A Collection of Spectacles

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Laying around stoned, again. I’ve finally had the energy to clean. I haven’t left the house in a day or two. I’ve avoided getting groceries for longer. I’ve ordered in and supplemented my bad habits with the only thing I know how to: more work.

I have to be ginger. Interactions sometimes possess more naïveté than I’m used to. I don’t know how to change, even though I’d like to. I look like an asshole either way. Love and envy are terrible siblings. I play a stupid and risky game every time, fetishizing too close to reality. I hate myself for loving the rush I get when he fucks me. I don’t want to burden you with my brokenness and cynicism. My relationships with older men are annoyingly patronizing and my relationships with men my age are similar to war.

 

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I’m going to try and be a happier person, even if I have to fake it for a bit. I’m feeling a little better, anyway. I’ve been taking st john’s and not skipping any days.

I can’t criticize others for being negative and then not work on that aspect of myself. Believe it or not, I used to be more positive.

I keep thinking about love, despite my better efforts. What a motivating factor, more so the more complicated it is. I need effort and reliability. I want to use but sometimes I will settle for being used. I wish I didn’t have to coax attention out of you. I’m fearful of losing  the most important people in my life. Drifting away seems worse than a volatile split. I want to know how you feel, but it seems like neither of us want to jump first. I can’t beg or force things. This is the hardest lesson for me to learn. I have trouble tempering obsession.

When I was young, I would sometimes spend the sabbath with my grandmother, and I’d watch her run through her routine of prayers and rituals. We would take a small vase and wash our hands, alternating between the right and left, one after the other. I want you to dump the more “unsavory” aspects of your sexual interests on top of me. Let me lay in bed before you, open and ready, a willing conduit for your desires.

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Everyone can see on my face when I’m pissed. I got so drunk I can’t feel anything but anger. Maybe I should take a break from the internet. K found this stupid shit. What do I have to say for myself? Nothing, other than I’m an awful girlfriend but at least I’ve realized it now. I can’t fuck as much as I want to, constant pain in my body stops me. My only solace is wrapped up in grief, how fitting. If I don’t learn to bite my tongue I’ll die a grifter.

I let you know all the ways in which everyone is fucking me over and then you fucked me over too. Fucking shit. I wanted to be naked emotionally to match my unclothed form when we fuck too, but forget it. I can’t trust anyone. No wonder everyone in nyc is so jaded.

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In the space between the first time I meet someone and when I fuck them, I’m watching carefully, tracing lines of desire across their skin. The things that we do while we fuck are our kin, birthed from interactions between us, molded and shaped by every exchange. Verbal transactions during seemingly mundane moments are exposed during that physical dance we do.

I can’t wait to let loose on my bf sexually like I used to. Smother him under the weight of my ass. Tell him I want to get filled with cum whenever I feel like it and he can’t stop me. We both know the only way I can get wet at this point is through degrading him. We’re just dancing around the obvious, cosplaying like normal people, humping away. If he wants me to stay regardless, that’s what it’ll have to be. He wants it anyway. That’s the thing about submission, it’s really you placing vested interest in something (abstractly incapsulated in another human) that you would give up everything for.

I love to top primarily anyway, but I fear if I sub to you I’ll expose myself to shitty treatment. Instead I wait, jumping from app to app, site to site, leaving digital breadcrumbs. Fearful as always, because straight men hate whores. It’s a fact. I could fantasize about spreading my legs, watching you move my hips all day. I’m more infantile in some ways, I’m sure. Sending songs, pressing play, watching a billion things that probably don’t belong to me. Open me up and let me soak you in, not in a desperate way, but with a slow confidence, the way flowers naturally tilt towards the sun.

 

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I had a great time in Europe, actually. I don’t know why I stress out over nothing. Things at home are ok too. Fuck I hope I don’t seem ungrateful.

