Max

I'm done.

Like, with the site. This site: elowel.org

Options:

1. Someone volunteers to take the server. I transfer ownership of the domain to them, ship them the server with root password, disable my account on the site all OS accounts on the server, put the server in a box and fedex it at my own expense and provide free no-touch advice on any software oddities. They then become responsible for maintaining the site.

2. elowel is allowed to die. I will provide a tool to export journals in some standard format, the site will go down and stay down either at the first power disruption or when it's domain expires.

3. You tell me. My keeping the server is not an option, past experimentation has shown that I cannot be responsible for the physical host and not participate in the site and not participating in the site is precisely what I want. There are certain aspects of this project which still interest me, but I cannot be involved as a participant or maintainer any longer.

I won't attempt to properly account for all the factors leading to this decision at this time, but there are enough. My consideration of them has been frequent and persistent enough to make me sure.

The reduced self-care or the depression?

O it never knew just who it was
'til it felt the whip and smelt her glove
when the boot came crashing down
it was in love.

She ground her heel in my larynx
she told me how I'm shit, I stink
"you useless limp prick" she said
(which would drive weaker, lesser,
pussy, know-nothing and fearful men to heavy drinks).

She ran a rope 'round its wrists
tied it to a radiator so hot it cringed
beat me there with her fists and whips and other things.

Six months like that in the stink
of blood and shit and other stuff.
Six months tied-up was all it took.
Better than community college,
or a self-help book.

It's master stripped it to it's radix.
She: a dominatrix.

I had a new name:
Idiotic scared excuse for a stinking faggot tranny-queen.
'It' for short.

She built a new 'it' on that basis
better than that which thought itself 'me'
better than all those worthless queer
direction-less
human-beings.

As long as it did what it was told
and took it's daily vitamins
(several three-inch long cuts in skin, publicly visible)
it was free to keep receiving it's prescribed treatments.

And when she asked it to pick up a gun
and point it at the other shivering one
and make fun of it's nervous grinning mug
and mock it for pissing the rug. It did
because it was not the only one
that needed to know
where it fit in, where it belonged,
where else could it go?

It did it.

It shot him like she asked,
"I never though I could kill another man like that", it gasped.
The stink of iron, the running blood.
When she saw the fear, the doubt, the hate.
She gave him a new prescription: ten-thousand lashes.

It died after eight.