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It’s that moment you realize you are looking at another Alexander

ThatMomentYouRealizeYouAreLookingAtAnotherAlexander_ContraPoints_Natatlie_Lolita_Pedophilia

“My favourite novel is Lolita.”, said the self-declared feminist. Calling yourself a feminist while being a pedophilia apologist is the ultimate slap in the face betrayal. The ultimake swindle, the ultimate irreconcilable unforgivable battleship sinking hypocrisy. You cannot be a feminist and a pedophilia apologist. Either you are crazy or malicious or both that you think you can be.

ContraPoints_Natalie_Lolita_Pedophilia_On_The_Shelf

ContraPoints_Natalie_Vladimir_Nabokov_T_Shirt_Lolita_Pedophilia

I swear, I don’t know what I have to do stop myself from going absolutely ballistic over this pedophilia apologist pretending to be a feminist right now. I could write another essay this long about my sense of betrayal and rage, but to what end? I cannot believe these feelings of rage and betrayal inside myself. How can I not write about what I am discovering? How can I be asked to keep all these things to myself? How can I not show people what is plainly there before my eyes? Faux feminist pedophilia apologist, you’ve just made an enemy. Yes, when I first encountered you I was impressed and I admired you, just like I once admired Alexander. I cried and fell into a dark hole when I discovered that Alex is a pedophilia apologist, and I cried again today as I discovered that you are one too. Andrea Dworkin once worshipped Allen Ginsberg.

And so by this time, Andrea herself was a very famous published writer and a very famous feminist, and of course she wrote, as in Woman Hating, as Sheila shared with us today, about violence towards women, about sexual abuse of women and children. And Ginsberg had a problem with this. Now why did he have a problem with this? Because he was a child sexual abuser. Because he was a member, I think it was of the North American Man-Boy Love Association, which is what is known as a pedophile organization, and his particular liking was for 12-year-old boys.

Now this was a bar mitzvah. Now who are at bar mitzvahs? 12- and 13-year-old boys and girls. And so this particular day that Andrea got up and decided she would behave herself, was their godson’s bar mitzvah, and she knew Ginsberg was going to be there, and that very day legislation had just been clarified about child pornography being illegal. Now she was delighted. She knew Ginsberg wouldn’t be, so she tried to avoid him. And there’s a photograph, isn’t there John, of her standing with his arm around her–you know those awful photos at weddings and things, where you’re going [laughter]–and he’s there, and he kept following her around saying what’s your problem, what’s your problem, is it because of the legislation, this is why you won’t talk to me, you’re a nazi, you’re an idiot, etc. And she said, yes, of course, I have a problem with it, because I’m a feminist, and I don’t think that children should be abused and raped, which you obviously do. And he said, “Well, I’ve never met anyone with your views who’s intelligent,” and she said, “Well, you havent been out much, have you?” [laughter]

And I was recounting this to her on the phone, and she said, [husky American accent] “Oh Julie, you’ve gotta put that in the piece.” And I said, “I promise you I’ll put it in the piece.” And we then remembered in 1997 or something, when somebody from one of the British broadsheets had interviewed her, and she had told the Ginsberg story, but he was tragically still alive, so the lawyers run scared and took the piece out about Ginsberg being a child abuser. So I said, “It’s okay, he is dead, isn’t he?” [husky American accent] “Yes, he’s very dead.” So I put this in my interview with her. And then when it came out, guess what? They had taken it out. And they had something really weird in there, like, so Andrea went up to Ginsberg and she said, “I think you’re horrible,” and he said, “Well why, is it because of the legislation?” And I then said, “Well, yes, because you’re foul.” [laughter] And he said, “Listen to me, the Right want to put me in prison,” and she said, “Well, actually I’ve got a bit more imagination than that, I want you dead.”

The true story is that Ginsberg was a child abuser, a child rapist, and Andrea has so eloquently written about it in Heartbreak, and it really would I’m sure, wherever Andrea is, thrill her if you could buy it and enjoy all of it, not just that section.

http://feminist-reprise.org/library/resistance-strategy-and-struggle/julie-bindel-speaks-on-myths-about-andrea-dworkin/

I know now how she must’ve felt learning about Ginsberg’s pedophilia. I already went through this years ago with Alex but I will never get used to the feeling of betrayal, or the sense that betrayal is lurking everywhere and that I cannot even trust the art I look to for inspiration or consolation. That the male artists I admire will all turn out to be Roman Polanski childfuckers in the end. That they are so evil and Machiavellian and compartmentalized that they can rationalize the raping of children on the one hand and still think of themselves as Social Justice Warriors and feminists on the other. That they will lie to everyone straight faced about being feminists while secretly wanting to rape little girls, using feminism as a cover to do so. That I will begin to see all men like this. I thought you were only joking when you remarked on one of your Livestreams that you were eyeing the two Japanese girls across the street from your house. I see now you weren’t joking at all. I thought you told your Livestream followers to go and see the Louis Theroux documentary about the pedophiles because you thought it was just an interesting documentary. Now I see there’s something else behind it, there is a pattern of gradually revealing more and more what you are. You might as well be asking your followers to download Maladolescenza like Alexander did. I caught him doing that on Facebook and that’s when I realized what he was. And you, you too are an apologist of predators and monsters which makes you too a monster in my eyes.

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I know that no one is reading these blog entries right now, but maybe one day, maybe when it’s already too late and you’ve already caused harm to many, someone trying to make sense of what happened will see this and they will realize whom they’ve let into the hen house. I know you will get more and more famous like Milo Yiannopoulos, and once you’re at the peak of your performance, maybe someone will come over here, see how I posted about your pedophilia apologetics when no one was watching and proceed to expose you like Kevin Logan did with Milo. Kevin’s video about Milo was ignored at first but it was picked up eventually and it was that little video everyone had overlooked and almost no one had bothered to watch that was finally seen by millions and thus became Milo’s downfall. All I can do right is document what I have found: the face of male feminism in the 21st century is a bedroom racist pedophilia apologist MDMA punk of a drunk in a dress.

So wie damals, als er mit einem Tor-Entwickler darüber scherzte, welche Sexspielzeuge Appelbaum dessen Tochter empfehlen würde.

Did you think I was exaggerating when I wrote that I saw another Jacob Appelbaum in the making in you? You are all the same. Monsters in my eyes.

