Mona – The Rambunctious

Description

An alkie woman who herself becomes a wound for the fruition of others, who hocks her panty for a dirty old man in exchange of dozen bottles of booze, who eats peels of orange thinking about bread. Cursing the spoiled youth uttering truth and crazy enough to steal a panty, vile enough to detest all the humanity, deep enough to understand the repressed human psyche, innocent enough to offer her cunt, compassionate enough to quench the hunger of a dirty old man, witty enough to crack humor when gods betray her, passionate enough to drink as much and take as much and feel much and be much. And an old woman lonely enough to make a boy a man and a man alone, who reveres the nature, who explores the madness of emotion, who keeps her trust deep in existence, who says that sex is our life force, who says that sex is sacred, and who’s smile is as hearty and wholesome as dostoyevsky, who makes a man a man again by showing him what is, and to be what is, and finally makes him to live in present, to dance with stars, to flow in life like rivers, and feel like trees, where one gets the conclusion that everything is essence. And a prostitute for whom nothing makes any sense and who hits existence like a hammer, hitting hard enough to crack the heads of mediocre, perverts, and brutes, who herself becomes a stiff to become a possession for her clients and exploring why and what, in this absurd society where why is completely forgotten, and finally blows her head and finally finds the soul and becomes the “I” and meets the man who has “why” but not the “I,” which then she gives herself to the “why” and makes him aware of his “I” and lives together with no “why” but by “I” and then lives forever. And a girl who never receives any love, who was brutally insulted by her father, and the mother who takes delight in stealing a bra. And finally couldn’t help herself to live with the parents escapes for a hand to mouth existence, and becomes a prostitute just like that and trembles to death to lose her virginity, laughing at what is, and hoping for a better tomorrow, and then becomes a sex addict who finds herself in the midst of madness and meanness for sex and insults the men for not giving more and asking for more, taking care of her vulva, asking her vulva “why,” and kicking god and priest in the face, questioning why and why, roaring like a lion, and then comes intune with her darkness and makes calmness and understands life is not a problem but a mystery, and then becomes a goddess to youth and makes men aware and gains innocence, purity which is rare, sincerity in action, and authenticity in being, and receptivity in life and finally she fears nothing and hopes nothing. An innocent soul corrupted by a bitch. And a woman obsessed with sex who enjoys mannequins.

About The Author

Hell, I don’t know. Let me guess, hmm, I can find something in me which is not really true not really false, but sometimes it is true and sometimes it is false. It goes like this.. Really troubled. Loves women, hates ladies. Probably a sexist without any nexus in the plexus. A Pragmatist, a Materialist, a Pessimist, Misanthropic, Escapist. Sometimes gibberish, sometimes profound. Admires Bukowski, Miller, Hamsun, Tanizaki, Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, Dostoyevsky, Van Gogh, Krishna, Alishetti Prabhakar. I Hate relatives, especially those who believe in god, and those who advice me to marry and say that that the key to happiness is marriage, marriages are made in heaven they’d say. the key to hell is being alone, they’d add. Don’t those damn fools know that I am an artist and I love being alone. Those motherfuckers and whores don’t they know that there exists a “soul.” A cry baby, won’t shut up with the beloved, won’t speak with the unknown. That’s it.