Updated: I’ve updated an older post that I hope you enjoy reading as much as I relish writing crap. Call it my ‘pop shit therapy,’ besides I can’t afford to seek professional advice, let alone eat anything other than Mickey Dees. But I’m more than willing to accept any monetary offers or charitable lovin’. Just saying!!! XOXO Love you all and stay Sassy Assy. MJA
The Act of Planting Seeds in Shit
It takes a ton of manure to reap a bountiful harvest. It also takes much shit (which you’ve got to water) to grow a floriculture array of beauty outside your own. We all are part of this universal arrangement called life and living it on purpose means choosing our own vase of choice. Divine beauty doesn’t transpire magically overnight with some Hollyweird makeover. It’s created out of the shit we came and became complacent in. We neglect our own dreams for those of another.
Many of us piss away our scarce resources: time, energy, and money on the next best thing. On worthless shit not worthy of how great it looks dressed or undressed.
We want instant gratification and the applause from the Universe because were fucking entitled to it. It’s like I’ve been through the struggle and hustled my butt off so don’t I deserve the best this world had to offer?
Like that Starbucks Crystal Ball Frappe, as the fortunato barista seduces me into buying, I need you (it) now. We seek an answer every time we have insatiable desire. Only to want more and more because we just can’t get enough satisfaction. As if that heart-shaped ass is better on the other side of the street. That girl next door in daisy dukes and high heel boots ready to turn it up for some crisp new Benjamins or a portfolio of Bitcoin bling bling. You can make it rain for all the wrong reasons; getting wet and breaking a sweat as a one hit wonder when we were really meant to be a New York Times Bestseller.
The Act of Asphyxiation
More isn’t necessary greater; in fact we end up only asphyxiating ourselves into a comatose state of numbness. Be it a nicer bigger house, a faster status car, a new location, a longer job title, a hot love girlfriend or abs-ceptional boyfriend, or simply the perfect fuck toy…or at least a mind blowing fantasy conjured up from the latest Cosmopolitan article on relationships.
Our paycheck must expand in size and length to placate our erect ego so we can numb ourselves into a simulated state of dissatisfaction. And we are never truly happy, so we just seek out our next intimate drug of choice and mind-trancing sexual bliss. Even on our most decadent of dreams we are fucking someone else’s fantasy scene. But we are destined to be the headliner in our own screenplay. Not some DP-gaped actress throwaway.
We bed hop from one cuddle buddy or bunny as if our latest sexperience needed some sort of vindication or reconciliation between the soiled sheets of lascivious lustful desire and the sacred dance of love.
The Act of Growing Sweet Tasting Fruit
Ever wonder how an apple can look so good and fresh from the outside. But one bite reveals the true core of what’s inside. We can barely cover ourselves in the trendiest disturbed jeans and distressed shirts. Sooner or later we will have to reveal what we’re keeping secret underneath to the one we long to be with…passion full or pantyless.
In other words we must be willing to get covered in shit, get pissed on (or off), and deal with mounds of crap we created for ourselves first before we can purify ourself for the one we love with a passionate shared purpose.
Just remember…If God created all things in Paradise and beyond then shit and piss are all part of the great cosmic divine. At least let’s fucking hope. Finding faith in the sacred and the obscene in the galaxy of our visionary fantasies.
In our Universal Garden of Eden any fruit is harvestable; forbidden and decadently edible. We just need to be comfortable in our own buck-nakedness and become One with the shit dreams are made of.
“Faith in destiny first begins with faith in the shit unseen.”
©2017 Passion Island Cove Publishing and Passion Angel Media. All Rights Reserved.