I hated Alexander over this song once I realized what it was about, I literally couldn’t listen to it anymore, but this disgusting sickening song of his is the only thing that calms me down somewhat lest I become completely consumed by my sense of betrayal and rage.

Wounds upon her unfathomable left hand
Wounds upon your stupid face

Smaller
Younger
More tender
Your children feed her on a daily basis
She keeps a hero within her heart
An iron trap at the edge of her penis
She grinds up fresh meat on the Sunday
Sunday is the day of the black blood
Say a prayer for the Silent one
And she will say a prayer for you in return

Redder
Hairier
Harder
Upon encountering you it turns horrific
Incensed at the crosses with the four fleshy entrances
Incensed at the cunning swastikas that whip it up mercilessly
Froth from her mouth falls upon your chest
And upon your ass
Do you like to get assfucked
Or are you trying to get punished
Or are you trying to demand the attention of Gawd
Her hands were choking you by the neck
And your mouth
She covered your mouth
She whispered
Are you trying to escape
Or were you trying to demand the attention of Gawd

 

 

2:16:02 Do you like pegging? Do you wanna peg me? I liked being pegged! Because it’s the most unnatural of all sexual act. Especially if it’s a cis woman pegging a cis man. Because you have a perfectly good vagina, and a perfectly good penis in a room, but instead of using those things for their Gawd-intended purpose, you’re like “Naaw, I don’t wannaw”. Instead I want the person with a vagina to put on a fake penis and fuck the person with a penis in the asshole, and that’s amazing to me. Because it’s like a big “Fuck you Gawd! I don’t play by your Gawddamn rules. I’ll make my own Gawddamn rules, Gawddamnit!”. This is way too much talking, I’m gonna stop talking, I’m just gonna talk a little less. Gawd is dead and we have pegged him, agreed, agreed.” 

 

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το Γρύλισμα takes on many different forms respective to the person it attaches itself to.

The following blog entry is pure fiction and bears no relationship to existing people or events.

In Bed With Mr. V (short story)
by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2015 all rights reserved

The Blogger was lying in bed with mr V., a former Greek Minister of Finances and his hot blonde wife who was already fast asleep on his manly chest. The Blogger liked getting herself stuck between sweaty couples. The smell there was something else. Mr. V kisses his wife on her forehead.

“I haven’t fucked like this since I became Minister of Finances.” says mr. V. “Θεε μου, I really needed that.”.

“You know,” says the Blogger, “There are 11 000 000 people ready to fuck you, your wife and your friend Alex in gratitude of your service to the country.”. Mr V. smiles contently. “What will you do next? Besides fucking them all, that is?”
“I will go back to teaching.”
“Harvard?” asks the Blogger.
“No, I don’t want to run into George again.”
“But George is in the social studies department. Economics is another department at the other side of the campus.”, points out the Blogger.
“I’ve been there before, Harvard is a small world, a village of political power within an academic village.”. Mr. V reaches out to carress the Blogger’s hairy beaver, but the beaver snaps at his hand and crawls back into the river where it swims away in disgust. With the beaver out of the way, mr. V reaches between the legs of the Blogger. Her lips are sealed tight. Straight into her eyes he sees with no smile. She looks back with a “don’t even try, professor” stare. He smiles ironically and caresses the Blogger’s X-legs.

“Who else had the privilege of sharing the bed with you?” she insists.
“Don’t tell anyone…” says mr. V and whispers into her ear: “Fidel.”
“THE CUBAN?!”
“Shhh!” hushes mr. V. “No, no, no another minister of finances.”.
“Wow, you and Zoe and Alex are really out to fuck whomever you can lay your hands on, aren’t you?”. The Blogger raises an eyebrow, then moves herself between the legs of mr. V, who helpfully makes space for her.
“Do you know what it’s like to be fucked in the mouth every day by the likes of Angela, Jeroen, Martin, Mario, Wolfgang? Euromeeting upon euromeeting of them lining up to fuck you. I won’t even go into the the psycho-dynamics of all-night sessions to manufacture agreement.”
“As of tonight, I will know what it’s like to be fucked in the mouth by the former Greek minister of finances.”, thinks the Blogger to herself as she unrolls the condom.
“I’ve never been fucked in the mouth by Germans.”, admits the Blogger in a rare moment of personal honesty. “I only know what it’s like to be raped every day in the mouth by Americans and the Dutch.”. 
Staring down at the unrolled condom she thinks to herself, “I’m surprised I can still do this.”.
Mr. V caresses her hair. With every deep sigh getting deeper and deeper, mr. V releases το Γρυλισμα from within himself. The political animal.
Looking down at the Blogger it laughs. “If only the professional S&M pornographer were still here to see you like this…”.
“I never thought I’d see you here.”. says the Blogger from between the legs of mr. V. “If he were still here to see me like this he’d film it and demand that I sign away my rights on a release form. Because surely no one has ever seen a Greek woman getting fucked in the mouth by her political representatives. Where were you all these years? Hiding under a rock?”

The Blogger senses the flesh of the rockhardon of mr. V in her mouth. The condom’s ripped. Shocked, she pulls her mouth up and away from the disaster scene as fast as she can, minimizing skin contact. Nevertheless, she is left with that semi-rotten egg taste on her tongue that can only mean one thing. She looks up, expecting to see το Γρυλισμα laughing at her, but it is gone.
“Where are you?” she demands angrily.
“Here, here!” says το Γρυλισμα from within her mouth.
The Blogger looks down and sees a brand new unripped condom pointing at her in anticipation.
“FUCKER!” she shouts and spits a mouthful of το Γρυλισμα on the floor next to the bed.
“Don’t ever freak me out like that!” she barks as το Γρυλισμα laughs. “You only play safe?”
“We’re all doomed to oblivion, there is no such thing as safety so I only play it safe.”, says the Blogger, and resumes her civic responsibility as a Greek woman somewhere between the legs of the former Greek minister of finances and his wife.

