her, just threw her up on the noose after he talked her into coming over from bangers.

He set the timer out as a mind fuck, to watch her eyes look to it, so he knows she's still concious. Now she's a balancing act on the end of his boot. He shakes his foot and she muffles a curse out. 

'Do you hear me, whatever the fuck your name is' he calls out, 'your going to hang there as entertainment, like a piece of furniture'. 

'I have a friend in a secluded house that would love to see you. He hangs girls in his living room as he sits down to dinner, a proper sick fuck he is, he gave me the idea for the indoor noose and winch', his sarcasm is obvious. 

He hasn't told her that he hung that same sick fuck on the noose she's on now and watched the bastard die -- although the sick fuck seemed to enjoy it -- that was just before trucking the entire noose-and-winch rig down to his alley.

He pulls on his cigarette as he watches her. He knows the look; the fight has gone out. He pauses, then puts his boots flat on the floor before crossing his legs. Her toes search for support, but there's nothing there. She feels her tongue forced up into her mouth as her neck is pulled taut against the weight of her body. Her head tilts to the side, peering down at him she see's the red head in the photographs, while she struggles.

Her legs shake violently mid-air as he continues to admire the photographs; he stopped noticing her, he doesn't even know lauren is there.

SL Is A Fickle Cunt

'The SL Client Must Be Upgraded'

OK

'Second Life Updater' running.

OK

'Second Life Must Now Restart'

OK

'The SL Client Must Be Upgraded'

[hrmph] OK

'Second Life Updater' running.

OK

'Second Life Must Now Restart'

[taps desk] OK

'SL Client Logging In'

[immediately]

'Crash'

[grumble]

'SL Client Logging In'

[logged in for some time]

'Crash'

[stupid f'ing piece of buggy...]

'SL Client Logging In'

[logged in for some time, enjoying myself

'Crash'

[in the voice of snatch's boris the blade]

fuck you... fuck you... fuuuucck you.

overboy out.

files of the stalker: my head told it to shut the fuck up.

On my back I spread my arms and legs slightly until I touch the sides of the box, it’s a tight fit and the lid is inches from my face. Most would panic -- I am home in this space, its 3:20 and I close my eyes.

This exercise I started some time ago exploring how to rid myself of these inane fears: darkness, tight spaces, the unknown. Time wasted on books, seminars, therapists who couldn't prescribe drugs and psychiatrists that could. Out of shame I locked myself in that time release box, watertight with a tube and pump for air and weights to make sure it did was it was supposed to: stay the fuck down.

Secluded lake, reliable power source, back up generator, multiple air tubes feeding into what can only be called a casket, tang, no food , piss bottles and the timer set to force open the lid after the count down from 10,080 minutes.

My list was complete. I found the courage to change the things I could, accepted the things I could not and I am wise enough to know the difference; who needs god when I have me.

I sat naked in front of this thing since I set it up at dawn and my body continued to protest. It wailed inside me, but I paid it no mind. Laying down I brought the lid closed. The latches shut hard, the timer began its countdown, the air pump kicked in. My heart pounded while my head told it to shut the fuck up.

The rig to drop the casket into the lake was taking too long and my heart got louder, my breathing got deeper and the fear consumed me. My head had lost control, but it didn't matter, I had this beast where I wanted it -- and the casket released then slowly sank and gently rested itself against the bottom. Dark, cold, quiet, alone; half my senses were useless and without stimulation.

I reason with myself about how safe this truly is, but end in a cycle of screaming, crying, fighting, vomiting, shitting, pissing -- my body let itself go, until my head shut it all down and I passed out, I think it was 180 minutes in; I didn't bring a watch on purpose.

Her alarm sounds and my eyes open as if I could see anything inside this dark box. She smacks at the clock trying to shut it off and knocks it to the floor, almost sounding like it lands on my head and the alarm vibrates through the floor board. The TV turns onto an unnaturally happy anchor announcing that it is 6:00 AM and the much too warm temperature for this time of year -- it really should be snowing.

The floor creaks slightly as she stands up out of bed. His heart beats faster from the excitement, but my head tells it to shut the fuck up -- my heart listens.

He peeks out slightly to see her. She's pacing from spot to spot, closet, bed, bathroom, each with a short stop before moving to the next. He reaches up to his face, to smell the fabric of his souvenir. The morning routine; it’s his first time seeing it. He plans on seeing it again.

He trails her movement through sound. The floorboard lowers flush again concealing the space he's built, the new casket under her bed; a timer has started a count down.