observations

I was sitting on the max the other day... was overhearing a conversation between a middle aged woman and a 16ish yr old girl. The woman was giving her advice on how to handle the changes into adult hood, and how to help her parents adjust. How to look at things instead of a "me vs them" equation but more of a "transition to new times together".
Makes me wonder if someone had been around when things were going downhill, who could reform my relations with my family in this way, if it would've helped. Or if there was someone there and I just wasn't listening. Or if there was a way to look at things differently... I still feel that my parents were CRAZY, but at the same time I understand that my dad was just scared and losing control.

sooo frusterated... almost crying...

I checked the schedule times with Clackamas Community College to make sure that everything was going to go okay, despite the copious amounts of commuting time. And then, they put all the classes that I need at night, on the days that I have rehearsal. and then as my back up plan, i go and check porltand community colleges' schedule, and they have the classes i need, at the exact times that i have rehearsal! so now i have two luck options left, and then one more expensive luck option as a last resort.
doesn't seem like getting 4 year degree without betraying the things i love should be this difficult....

nadia

second anniversary...

so, it's been two years sense i ran away, as of tomorrow.

i'm... okay, i mean, I am relatively self sufficient, and I know that I'm building myself a good life, and I have some really cool people. I know that I did the right thing, so I'm not beating myself up.

But as always, I'm remembering more... seeing things in a new light. This afternoon I realized that if I had stayed, simply by a few of the comments they made that last afternoon, then I would've essentially been in a prison. I would have been put under lock down and they would have made it insanely difficult to get away, almost impossible. It was hard enough as it was, with the cash I had. My family would've become a cult, in action and not just essence.

and then I'm remembering little things... and another piece falls into this scenario... and it makes me so... angry. i mean, not "i'm pissy because the dishes didn't get done", but ANGRY.. like i really wanna bitch slap someone because he's using my mom and has been for the last 37 years.

Just... AAAARGH! GOD FUCKING DAMNIT!