Το Γρυλισμα nestles itself behind the Blogger’s butt and pulls her legs slightly appart. The Blogger’s pussy hisses at him like a cat. Alarmed, the Blogger looks up and over her shoulder. “You are not gonna do that!”, she warns.
“I just want to have a good look at this Greek mess unfolding before me.”, says το Γρυλισμα running one of its slimy tentacles between the folds.
“Oh no, it’s trying to do that manga ferries thing again.”, thinks the Blogger to herself, and το Γρυλισμα reading her thoughts agrees.
“When a Greek girl says no she means NO!”, hisses the pussy again. Tο Γρυλισμα backs off and the Blogger goes back to minding mr. V.
Licking it’s one lucky tentacle, το Γρυλισμα “mmm!”-s appreciatively. “You taste pretty sweet for such a sour little Greek cunt.”
“It’s not me, it’s the vegan food…”, admits the Blogger apologetically. “I try to lay off the vegan food, I try to eat as many σουβλακια as I humanly can, but… oh, it’s so bad, you can taste it off of me.”. To exculpate herself, she offers: “Meat is so expensive right now, and has become so scarce with the price control embargoes…”.
Το Γρυλισμα was about to suggest that they take the Midnight Meat Train together sometime for a decent meal, but it is once again distracted by the folds, thinking of kusudama and ferries.

The Blogger looks up, and there she is. It’s her. The white worker’s uniform, the golden Xian Orthodox cross on a chain, the Nihon-koku flag with the black sun. Silent Zachary, Szach for short, editor and chief photographer of the dreaded Black Blood publication, was standing there at the head of the bed, aiming her camera straight at the Blogger. The Blogger with a condom in her mouth, looking up at Zachary, realizing there’s no way out of this one. “You’d make a good centerfold for the next issue.”, smirks Szach and presses the button on her camera, firing a sure shot.

The Blogger wakes up screaming.

References

Silent Zachary and Το Γρυλισμα appear courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.

Silent Zacharia is a character from the book Black Blood by Alexander Voulgaris.

 

The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and no relation to existing people or events is implied.

Wrong film (short story)
by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2014 all rights reserved

The blogger looks down at the charcoaled remnants of the professional S&M pornographer. After all this time she can’t resist taking a swift boot to whatever is left of his face, which isn’t much. The head dissolves upon impact and her foot passes right through the mount of ashes suggesting a face she once knew. “Ο ανθρωπος είναι νεκρός. Disgusting in life, even more so in death.”, murmurs the blogger as she tries to dust off the ashes from her shoe.

Το Γρύλισμα stands next to her. “What are you feeling now?” she asks. “That’s such a girly question!”, it cackles. “It’s like watching your house burn to the ground, but knowing it had to happen. This house was built on rotten foundations. The stove was broken down, it had been broken ever since they prepped that philosophical dinner where faggots were talking poetry as they got robbed by a dude with a black stocking over his head. I warned him, one day that stove will explode and there will be a huge fire, I knew it would. This is what happens when you screw your handyman like a homo instead of letting him fix the GawdDamned stove.”.

Mission accomplished, or? “I thought the two of you were closer than close.”, says the blogger, the suspicion in her voice dripping like foam from her mouth upon your chest, like the blood still dripping down her leg from her injured knee when she tripped and fell over the cables.
“He wouldn’t have it any other way.”, shrugs το Γρύλισμα. “Blogger, tell me honestly, did you really hate him? He always referred to you as his dedicated hate-blogger, but were you? Was it hate that drove you to blog as hard as you did?”
“It’s hard to hate someone that talented, but I try.”, the blogger answers monotonously. “I never let my love of art get in the way of my ethics. It’s hard sometimes, but I try, I do my best.”. Unexpectedly she jumps up and lands right in the middle of the charcoaled body. She continues to stomp up and down until there is nothing left but a small pile of ashes and a huge cloud of dust which will follow the blogger around everywhere she goes for the rest of her life.

She makes a paper cone out of an old newspaper center-fold, gathers the ashes, buys herself an old NASA spacerocket at Depression Era knockdown prices and shoots the ashes into space. “Now you are stardust, just as you were before, όλα τα έργα που δεν έγιναν αλλά θεάθηκαν εκστατικά μέσα στην έκρηξη της Ύπαρξης.”, says the blogger quoting Τορνέ, the part of his manifesto that was curiously not quoted on the wall of the Thessaloniki Cinema Museum, as she watches the rocket with his ashes disappear past the strattosphere.

“What are you going to do next?”, she asks το Γρύλισμα.
“Same as before. There’s always a frustrated film-maker somewhere with no pop in his life waiting for me to pop up. I will be with him soon, wherever he is. Soon soon soon all my painful and miserable men, smiling while you’re sleeping. Are you occupied tonight, blogger?”
“Pretty please!”. The blogger rolls her eyes. “I am always preoccupied. According to Fox News at any given time I am stalking 15 people simultaneously I didn’t even know I was stalking. I am even more preoccupied and occupied than I myself can perceive myself to be.”.
“You stalk 15 people? That’s nothing. I once kept 15 million people wide awake through the night.” brags το Γρύλισμα.
“You did?!”, the blogger sounds genuinely surprised now. “When did that happen?”
“When they were dropping bombs on the Netherlands. It was a long time ago but I remember it like was yesterday. No one got any sleep that night.”.
The blogger turns around to face το Γρύλισμα. “I meant to ask you, what did you do with the Cronenbergian flies buzzing around you? Those things are huge. How did you manage the situation?”
“Oh, I just kept my mouth open for a while and they flew right inside.”. The blogger turns the other way and throws up.
“I must say, το Γρύλισμα,”, says the blogger, wiping her mouth from having just vomitted her breakfast, “you’re really good at playing dead only to shut your stinking fly-trap. Did he ever cast you in one of his movies?”
“And you are really good at playing the bitch, blogger.”, says το Γρύλισμα. The b-word raises the hair in the back of her neck. Το Γρύλισμα notices and laughs. She blushes, or does she go red with anger? Hard to tell with the blogger. “But to answer your question: no, he never did.”.
“Why not?”.
“He said I was invisible. He said I could not be captured onto film.”. The blogger blinks, twice. She can see το Γρύλισμα clearly and vividly standing there before her and hence doesn’t understand how something so obvious could ever be invisible to virtually everyone else.
“I wish I was invisible.” says the blogger wistfully. “Imagine all the work I could get done if I were.”.

“What were those dead girls hanging from the ceiling that I saw?”, she asks. “Was he making snuff movies?”.
“Nope. He was trying to develop a type of film made from human entrails, a film so sensitive it captures everything invisible, even ghosts and darkmatter. He gutted the girls you saw for their entrails to make the film roll.”.
Realizing now what she had been a witness to the blogger looks even more pale and anemic than usual. “He was wasting all those human lives just to capture things like you onto film? He was crazy enough to sacrifice actual human beings in his quest to make the invisible visible?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”, says το Γρύλισμα with barely concealed pride. “But it was of no use. It was always the wrong film.”
“Oh, there is certainly something very wrong with this picture.”, says the blogger, “I just don’t think it’s the film.”.