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Delirious free writing exercise that will probably have typos:

I’m in Europe again. I’ve been up a day. How many times have I been here and lamented over people who aren’t even in my life anymore? It’s a waste of time. My best friend blocked me on everything and it hurts so bad, worse than anyone romantic leaving me. I can’t stand how little I care about my career or school because that stuff comes easy for me, but I’m always lovesick. I let you in and dropped my guard and you gave me hope and I know there’s a time difference but I can’t wait around with this anticipation that will give me ulcers. I want to fence myself in again, it’s too vulnerable so I should hide. I want to stop getting hurt and appreciated in hindsight. Feels like I’m always vying for attention before the person realizes I’m special, which is self destructive. I remember being that age, and I look back on how absent minded, short sighted, and impulsive I was so I don’t know why I…I’m so mad at myself for sitting in a sauna halfway around the world and wasting time wondering about people who really don’t give a fuck about me. Don’t you want to fuck around on a park bench, everywhere, whatever. Someone read through all the posts in this diary but I’ll never know who and it’s never who I want. Made a new friend out here but I can barely recognize it. Looking backwards, obsessed with the past is always to the detriment of something in the present. Smart and cool are great things to be but they don’t get you affection. A female libertine, how rare. I’ve heard this all before, yet no one seems to make rare synonymous with special treatment. What an angry shitpost. I’m sick of myself.

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Dumb bitch award goes to me

I want to write about something other than love for a while

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I don’t think I want to have children. I’m uncomfortable having my body change, and it seems rude to have a kid in a world where people can’t get it together. While out earth burns and we’re twiddling our thumbs. I’m getting more frustrated as I get older, because all these societal hallmarks feel like they strip away the respect I should be given as an autonomous being. Like, my family always talks to my boyfriend as if he is responsible for me in a patronizing way. If they found out what I do, they’d probably ask why he “let me” do that, as if I never had a life before being partnered. As if I don’t have my own strength.

He’s upset when I say I don’t want to take his last name. I want to live and die with the name I was born with unless we take each other’s names. Women are not dowry, I say. I’m endlessly confused because aren’t we Marxists or something? I mean, we’re not really -ists at all but certainly we orbit the left sphere. Then again, he is admittedly a reformed reactionary. I keep finding and fucking men like this, so it must say something about me. More women are giving me attention which is exciting, but I’m always afraid that they’re too homophobic to take my affection seriously, so often I preemptively shy away.

You can fuck whoever you want and see whoever you want just let me know how passionate you are for me. I’m always trying to cut back on talking too much, because I want you to tell me everything about you. I’m looking for deep levels of intimacy and obsession without monogamy. I think many conflate possessiveness with love, but I want obsession and desire without hierarchical rankings. Maybe I’m asking for the impossible. We’ll play with knives only when we have access to the sharpest one. It has to be real or its not worth it.

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Forever disappointed in others and often myself. I play tough but fold quickly like most romantics, tender and frightened underneath. I’m more like a sadomasochistic one though, chasing love because I know it will be wretched and painful. I wonder if I act differently with platonic friends because love interests are always hot and cold with me (and I can never keep their attention long enough). I endlessly stress over why someone rejects me and obsess over past scenarios, a list of my previous actions and deeds.

Maybe it’s all just bad timing, or maybe I don’t know how to be sexually empathetic. It’s easier to seem desirable from behind a screen, but real life interaction terrifies me. I’m better in two dimensions. I rant to you about larger concepts and ideas, showing off books and music because I can’t muster up the courage to say that I think about you all the time. Always gotta play it cool, you know. Whatever. Part of me thinks I should just give up on the idea of love altogether and focus on working on myself.

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My best friend is having a mental breakdown and we don’t know what to do. He said during a moment of clarity that he didn’t want to get better and have to apologize to everyone, and that the idea of facing such tremendous embarrassment was not as bad as death. Growing up surely makes things more interesting, but it never seems to get less tragic.

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I’ve been asking myself lately to re-evaluate the kinds of people I let into my life. I don’t want to be bothered by unnecessary stress or put down or berated. This is hard at times because I have spent too long fetishizing power dynamics. At this point I get off most to being forced to feel a mixture of desire and pain, or knowing that someone would do anything to please me. There’s nothing sweeter than hearing how much I’m desired while I get fucked, but my masochistic tendencies bubble up from time to time.

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Last week was filled with wet dreams, visions of him cumming in and on me everywhere. I like to be brought close to tears as I near sex-death. I want to feel every thrust until my voice is hoarse.

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