nadia

He's Fucking Beautiful 2

He’s left the door half open, the lights are off inside. I step in; gentle sounds come from an adjoining room. Soft candle glow starts to dance from the next door way on the wood floor. I decide to slip off my heels; I know I wont be able to last any amount of time in them. I caress the solid wood floor beneath my toes, appreciating the grain. I shift gently, wondering what he expects me to do. I decide to walk to the doorway and kneel, my back straight, head up and my breasts exposed.
He leaves me there for a while; I can feel him moving around his apartment putting things into order. I hear his footsteps coming, he squats down behind me, I can feel his bulk radiating those delicious textures. His breath carefully graces my neck, a shiver runs down my breasts and spine to join in my nethers.
The warmth of his hands on the undersides of my breasts is delicious; I suck in a breath of air as he pulls me towards him, leaning my shoulders against his chest. I submit. His fingers are messaging my nipples, plump and begging for any attention. A moan escapes me; I had already betrayed myself.
He leans me forward again, and deftly scoots my tight T-shirt up my body, roughly brining my arms above my head to take the shirt off. I shiver in anticipation, awareness of how vulnerable I am; how stupid I am. He leans me back into him, gently, lower and lower to the ground. All the time he's messaging my breasts and belly, relaxing me, running finger tips over my eyelids and long my cheek bones. I finally get to a point where I can't go any farther unless I spread my legs; he realizes this and gently pushes a hand between my thighs. I comply, readily, feeling my lips breathe for the allowed air, the coolness slapping the warm folds. My mini skirt rides up, I'm sure my curly red hair is showing.... God, anything he wants.
His hands leave me for a second; it feels like forever. Then they return, cold metal in his hands. He messages the nipples again, plumping them up to their full size. I gasp, realizing he has nipple clamps in his hands. He makes an appreciative sound, and places the first bite of metal on my right nipple. The pain flows through my breast, standing up in protest and pleasure. He arranges himself a bit, his thighs around my head. I feel him lean over me, his T-shirt grazing my face. His musk envelopes my senses, battling for my attention with my clamped nipple and spread cunt. And then he takes my left nipple into his mouth, sucking the tender flesh into his lips, the teeth grazing just enough to bring pain but teasing me torturously. Then he stops, and pulls away, gently blowing cold air on my nipple. I gasp, wondering if he wants me to beg. I mumble something. the precious, delicious sting of metal descends upon me, enveloping being in submission.
He steps off, to the side, I can feel his eyes on me, appraising. I hope I please him.
He steps to the other side of the door way, he leans over, grabs my hips and start to raise them. I scramble to get my feet out from underneath me, leaving my shoulders on the hardwood floor. He molds my body so that my hips are raised, my legs spread far apart, with my cunt hanging loose in the air. The mini skirt is bunch up around my waist, making a belt along my hips.
He kneels between my legs, and I vow to keep this position as long as humanly possible. I wait, wait, expecting soft whiskered kisses on my labia. But instead I feel a cleaning cloth all over my genital area, it feels like an alcoholic tincture. The sting is pleasant; I'm grateful that I hadn't gotten the piercing I'd been thinking about yesterday. Then, the soft tongue descends upon me, but not where I expected it- on my inner thighs, low, more towards my ass. I shiver, wondering if he knows about those secrets. Those burning desires to have my ass played with skillfully. I feel my cunt gush.
He chuckles approvingly and starts tracing fingers up and down my lips, dipping into the hot moisture and then down to my ass hole. He gently rubs my anus, sending warm sensations all through my body. Soft tender kisses around my clit, with the slightest bit of teeth. His hand starts messaging my anus more, and I feel the warm goo of lubrication on his fingers. I moan gently, wanting to beg. I lift my hips up more, exposing myself and trying to make all of myself accessible.
He gently pinches my clitoris, approval apparent in his caressing. "Good girl."
His hands leave me suddenly, the cold air hitting my lubricated cunt and ass. Vulnerability tears through my being. A soft buzzing of a vibrator comes through the darkness, my hips and legs tighten in anticipation of so much pleasure. He brings the vibrator close to my cunt, mere centimeters away, teasing me. I wonder where he's going to use it, and what shape it is.
But first I feel the gentle pressure of a butt plug against my anal opening, demanding entrance. I immediately tense in pleasure and anticipation, my hips raising farther off the floor. Then I remember to relax and consciously loosen my hips and ass muscles. I suck in a breath, the nipple clamps biting into my skin. My head spins with pleasure, reveling in the fact that I'm receiving what I want, no, need.
The soft touch of the vibrator touches my clit, messaging the gentle nub. He moves the vibrator so the angle is constantly changing, sending new and delicious sensations through my body. The pressure on my ass is renewed, and I slowly open for the large plug. It's soft, but demanding in size. I suck it into me, amazed that I can take something this large. I breathe heavily, the sensations mixing together to create a waterfall of endorphins. I need it, the plug in me... oh, if he'd fuck me at the same time...
"Please, please Sir... slam it in! I need it, I want it!" And he complies, pushing the plug past my rectum and into my body. My body convulses, accepting the plug. I pussy clamps, begging to be filled. My anal muscles contract, messaging against the plug. I moan, like a whore. Reveling in everything, embracing it. "Oh thank you Sir! So wonderful Sir!"
"On the bed, on your knees. I'm going to fuck your cunt and push that plug in deeper with every pump. Here, wait." I pause as I start to scramble up, coming to my knees. I open my eyes, enveloping his form in his T-shirt and jeans. I can see the outline of his erection through his pants, and my hand reaches for it like a child for candy. He slaps my hand away. "Not now." He leans over gently, and attaches a chain to both of my nipple clamps. I shiver, my body reacting against the numerous constraints and pressures. "On the bed, now."
I step forward, past him, and stumble towards the middle of the room. I find the bed, and climb up onto it. I wait, on hands and knees. My ass is lifted with my cunt throughly exposed. God, I ache to be fucked... The nipple clamps hang from me, the gentle pressure undulating as my blood pulses through my tits.

a paper that i wrote that's... very free form, and apparently doesn't conform to the assignment goals :P