The blogger plunges her gauntlet inside her throat and pulls out her heart through her mouth. She lays it before το Γρύλισμα as a token of gratitude. The heart is hard as a rock and cold enough to burn anyone reaching out to touch it. Το Γρύλισμα, coated with teflon for the occasion, tries to pick up the heart but can’t; it’s heavier than anything it has ever had to lift before. “I never cared much about losing my innocence.”, says the blogger. “It’s the vital organs I’m worried about.”.
“À Propos,” says το Γρύλισμα, “you knew his wife and daughter were still inside when the stove went off, didn’t you?”
The blogger glares. “I will never have a husband or a child, do you think I give a flying fuck about a pedophile patriarch who, through nothing other than sheer stupidity all of his own, ended it all by blowing himself up together with his enabling Stockholm Syndrome suffering woman and their bastard offspring? It’s not my fault the dumbass porno creep ran inside the burning building in order to save them, knowing it was futile. I want to see anything that remotely reeks of content bourgeois domesticity serving as a front for unimaginable abuse destroyed exactly like this. All of these happy content government funded bourgie families, all these snotty hipster artists and their happy artsy fartsy families, they are all dancing on the corposes of dead brown children in the 3rd world. Do you know how many brown children have to die in the third world so these bastards can raise one of their precious little white children to grow up to be another pedophile childfucker, so they can perpetrate the cycle of abuse and greed?”.

The blogger casts her angry gaze down, turns around and walks away disappearing behind a huge cloud of dust trailing behind her. Το Γρύλισμα stays behind, vainly trying to disgest her chewy heart.

— the end.

References:

Various songs, promos and Facebook entries by The Boy.

το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.

The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction. The pictures are meant to illustrate a fictional story. No relation to existing people or events is implied.

 

Project Καλημερα, καθε μερα

by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou

(c) 2014 all rights reserved

All pictures by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou

 

Project Καλημερα

Project Καλημερα

The blogger pays a visit to settle an old bill… never settle with love, lawsuits, law enforcement, lies or letters what you can settle with an axe…

 

Project Καλημερα, καθε μερα

Project Καλημερα, καθε μερα

“Καλήμερα μαλάκα. Θυμάσαι πως με γάμησες από πίσω στημένη πάνω από την πολυθρόνα του Ιάσονα στο σαλόνι του όταν έλειπε και ήρθα να σε επισκεφτώ;”, she says and lifts her axe high in the air… after the bill is settled she continues, talking to herself now. “Σου έλεγα πως κανένας δεν με γάμησε από πίσω όπως με γαμούσες εσύ. Είχες ξυρίσει τον πούτσο σου και ένιωθα τις τρίχες σου να με τσιμπάνε ενώ με γαμούσες. I was wearing the ‘alleged’ black shirt you had sent me, the one you would no longer wear because of one ‘alleged’ tiny little white glue drop of a cum stain on the sleeve. Πριν το γαμήσι έβαλες τα χέρια σου κάτω από την μπλούζα σου που την φορούσα για να μου χουφτώσεις τα βυζιά. Σε τι στο διάολο χρησιμεύει το άχρηστο μυαλό σου όταν δεν θυμάσαι πια σημαντικές λεπτομέρειες σαν αυτές; Εσύ δεν μου έγραψες, ‘I remember everything’; Κάθε μέρα λαχταρούσα να περάσω να σου πω μια καλημέρα όπως σου αξιζει.Καλήμερα λοιπόν, καθίκι. Καλήμερα.”. She sees herself reflected in the pool of blood spreading out before her. Staring at her reflection in the pool she realizes it’s το Γρύλισμα staring up at her. She freezes. Το Γρύλισμα knows about Project Καλημερα. The Armenian neighbour has already called 911, staring anxiously at the carnage from his living room window, phone in hand, pacing about. In a fit of anger the blogger throws her axe through the neighbour’s window, smashing the glass and almost hitting his dog, shouting “Choratsats ookhti poots peraned kaknem!”. The Armenian neighbour drops his phone and ducks. The blogger jumps into the pool of blood and disappears.

As she’s sliding down the blood stream, following το Γρύλισμα on their way to safety, she asks, “How did you do with that bloodsucker Αλβάνι χαϊβάνι; Εκείνο το Αλβάνι πολύ με περιτριγύριζε.”.

“Oh, I hardly had to do her,” says το Γρύλισμα, running its tongue along the wall of the bloodvessel to lap up the cholesterol as it slides along, “I whistled, she turned around, and upon seeing her own shadow she died on the spot. Bloodsuckers like her generally die upon seeing their own shadow. Kills them instantly.”.

The blogger closes her eyes and lets out a sigh of relief. “Της άξιζε ένα καλό καλήμέρα. Καλήμέρα εφιάλτη. Καλήμέρα τρομοκράτη. Καλήμέρα κάθε μέρα.”.

“This cholesterol is pornographically delicious”, says το Γρύλισμα, smacking its fat lips. “People would stop watching their cholesterol. They should watch more S&M pornography”.

“They should watch their backs.”, thinks the blogger to herself. “Every morning could be a good morning.”.

 

References:

 

Κάθε μέρα ονειρεύομαι να παίρνω το τσεκούρι μου και να βγαίνω στο δρόμο.

Να σας χτυπάω δυνατά. Και να σας διαλύω.

Να εξαφανίζω επιτέλους τους εφιάλτες μου. Τους τρομοκράτες μου.

 

Various song lyrics and Facebook entries by The Boy.

 

το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.

 

The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and no relation to existing people or events is implied.

Skeleton key: Hidden place part 1
by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2014 all rights reserved

The blogger stands outside the giant hermetically sealed castledoor of your HideYourFaceBook ChildFuckerBook account. The door reaches all the way up to the sky and beyond, the blogger looks tiny standing there before the door looking up at the lock. “Coward.”, she mutters. She pulls out her skeleton key, tries it for a bit on the lock, throws it away. She walks around to the other side of the door, and it’s the exact same door that was on the other side. “Just like in the Neverending Story… Can’t you have one original thought of your own once in a blue moon?”.

