A Collection of Spectacles

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Remember when I used to play with my hair while you fucked me and that alone could make you cum?

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Maybe this should be renamed A Collection of Muses. This has turned out to be a museum for those I loved when I was 16. Maybe one day I’ll put together a reader’s companion for this online diary, which would finally divulge who I’d written about and what my experiences were. First note: I was 16 and in love with a boy who constantly toyed with my emotions. Years later he would mention that he thought I was the one he was supposed to marry. He never did though, and now I’m in love with someone else, because love stories are rarely picturesque nor do they always work out as originally intended. The perils of consuming neatly packaged and unrealistic romance tales can be found on any Facebook feed, where women in their mid-twenties still pine over the princesses of their youth (also known as the Disney Effect). At 16, I loved a boy who was incapable of love and listened to too much post-rock. Well of course I was an adolescent too, so armed with works by Kathy Acker, J.G. Ballard, E. E. Cummings, a tendency to overuse punctuation, and dreams of postmodernism, I set off to write this online journal with the hopes of logging my experiences while avoiding the pitfalls of oversharing.

You asked why I still put up with you. I despise reading love stories but enjoy standing on the precipice of requited passion, the pained moment when you’re unsure of how you’ll be perceived so you’re hyper-aware of your actions. Maybe I’m not even that interested in you in reality, but I enjoy that you’re difficult to read. You had your hand in my underwear, beneath my stockings, and you brought your face close to mine, but I couldn’t move. Do you find it odd that I’ve never kissed you? The ultimate Millennial move, leaving a direct question in the middle of a ranting blog post in the hopes that you’ll find it.

I had a dream that he was still alive. I knew he was dead in real life the moment my mind conjured him up so I was angry at myself. I couldn’t figure out why I wanted to tease myself with his face, making me wistfully and pathetically ask the question every child has phrased at least once: why won’t you just come back?

You’re next to me, snoring with your mouth open because you’re allergic to our cat but you adore him anyway. If I had to make a list of all the ways in which I love you I’d most likely fail, because I see you so often that I probably take you for granted, which is a shame.

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I got a call a few days before Thanksgiving. When I hung up I was nervous, shaken. If this is true, I thought, then it probably won’t kill me, but I may never feel the full force of my femininity. Worst case, I’d lose the option to one day feel my body swell up to twice its size, to feel my breasts pull me down with weight, to feel nauseous and sick daily.

I went in for my appointment and met a doctor I hadn’t seen before. We shook hands as she made small talk and mentioned that she had gone to California for the holiday, that it was surprisingly cold and that she stuffed herself with food. I thought about how many times she must have told the same story while staring at a gaping vagina. She made some shifting motions or, I don’t know, did something that I couldn’t see because my legs had some weird hospital cloth draped over them. She said, “You’re going to feel a little bit of pressure.” A cold, wet, gloved hand pushed around inside.

Days of stress boiled down into one examination a half hour long. The doctor poked around with a sterile hand that was in no way sexual, but as the idea of perverting the situation entered my mind I tried my hardest to keep from getting aroused. Ultimately, whatever lesion they saw originally had vanished. “These things happen sometimes. Looks like there’s nothing there now.” She removed her glove and smiled. “Also, you should get your period soon. There was a little bit of blood in there, but you knew that.”

Had my body dealt such an indefinite sentence it would have been upsetting, surely, but oddly comforting. Now, I’m relinquished again to not knowing what the future might hold. I’m just a regular, normal, relatively healthy person and I’ll have to face the future’s uncertainty by myself.

Maybe my Mother found God in order to attach some order to the world. She can look at every tree, every being, every object, and place it in a huge schema that assures her things happen as they should, for better or worse. I’m here leading a contemptuous life because she will somehow claim that her knees are cramped for a reason, even if it goes against all logic.

 

 

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Really tired of men and their pseudo-intellectual musings, bleh.

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These constant fantasies are both a release and a burden. I think he’s having way more reservations about this and it’s really starting to show. I’m either praised or vilified for my sexual interests. It’s easy to ignore negative comments unless those criticisms are coming from the person who lays in your bed at night. Every time I look at my cat I think about how much I love him but fret that he’s always on the verge of death. I’m trying a “diet,” sort of. Mainly just cutting out junk and unnecessary snacks. I’m becoming more comfortable with the fact that I’m not happy if I’m above a certain weight and that I’ll always fawn over how thin I once was. This isn’t a very literary post but more of an actual journal entry, I guess.

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I’m really scrambling and trying to make sure my boyfriend has a good birthday. He keeps protesting that he doesn’t want to do anything and that he doesn’t care, but I feel like that’s just something people say and don’t mean.

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I awoke to burning nasal passages, red eyes, and a heavy head. “Does anyone have a fucking Advil?” I miss the days when I was crazy as opposed to filled with apathy and easily discouraged. My brain felt as if it was swelling, pressing against its walls, pushing me, begging me to do something with my day for once.

The afternoon before, I nervously paced around the room as I waited for him to arrive. When the bell finally rang, I quickly shut my computer and placed it beside my bed before I opened the door. We are always brief when it comes to “hellos” and this time was no different. Minutes later I straddled his face as thick white ropes of fluid, leftovers from early morning sex with my boyfriend, filled his mouth. My legs shook violently and uncontrollably as I pressed down on his flickering tongue. His scruffy face chaffed my thighs like a brillo pad, abrasive and harsh, while his warm mouth gently teased and coaxed out every last bit of cum.

He always has the same look on his face the moment after, a weird mix of exhaustion, relief, and sadness, as if his return to reality is a reluctant one. We fumbled through a menial conversation about adolescence and I had hoped for some reason that he would find me interesting, although I knew I was simply an interchangeable part of sorts. Twenty minutes post cum he mentioned how awkward goodbyes were for him. I reached my arms out uncomfortably and we shared a brief hug before he made his decent down the stairs.

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We got into an argument two days ago. He asked about why I like being used, why I like small animals, why I do anything. My immediate reaction was to try and counter what he was saying, until I realized there was some truth to it. Soho and Neko needed me for sustenance. They were house cats without street smarts, tiny vulnerable prey to the world outside. In retrospect, I probably needed them just as much emotionally, if not more. I needed something substantial to prove that a lowly human like me was worthy of having a creature love and accompany her till its death. People are much more fickle, and maybe I’ve never adjusted to this fact of life. I am a child, sensitive and selfish. Now I’m laying in bed, leaking globs of white onto my underwear, remnants from this morning. Things seem to be picking up again physically with him. Maybe more sex will give us an uplifting, if not painfully fleeting and corporeal, distraction from daily life. I found someone who contributes to my fucked up sense of sexuality but is emotionally paraplegic so it’s bound to be a short lived thrill. Guess I enjoy the challenge a dilapidated house brings.

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When you feel like you hit your stride on here in 2010 -__-

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He slapped my face repeatedly while tears trickled out of the corners of my eyes as I held them shut. Fifteen, maybe ten, maybe five minutes before I begged him to hit me. I needed to feel lower than dirt since looking inward for solace was useless. The reason for my sad state felt stupid, which sent me into a drastic spiral of embarrassment over feeling so deeply about a minor transgression. I wanted to be hurt and cry and I was granted my wish. During the past few days, my mother’s voice has occupied my thoughts. “Why would you want to feel pain?” We had a tearful discussion that day, during which she vaguely mentioned my old scars. I found it funny that someone who carried my existence could fail to understand me so miserably.

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