Nadia Sunshyn
Freshmen Inquiry, The Constructed Self
Betsy Nolan
May 27, 2008
Analysis of My Experience in the Constructed Self
At the beginning of 2008 I was starting a new phase of my young adult life. This has been six delicious months of a living situation that I’m not feeling blackmailed, pressured or afraid of losing my housing in anyway. I have found a family that has essentially adopted me, a Mummsies who wants to go to most (did I mention too many?) of my concerts. I can finally breathe for once and not have to worry about people prying into my business and I don’t need to defend myself against anyone, ever. So yeah, I guess it follows in reason that I’ve been able to start defraging my brain. Although the majority of my education in the last four months has been self analysis and un-relatated reading I am finding it very interesting to tie into the Constructed Self curriculum. I have found the assignments in my Freshmen Inquiry to be a useful forum to jump-start the next phase of my own self realization.
One of the major things that has changed and developed in the last six months is my own expectations of myself. Because of the nature of the assignments in Freshmen Inquiry I often found myself annoyed with the expectation of doing research for a paper that I could bullshit my way through. I was feeling conflicted that I wanted to do gobs more research on my papers (prime example being the papers about Maya Angelou) but did not have the time or energy to gather and use as much information as I generally expect myself to accumulate. This pair of assignments was a special pain in the ass because when I skimped on the writing of the Dialogue it made it more difficult to write a compelling Analysis as the third draft. I was also feeling conflicted about the Frankenstein reading because I didn’t feel that I was living up to my own expectations of myself, but when I talked to some of my peers, it became evident that a few of them had not read Frankenstein at all, during either trimester. Aside from the Freshmen Inquiry experience, in my musical experiences, I have been finding that I am the only French Horn player in the PSU music program to actually be working and caring whether or not I progress musically.
My Father often said that as long as his children didn’t get nocked up or on drugs, that we would get ahead just because we’d do what we said and get our work done on time. I didn’t believe him; I am saddened to find that if I wanted no more then to make 40 grand a year then that would be an acceptable game plan. I still expect much more then that from myself. I still think that to create a life that I want I need to step up my game another notch. It saddens me to realize that my peers value, or do not value, their education as much as this evidence suggests. It also has helped me to realize that there is a time to compromise between doing the best I can and doing better then the Average in areas that are not primary to my goals. Don’t kid me wrong; I have not staunched my education that I could have received from Freshmen Inquiry (I am doing more personal reading and political research then I have in four years), but I’m not stressing as much about deadlines and writing papers that the Pain In The Ass English Professor from my high school would accept. I’ve realized that education truly isn’t about decent grades and diplomas, indeed life is not about either of these things. Life, and the education we game from it, is about personal experience and becoming the most moral person you can from the evidence that is handed to you.
This has augmented my re-development of political views and expectations of the world around me. In the last few months I have become aware of an amazingly elegant man, Barack Obama. (Common, he’s trying to run for presidency; how can you not notice?). For educational reasons, Mr. Obama’s speech about racial issues was shown in class. I was impressed with his feeling of being human but still worthy of the Presidency. I was also appreciative of how he truly did make me feel like we are a country instead of a fractal that has a bad case of indigestion. During a class, Victoria had us all expound on our feelings of how the world is currently and where it’s heading. She gave a very compelling and interesting oratory about the liberal leaders in the past, and how she’s afraid for Obama. This lead me into thinking about how he’s sticking his neck out, despite how historically it has been a life-ending decision. (Marting Luther King Jr. knew he was going to be assassinated, he was waiting for it and tried to position the coins in such a way that it would be useful to the Movement.) I have always felt that we should live our lives the way we do because we feel specifically that we are doing exactly what is the right thing to do. That it is the moral, and perhaps the least sane, thing to do; that it would be immoral for us to not move and not do what we find to be our convictions.
Remembering that this truly is how I feel about human actions and morality has helped me to develop a more healthy attitude towards my family. I’ve realized that in many ways I had no other option; that if I had done anything else I would’ve continued to betray my own mind until I was able to break out of the cast of my family. I know that I am a complete person and that no part of me (whether it be moral, sexual, logical or otherwise) can ever contradict another part of myself, for indeed they should simply be reflections of each other. Ayn Rand said, “Contradictions do not exist. Whenever you think you are facing a contradiction, check your premises. You will find that one of them is wrong.” I have tried to live by this creed sense I first read Atlas Shrugged four years ago. By this view, “abandoning” my family is truly the only moral thing that I could do, that I really had no other path available to me even though I could not articulate it as such at the time. I am still searching to find a way that I can express this to my parents in such a way they will ever be able to understand. I suspect they shall instantly reject it as poison; for I wonder if they can understand my reasons and my logic and continue to be the people they choose to be.
As I’ve been doing the required readings for class, and working in the Reading Journal, I have tried but probably failed, to reflect these attitudes in my notes. A reading journal is not something that I have used before and I found it to be difficult to use. Having to regularilly write in a journal because I was reading reminded me that I was required to read the material. I have found myself to procrastinate about the reading assignments much more then is characteristic of me because of this. I have been working to realize what I can do for myself to make this more enjoyable, and to discern what mental blocks I have that is impeding my progress. Indeed, I am working on this specifically in other areas, so it’s an entire being-searching task.
Because of all these things I have found the Constructed Self to be a wonderful forum for random offshoots of thought that are helping to develop me as a more complete person. I am coming out of this class being a more organized person (let’s hope) and more aware of what I expect of myself. I am learning how to balance myself in-between pleasure and work. I am working to take the reminder of how I view life, and that it is perfect for me, and plow it back into the rest of my life to make more of a consistant and congruent being Nadia.

I KNEW that money changed hands...

I just didn't know where.

So, there's all this drama at my school with the horns, because Dr. Professor Higgins (his preferred title) doesn't treat the horns the best, so we're all on strike. He found someone to come in and play in his top band, and I didn't know who it was, but could tell from his tone and articulation that he wasn't some random schmuck off the street. I thought that somewhere along the line some cash had to be changing hands, but I couldn't place my fingers on it.