Tο Γρύλισμα approaches the blogger in the form of a three-headed cerberus, looking even more awful and disturbing in its ancient Greek form than it does in its contemporary form. “I’m hungry. You. You always got food.”, it demands from the blogger, grinning to show its sharp teeth. The blogger grins back. Her crooked teeth are even more awful than το Γρύλισμα’s, causing it to back off. “He left us both outside because he is conceiving right now and cannot be disturbed.”, explains το Γρύλισμα. “All I gotta do is wait for him to open the door and he will let me back inside. He cannot do without me. You on the other hand,”, 3 pairs of eyes stare the blogger up and down bemused, “you are going to have to suck up to him really hard for him to ever let you in.”

“There is nothing to suck up to. Toten Hosen.” remarks the blogger, wisely and well-informed. “The point is not for me to get inside, the point is to get him to come outside.”

“Do you really think he is just gonna come out and play?” asks το Γρύλισμα incredulously. “Come out and play, come out and play.”, echo the other two ugly heads in unison.

“If I can get him to lock himself inside because of my blogging, I can get him to come out.” says the blogger confidently.

“Who taught you these clever tricks, anyway?”

“I once read it in the .sig of a hacker: ‘You can take down your opponent by studying the methods he uses to fight you.’.”

“And what method is being used here, miss smartass?”

The blogger stares up at the door. “Silence is merely resistance through other means.”, is her cryptic answer.

And then she waits. And waits and waits. To keep herself busy while waiting she weaves together short stories, nightmarish, incomprehensible and chaotic, the way she likes it, not caring whether anyone else does.

The door opens, κάποιου η πόρτα θα ‘ναι ανοιχτή. The blogger turns her back at it, she’s too busy making up stories to care. Just as το Γρύλισμα approaches to enter, she reaches out with her gauntlet, grabs it and snaps its neck with her crooked teeth. She can see the bone protruding from the broken neck, but she doesn’t have much time. Using an old knife the blogger quickly skins το Γρύλισμα and dresses herself up with its fur. She herself is now the multi-headed cerberus hellhound, and thus she sneaks inside undisturbed.

“Never turn yourself into a dog, shapeshifter. Dogs are such stupid animals. A three-headed dog only makes you thrice as stupid.”. The blogger hates dogs, but she is a good actress and plays the part well, because she has a mission to fulfill and will go down on all fours to get the job done if she has to. One woman, one blog, one mission.

“Hey there bitch!”, she hears the professional S&M pornographer barking at her in the distance, “Let’s go outside for a walk. Bitch, come here! HERE BITCH!”

“Bitch…”. The blogger bites all three of her tongues. It’s that term that is the most triggering for her, the term for which there is no equivalent for men. “That’s the type of language you use behind closed doors, eh? You locked me out so you could talk like this and run your filthy mouth all day where I can’t see you. You’ll be so sorry the moment we step outside.”, she vows.

The blogger notices something dripping from above and looks up. Hanging from the ceiling, which is nearly invisible in the far distance, are countless of human forms. Is it a Japanese Butoh performance she walked into? No, it’s the gutted corpses of naked pre-pubescent girls hung out to dry in the upper currents. Imagine, “Περιμένω να δω σε κάποιο νεαρό κορίτσι το πρόσωπο της φίλης μου που κρεμάστηκε στα 17 της”. Imagine that, times innumerable, everywhere you look, again and again. The blogger remembers the words well: “αν δεν το ταϊζω γυμνά κορίτσια τρεις φορές τη μέρα θα με ρίξει σε κατατονία”. She might end up catatonic herself if she keeps looking up at all the dead girls. Κοίτα ψηλά μοιραίε αντίκρισε την όψη της ιστορίας, all of us girls have been dead for so long. The blogger, still reeling, has a quick look around the room. The yellow wallpaper is covered with a nauseating hand drawn pattern of stars&stripes and cycles of greed. There is a huge poster of 22-year-old Elliot Rodger with the words “INCEL HERO” underneath. The blogger catches herself before she can gasp for air.

She runs away and seeks refuge in another room. There she finds a half naked woman drawing sperm-like figures in pink and white onto the yellow wallpaper. The woman has clearly been there for a while, she has managed to cover a good portion of the wall she is working on but she still has a long way to go to cover the remaining wall and the rest of the room. The woman has bags under her eyes, a stoned look that is more fatigue than intoxication and dyed black hair. She only wears a tight shirt with the letters “VF” on the back.

“VF, does that stand for VERY FUCKED?”, asks the blogger staring at the woman’s back trying not to look down at her bare naked ass. “Or rather VAIN&FRIVOLOUS? VETERAN FASTFOOD? VEGAN FASCISM?”.

“It stands for ViFi, that’s my name.”, answers the woman quietly.

“What kind of a fucking name is that?”, scoffs the blogger. “Fifi, that’s a name you give to a dog.”

“It’s a name given out of love.”, insists ViFi. “Οι άνθρωποι δεν αγαπούν τα σκυλάκια τους;”.

The blogger raises all three pairs of her eyebrows at such infantile morosity. “Given how their love puppies generally turn out, I honestly wonder.”. There is no point in arguing with people who are this morose so the blogger walks out of the semen-covered room.

The barking starts again. “Look at me, bitch. LOOK UP AT ME WHEN I AM TALKING TO YOU, BITCH. We’re going outside now.”. The professional S&M pornographer steps outside, the blogger follows him like a dog on a leash. He smells something weird, looks down and notices the skinned decomposing carcass of το Γρύλισμα just outside the door, a cloud of huge Cronenbergian flies buzzing over it. “WTF?!” he shouts. He instinctively turns over to his cerberus for protection, but the blogger has already disappeared inside, throwing the giant door shut behind her.

“Dumbass porno creep. A good hacker always closes the doors behind them.”, she smirks as she discards the cerberus pelt from her back. She was a blogger in a bitch’s fur clothing and it worked. She notices now she is covered all over with the blood of το Γρύλισμα. “How does that nasty thing always manage to get blood on me?”. She sighs and pulls out a paper napkin from her leather bag.

(to be continued)

References:

“The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

All of us girls have been dead for so long”, excerpts from the novel ‘Pussy King of the Pirates’ by Kathy Acker.

Various song lyrics and Facebook entries by The Boy.

το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.

 

The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and bears no relation to existing people or events.

