blood broham.

Something about the new year and the solstice awakens the pagan/hippie in me. I always end up reading through journals and sifting through photographs from ages ago. Today I found this, written in 1995:

I drank my own blood this morning in the shower; I was rinsing the shampoo from my hair. When I opened my eyes, there were droplets of blood splattered across the wall in front of me. I looked down and my torso was covered with crimson plasma. The sight of bright red life- dripping down my body, running courses over my breasts and abdomen, scattering onto the linoleum and down the drain- became intensely erotic. I could taste metallic on my tongue; in the bottom of my vision I could see the blood dripping off my bottom lip. I cupped my hand under my nose and my palm filled with the sustenance of vampires. I tipped my hand at my mouth and felt the liquid of my own being coat my throat, all the way to my stomach.

The sight of all that blood led me to remember when Julian, who was caught somewhere between my best friend and my guardian angel, attemped to "shape" my hair. He nipped my ear with the dull scissors he was using... His eyes grew wide and he got a slight smile on his face. "You're bleeding," he said, and rushed to get me a paper towel. We began a discussion on how incredible and sensual vampires are, and how we wished we were guardians of the dark. When I pulled my hand away from the wound, there was a perfect spot of blood on my middle finger. "Look!" I said, reaching my hand out to Julian. He grabbed my hand and quickly licked the blood off my finger. I was speechless. "There," he said. "Now we're connected forever."

I love that. To this day, I still find blood- and the inherent associations thereof- arousing. The best part of that post, however, is the fact that Julian (whom I met in Alaska at the age of 15) is a promoter-about-town now, and I run into him on a regular basis. We always like to reminisce about the Alaskan days, and now I have one more memory to toss on the pile.

When going through the remnants of my written remembrance, I'm always tempted to file entries away for Ariel's Salon of Shame. The self-aggrandizing megalomaniac in myself (I swear it exists) won't allow for it, though. Even when I was a teenager, my shit was still solid.