And then someone who knows the horn population went to one of their concerts; it's Jon Cox, the principle horn of the Oregon Symphony. Nice prestige, eh, playing in a University Band? Well, so the way I see it is that my horn instructor is leaving PSU this summer, leaving a vacancy. There's a battle going on for who gets the open position (it's not open season yet!) for next year. So my hypothesis on the whole deal is that Higgins bribed Mr. Cox with promises of assurance in the new horn instructor position if he played in the University Band. Some trade eh, 50 K a year for an extra 3 hours of work a week?

Seriously people, what happened to morals? clean deals and non politicking. I just wanna play my horn; why does there have to be all this under the table mumbo jumbo bullshit?

grr

nadia

he was fucking beautiful

He’s fucking beautiful.

And I don’t just mean shoulder length, thick curly hair and swarthy chest; he had those. but I mean he radiated confidence, eroticism, desire... god, everything I want; everything I need. Right now.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, stopping myself from moaning when the rumble of the train rubs me through my short skirt. I wonder if he realizes I’m here, if he realizes I’ve been staring at him. I doubt either, but I desperately wish that he knew what I wanted. That I want him to invade me here, on the bus, without a single word, in broad daylight. I start to wrap my head phones up, and tuck them into my small canvas bag. I feel my nipples brush against my shirt... damn it, it’s been weeks, months? At least months sense I had good sex... I’m sure he could give it to me, pound my cunt long and hard. Using me like I ache to be.

My eyes glance over him again, my mouth moistining in desire to please him, to take him in my mouth, into my body. I freeze; he’s looking at me. What do I do? Wave or smile? Both obscenely dorky... god I could flash him, spread my legs and message my clit here. Somehow I dont think the other people on the train would appreciate...

He’s walking towards me! Am i dreaming? I’m staring, look some place else; anywhere else! I look at my hands, my army green bag.
He’s towering over me, I can smell his scent. He reaches out, nonchalantly caresses my breast, messaging my plump nipple between his fingers. I gasp, my eyes shooting up to meet his. He leans over, gripping my breast tighter and takes a violent kiss, claiming my mouth. His hand moves behind neck to grab my hair, pulling down so my neck is bare and I’m staring up at him. He leans in more, his scruffy cheek against mine. A harsh whisper in my ear, “You are you going to get off the train, you little slut. And follow me... I can tell you want me; don’t lie. I can see right through you.”

He promptly dropped my hair and turned away, leaving me have dazed in euphoria and my cunt gently pounding. I stare after him.
Remembering that time does not stand still I jump up and clasp my bag to myself, my fingers digging into the canvas. I follow him, feeling akward in my heels and wondering how many people noticed the episode. I wonder how many people can smell my scent, know that I’m not wearing any underwear under this tight t-shirt and miniskirt. I dont care; I’d strip if he told me to.

He’s already half way down the block. I try to catch up to him, fighting myself to stay 20 steps behind. His steps are sure and solid; I can tell he’s measuring his stride so that I can keep up in my heels.

I think he just likes to fuck with my brain...

so...

During my lesson, my teacher picked out the things that screw me up the most in sight reading, and said that that would be exactly what's on my sight-reading for my audition into a group I wanted into (he was the main auditioner). So, I worked my ass off and fixed the rhythms... went in, did okay-ish... then got my sighreading, something completely different then what he said I would have. I played it... okay... whatever...

I leave, kind of feeling like I didn't do well and I'd be stuck in PYCO another year. As I'm climbing into my boyfriends car, the panel comes out and Johnson waves, calls to me and says I did a great job... I shake my head furiously, and he nodded infatically and gave me a thumbs up.

ooookay I'm confused. I think he just likes to screw with my brain; I know I didn't fulfill the outlines that he gave me during hte audition, but he still told me good job. Me confused!

nadia

Karma's a bitch...

had a great day today...

until I was riding the MAX home...

ran into my piano teacher from last trimester...

started talking about family and religeon...

and he started to try and convert me for the next hour...

trying to convince me that Christianity was not only viable but the way, the truth, and the life...

I feel so bad about all the times that I tried to convert people...

please forgive me, my brainwashed child self that was 6 years ago...

I promise I'll never, ever do that again.

Language

So elusive. So finite. Used to describe a world so broad in emotions, colors and meanings. As I think back over the last year and a half, before that to when I was still living with my family. Memories so sharp and painful; stained in blood and pain. Seeking for a language more dramatic, more encompassing then that which we've cultivated. I remember how the fingers dug into my shoulders, my fathers' vengeful, spiteful words stabbing into my soul, telling me i was guilty of his sins. The bruises, the tears that I've shed can't be explained by word, that I can understand what happened. To understand what identity I have, why the Ego doesn't agree with who I am, doesn't allow my Id to fly free in the wind. So I ask the Universe, the essence of the flower and heat of the sun, to melt away my mask. Leaving my bare soul vulnerable to a soft whispered prayer, to not be concious of thought, of right or wrong. To not worry about the concept of having been pained. To encompass all of me, my joy and pain, to leave the scar tissue in the dust.