απορρίμματ(IK)α
by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2014 all rights reserved

The girl talks non-stop. The way το Γρύλισμα does whenever you forget to go to bed early, turning into a pyromaniac who sets your brain on fire with matches like it’s a wet sock soaked in petrol. This girl doesn’t want to be an S&M performer, she wants to be a serious stage actress undergoing an endurance test. Το σώμα της ανταποκρινόταν, αλλά αντλούσε την ικανοποίηση που παίρνεις όταν επιστρέφεις βιβλία στην βιβλιοθήκη. You can tell from the types of questions she is asking, which are bursting out of her like a geiser. Another one of those art school art sluts who isn’t a slut but tries so hard to be one. What a pain in the ass. Not in the nuts because you have none, το Γρύλισμα is the nutcracker from the Balanchine ballet who cracked yours a long time ago, that being one of the reasons you went crackers and stayed that way. You told her you wanted her to act like the girl in your legendary pink movie,  or was that your blue movie? She did her homework and downloaded the torrent you put online for people to download and studied it carefully like a good little stage actress of a theater student. Her performance of the little girl was uncanny, but you never expected this barrage of questions to follow. She wants to talk about things like character development and discussing the relationships between the characters, all these things that give you the willies in absence of a real willie.

“Why is he so extreme about pedophilia? Is it because of a personal inadequacy? Was he just a very horny kid himself, did he want to fuck adults, and was he always very disappointed that adults didn’t want to fuck him? Does he feel sexually invalidated because of that experience, adults turning down his advances? Does he trace his body dysmorphic disorder back to those experiences of being sexually turned down as a child? Is this extreme pedophilia-advocacy his way of saying: “Fuck child-abuse, I sincerely desperately wanted to get fucked at that age and none of you would fuck me, you made me feel ugly and disgusted with myself over how I felt, none of you ever even looked my way, I ended up hating my own body and covering up my body so as not to be seen.”? Does he trace his inferiority complex back to not getting fucked as a child despite wanting to? Does he want to use his movies to validate other children who felt the same way he did growing up, and is this the reason he is willing to risk his career and his own sanity even to make such movies? Did he ever have a frank discussion with her? I wanted your character to kiss mine at the end, but society wouldn’t let me so I didn’t stage the kiss. Would you be angry with me if I did? Would you have let me?”

The questions kept coming and coming and she wasn’t cuming. “Κάτι δεν πάει καλά εδώ.”, you say, trying to hide your exasperation behind a wall of impecable professionalism. She protests. She says she was willing to do scenes without the safeword just for you. That’s how much she wanted to work with you. How did you end up with this girl on your set again again? She was extremely youthful. The only reason. These girls go into theatre school and emerge 10 years older than they really are. Such a waste. You once took in a smack junkie who was cruising bars and after you had your way with her she emerged as a seasoned arthouse actress. No one needs to go to theater school to learn how to act. All it does is turn girls into pretentious little whores who aren’t even real whores.

You give her the stare, the kind of look that makes girls unravel before you, but she has been to theatre school and is used to hard stares, so she is unaffected.

“Τι σε φοβίζει πραγματικά;”, you ask her.

“H εγκυμοσύνη.”, she says. “Φοβάμαι το σπέρμα. Πάντα φοβόμουνα την ζωή την ίδια. Life was supposed to be fun. Birth is not an option. Giving birth to a blind and hairy little child… This is not how i was supposed to be.”

That was it. The danger-word, σπέρμα. Το Γρύλισμα bursts out of your stomach like a cannonball flying right through you and crawls inside her. Puffs her up. There is no time for either one of you to panic or get terrified, you might as well have taken a shovel to her back and smashed her lower spine in the spot under the spotlights your friend has set up for you. As she swells up within seconds she collapses under her weight, her legs giving away underneath her. “Τι τρέχει;”, you ask innocently, “Weren’t you the girl who likes Glee? Did you watch the episode where Brittany is giving birth singing Bohemian Rapsody? You’ll be singing like that just shortly my dear.”. Her face contorted, the longer you stare at her face the further and further you disappear into the depths of your own belljar. Sounds become ever more distant until you hear nothing but your inner voice screaming inside of you like a drill-sargeant: “OUTOUTOUT”, but το Γρύλισμα is not responding. It is just not coming out. Did it suffocate and die inside this girl? Oh, let it be true. You point to a mirror to the right of the girl, she is not looking but you tell her, “I wanted you to look more like this during the shoot. When something is inside you, you have it within you. Εξίσου σημαντικό το τι έχει μέσα του ήδη ο καθένας.”. The girl levitates from the floor, you can’t even see her body anymore, all you see is a giant flesh-coloured ballon filling up the room. Shortly you’ll be able tie a basket underneath her and fly away from this hellhole. Girls have always been your favourite means of escape.

A hand emerges from her mouth, then another, many more follow. “I just wanted my baby to be pretty. Turned out to be a monster with no eyes but lots of hands.”. It is such a disappointment. Not that you mind seeing your actress inflated and deflated, torn apart and looking 50 years older within seconds. For a moment you were sure το Γρύλισμα was gone inside her, that the monkey on your back was gone for good. No such luck for you, but hey, were you ever that lucky? “Μάλλον δεν θα μαι και στα καλύτερα μου, το οποίο όταν μιλάμε για μένα είναι λίγο πιο αστείο απ’ ότι συνήθως γιατί ποτέ δεν με θυμάμαι καλά.”, you concede.

The girl looks up at you with her ancient face. “Σου φαίνεται τόσο παράξενο ότι αρκετές γυναίκες απλά δεν θέλουν οικογενεια η παιδιά και απλώς εκβιάζονται συναισθηματικα η οικονομικά από την κοινωνία να μπλεχτούν σε οικογενειακες καταστάσεις; Κι’ ότι εάν ειχαν την άνεση, ούτε οικογενεια, ούτε παιδιά θα έκαναν;”

A set of rhetorical questions that fortunately require no answer from you.

-Κορίτσι, γιατί φοράς ακόμα την μάσκα; Τελειώσαμε το γύρισμα για σήμερα.
-Για να μη βλέπεις το γέρικο πρόσωπο μου, σκηνοθέτη σαδιστή.
Οι άντρες γαμάνε τις γυναίκες για να βιάζουν μετά τις κόρες τους.

References:

The Pink Movie. “A porn director try to make his rekviem,an absolute love film !!(xrated)”. http://www.geocities.ws/karacult-ldf/pink.htm

Ντανιελ Μπεργκνερ. Τι θέλουν οι γυναίκες; Περιπέτειες στην επιστήμη της γυναικείας επιθυμίας.

My Life: Isadora Duncan (The autobiography of Isadora Duncan. 1927.)

Various song lyrics and Facebook entries by The Boy.

το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.

Note:

απορρίμματ(IK)α is Efthimianese for “Am I trash?”

The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and bears no relation to existing people or events.

Το Γρύλισμα και η Στριγκλιά Νίκης 

by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou

(c) 2014 all rights reserved

Η Στριγκλιά Νίκης escaped from the mouth of a girl getting spanked on your set to the song “Try a little tenderness” by Cassia Eller. She was enacting an RPG age-play scenario about a mother named Nike, after the popular brand of running shoes, and her recalcitrant son Leuter Is. Your dad’s lawyer contacted the Nike Inc. sponsorship department for a lucrative and mutually beneficial sponsorship deal, curiously Nike Inc. refused to sponsor your movie despite the female lead who was named after the brand and willing to wear the shoes for the duration of the movie with several ECUs inserted throughout the feature to visibly showcase the Nike Inc. swoosh logo. Nike Inc.’s lawyer talking to your dad’s lawyer argued that the Nike brand is a family brand and they did not want to have their brand associated with S&M age-play pornography. “Leuter” is the Dutch word for “dick”, so the name of Nike’s son, “Leuter Is”, was basically a clever Dutchism for the phrase “He’s a dick”. You thank Paul Verhoeven for that one, who, when asked why he picked Rutger Hauer as the male lead in his famous film Turks Fruit, had answered: “Omdat-ie een leuter is.”. Later Paul Verhoeven claimed he was misquoted and that his actual statement was: “Omdat-ie zo’n kleuter is.”, supposedly referring to Rutger Hauer’s playful child-like qualities and energy as an actor, but the misquote had already become one for the film history books. Fortunately no one had cracked any inappropriate jokes yet about “een kleuter op je leuter is leuker neuken”, because you are a professional S&M pornographer and that type of stuff is something you cannot be associated with.

Η Στριγκλιά Νίκης echoed across the room, and immediately το Γρύλισμα burst out of your head like Zeus giving birth to Athena and chased after her, bouncing up and down and off the walls like a couple of tennis balls. You never thought το Γρύλισμα could pair up with anything audible, but the combination of το Γρύλισμα and η Στριγκλιά Νίκης was a perfect match, perfect pitch too. It was kind of endearing the way it tried to keep up with her, but she was always one beat ahead of το Γρύλισμα following right behind her. She was so fast, she broke the soundbarrier. So into herself she was, she didn’t even seem to notice το Γρύλισμα was still after her, she went about her business bouncing around the room like it was the most natural thing in the world. As a professional S&M pornographer you had seen everything, but even you marveled at the beauty of a girl releasing such a Στριγκλιά Νίκης deep from within her. You were pretty sure such things only happened on an S&M film-set and nowhere else on the planet. Your business instinct told you this was a great opportunity, so you pulled out your best camera to capture the moment but neither you or your best camera were fast enough. You, your camera and το Γρύλισμα all looked like fools chasing after something so primal and free. Η Στριγκλιά Νίκης was already deep inside your ears, past your ear-drums, moving through your body like a tidal wave. How very different a sensation this was from το Γρύλισμα biting and scratching and kicking and pulling its way through you. Feeling the Στριγκλιά Νίκης within you was unlike any sound you had ever experienced before. She escaped from the tip of your toes, stood one instant before you to have one last good look at you and said, “You are the saddest wanker I have ever seen in my entire life”, and then she was gone.

Nothing could console το Γρύλισμα, who was heartbroken over the loss of its great love, η Στριγκλιά Νίκης. You recorded a whole record full of sad love songs to console το Γρύλισμα, several of your female Facebook followers committed suicide as a result of that record, others went blind with impacted tearducts, but το Γρύλισμα was so overcome with desperate heart-ache, it grew ever more violent by the day. For the first time in your life your girlfriend could actually see the bruises on your body that το Γρύλισμα caused inside you while throwing another temper tantrum. “Χάθηκε η Στριγκλιά Νίκης…”, it mumbled over and over. You never thought you would see το Γρύλισμα cry, but crying it did and you had to rock it to sleep every night like a weeping infant as it soaked your bed wet, its tears spilling out of your thick black hairy armpits like cascades. Your revolutionary lullaby το Νήμα was the only song that would calm down το Γρύλισμα to the point where it could rest, and you could finally sleep.

One by one a thousand nights now stars extinguish
Gods provoking us to seek illumination lost
Come a time for all manner of excuses
Where was love when I was just a little boy
It’s lost

Tired, exhausted and bruised all over, you would sit behind your pianodrum and sing:

Butterflies will flutter over
The resting places of our dead
Carved into their hands forever
The commandments of every land
In a secret garden flowers blossom
Fertilized by sweat and tears
And this hungry infant shall be nourished
When the springtime reappears
Carcasses will sing caresses
Of a secret illicit love
When our enemies arrive they’ll measure
Weight up every final bunch
A hope I had of hope now
Traveling away into the void
And the thread you are persuing has
It has been severed long ago
Time to time
I’d feel something real inside

Tο Γρύλισμα slept restlessly τυλιγμένο γύρω απ’τον λαιμό σου like a huge python smothering you. It was actually hugging itself the way you used to hug yourself whenever you felt alone, back in the days when you were alone and lonely. You knew that desolate feeling from your own experience, so you allowed it to coil tighter and tighter around itself, until one night it wrapped itself too tight and broke your neck. You had to walk around with a neckbrace for some while, and joked about your predicament: “I finally look like the characters in Cronenberg’s Crash!”. Tο Γρύλισμα was too depressed to laugh at you silly jokes.

One night as you sat behind your pianodrum to sing the revolutionary lullaby again,

Everybody keeps a dream inside their heart
As I close my eyes I envision flying overhead

Το Γρύλισμα intervened to ask you one pertinent question before bedtime: “Πες μου, πόσο μα πόσο μαλάκας είσαι;”
“Είμαι ένα τόσο μαλακισμένο πλάσμα που δεν περιγράφεται με λόγια. Απέραντα μαλακισμένος. Just ask my dedicated hate-blogger who couldn’t manage to use up enough blog space to describe the true extent of the matter.”

A tear rolled down the horrible face of το Γρύλισμα. You picked up a towel and wiped your sweatty armpits. “Χάθηκε η Στριγκλιά Νίκης… και φταις εσύ.”.

References:

Various song lyrics and Facebook entries by The Boy.

το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.

 

Remember how back in the old days MTV used to show little art school short movies as filler in between the music videos? One of these was about a guy who lived in a house with a colony of cockroaches. The name of the short was “Joe’s Apartment”. One night he brings home a girl, and while at first the cockroaches are cheering him on, they eventually interfere significantly with his date who runs out the door screaming as the cockroaches drop from a lamp hanging from the ceiling onto her lap. That was the first thing that came to mind when I read Alexander Voulgaris’rant in an interview about being chased around by cockroaches whatever neigborhood he moves into in Athens. I imagined το Γρύλισμα in that sense. Also because he described his album American Unicorn in the online promo like this: “It’s The Applegates, a family of cockroaches transformed into humans in order to flood the american suburbs.”

 

 

He says: ανθρώπους να παίζουν πινγκ πονγκ με μάτια
She says: You know what saddens me about this particular line from this movie review? That you probably wrote this just as I was writing the story below about your eyes, your hands and the girl next to you.

The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and bears no relation to existing people or events.

Your eyes, your hands and the girl next to you (short story)

by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2014 all rights reserved

The girl next to you is talking non-stop. It was her first shoot, there is a lot to talk about, but she does all the talking and you say nothing. You are Lou Reed, just there, because you know nothing drives a chick more crazy than a man icing her. These girls put on a raunchy air because they think you like that, but every time you look them in the eye you see a brittle ego silently crying out for help. How desperate they must be to reach out to someone like you for validation. Κύριε δεν πειράζει, κύριε μην σε νοιάζει. Το Γρύλισμα jumps upon your lap and begins crawling up your shirt towards your face, leaving a slimy trail behind. The girl notices and asks whether you spilled soup on your shirt. Instead of telling the truth you lie once again and you say: “Yes, it’s soup, I am a bit clumsy with spoons, I’d rather bring the soup bowl to my face and swallow the soup the way the Japanese used to do.”. Το Γρύλισμα sucks out your left eyeball and chews on it. “Go ahead and suck out the other one.”, you whisper, “I am blind anyway, I can miss ’em both for the sake of symetry.”. Το Γρύλισμα puts its mouth over your other eye and slurps it out. Thank Gawd there aren’t any drinking straws nearby this time, can you imagine what you must’ve looked like with a drinking straw sticking out of your emptied eye-socket? All you can think of as you go blind forever is the scene from Kill Bill 2 where The Bride plucks Elle Driver’s last remaining eye right out of her skull during a swordfight somewhere in a trailer the middle of nowhere. Elle Driver loses her shit on the bathroom floor, smashing into mirrors, screaming: “Bitch, I will kill you.”. You could be doing the same thing, losing your shit on the floor screaming “Γρύλισμα, I will kill you”, but you don’t because you don’t want to scare the girl next to you, she is young and new and you consider her an asset, you would like to cast her in another movie so you keep your cool and act professionally. The Bride squishes Elle Driver’s eye with her bare foot on the floor, which is such a waste of good nutrition, she should’ve fed the eye to το Γρύλισμα instead, she must have one of her own, or maybe Tarantino has one, though he’s wealthy so he’s probably feeding το Γρύλισμα του all it needs and keeping it fat, bloated and satisfied. One should never waste food in the midst of an economic depression, you never know where you next meal might come from. “Τώρα δεν είμαι πια ο τρόμο-Ορφέας, τώρα είμαι o τρόμο-Όμηρος.”, and you need an epic horror story to sing verses about that future generations will learn in school in 2500 years’ time. With your eyes missing you are reminded of Story of an Eye by Georges Bataille. Not that you’ve actually read that book but you already know most of the story because every girl you’ve ever met has read it and always wants to talk to you about it as if you’ve read it too. You blame yourself because you sang: “This is the story of how my eyes changed.” in one of your more popular songs. Some of these girls ask you whether you’ve ever thought about filming Bataille’s story, and would you please like to consider them for the female lead. If the cinema were truly liberated like it was once long ago in the 1970s, Martin Scorsese would’ve already adapted Story of an Eye for the big screen instead of some lame costume drama like The Age of Innocence, and no one would’ve asked you whether you’d like to film it yourself because everyone would be busy watching Scorsese’s Story of an Eye. Not that you would mind doing your own version, in fact once you did apply for film-funding in France hoping to make a huge French-Greek co-production. Story of an Eye would’ve been a good option to bring to the table, but the French Film Fund only funds French film-makers so you were out of luck as a Greek bourgie trash nobody with a resume consisting of a handful of Todd Solondz rip offs, a huge glaring gap, and then some weird-ass dystopian sci-fi almost no one can sit through. You even cautiously left out all your trash-movies and porno-movies from your resume fearing that listing those would prejudice the board of the French Film Fund against you, but this cover-up of the true extent of your output still didn’t help to get you funds. Besides, you’re now in the S&M porno business, not in the horror porno business, or the disrobed costume drama business, and as a professional pornographer you have to deliver a specific product so that people know what they are paying for. Sometimes you get confused with the genre-mixing yourself. You enjoy the absolute darkness of not seeing anything at all for a change. The girl next to you cannot tell a thing because as far as she’s concerned you are still looking at her with the same frozen stare you had before το Γρύλισμα sucked your eyes out. “Πρέπει να σε νιώσω!” you exclaim, and to your surprise she takes your hands and puts them on her breasts. Instead of feeling the irritated nipples you were shooting earlier in the day through her shirt you feel sharp, pointy teeth the size of ivory tusks. Το Γρύλισμα, mouth wide open, is breathing into your face, the stench has the whiff of your eyeballs. You place your hands on it’s tongue. As soon as it senses the sour taste of your dirty hands it briefly recoils with a shiver of the tongue, then instantly locks its jaws tight. You feel your hands break away from your body at the wrists. You enjoyed hands melting away like candlewax in an acid bath of insect vomit in Cronenberg’s The Fly much better than this rather uninspired version of losing your hands. “Δεν έχω χέρια να γυρίσω την σελίδα ούτε μάτια να αντικρίσω την ελπίδα.”.

References:

Kill Bill, The Fly, Story of an Eye,

το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.

Various songs and Facebook entries by The Boy.