A Collection of Spectacles


everything i try to forget in my daily life rises to the surface in dreams:

i am at a dimly lit party (or is it a familiar house? i can’t tell).

[the beginning scenes are absent, due to an unreliable memory]

there is loud, constant, chatter. you turn your back towards me, and i can clearly see that it is covered in a million minor afflictions. i am slightly taken aback but not for long. i understand. you ask something about giving me similar lacerations and i agree, somewhat reluctantly. 

these events do not play out as melodramatic; something is still lighthearted about it all.

i was willing to suffer physical discomfort in order to prove some twisted logic (the particulars of which escape me at the moment) because when my affection is taken and stripped down to its most organic form, it tends to scoff at moderation and sensibility. 

Seeing blood in dreams can represent many things:

“If you see someone else bleeding, you are concerned about your friend. Dreaming about bleeding always points to the emotional wounds that you don’t acknowledge.”

” Some believe that when you see blood in your dream, the distressing situation in your life which is at the root of the dream has come to an end, and the worst is over. “

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i wish i possessed the ability to look inside myself and piece together one unified whole. currently, the space that holds each part separate is filled with doubt, uncertainty, and a certain amount of contempt towards the future. i am anxious. i’m having trouble waiting. i want things to be different. yet, i’m dreading it at the same time. 

attaining what you want most in life requires that you openly allow what you’re asking for to happen. inside there is still a small trace of reluctance and this could be the cause of everything. 

or. maybe. 

i don’t have conventional expectations. it’s possible that i’m trying to fit myself into a lifelike reenactment of some offbeat play that depicts exactly what i think i should experience.

i enjoy flirting with debauchery from time to time. i like having small doses of instability in my life. thus, i secretly long for the type of person who possesses the ability to push me to my emotional brink but, of course, obtaining this unique brand of affection can have horrible consequences. forcing myself towards some sort of standard doesn’t work either. i end up more vacant than when i began. the current remedy is to do nothing, pocket away my passion, and smother it until it turns into nonchalance. i’m aware of the fact that the options i’ve currently placed before myself don’t solve anything. 

i did, however, lose my appetite today. maybe this is a sign. 

claire told me about the nature of butterflies.

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something good will happen.

i’m sure of it.

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“…fuck ’em. fuck anyone who doesn’t want you because you are a smart and creative and funny and pretty. you are worthy of the best love in the world and, one day, you will find someone. it may take you a while, but that’s only because you’re one of a kind.” 

my father said this today, after he went on one of his rants. i thought it was nice of him. 

i guess everyone should believe that because it’s true. everyone will find someone, eventually. the rest can go to hell. i mean it. that rule applies to me too. if i’ve ever fucked anyone over and made them feel as if they weren’t worthy of affection then i deserve a “fuck you” as well.  

i can’t stop listening to angel in the snow. it’s such a beautiful song.

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i’m impatient. i want more than instantaneous gratification that leaves me readily when i’m finally able to grasp it.

i’m afraid of my dreams now. they always address things that i’m trying to forget yet they’re not nightmares, per se, which makes them more unpleasant. 

words aren’t explaining things enough right now. try breathing underwater for a good deal of forever. try pushing your physical self until the mind screams.

now place those sensations here    [                        ] 

you’ve done all the work. you’ve written this post for me.

i feel the worst kind of unhappiness. the feeling like you’re missing something even though you don’t know what it is you want in the first place. 

everything i do seems to garner

the same results a cacophony that keeps repeating

until i’m stuck i take a moment of reflection 

and realize i’m more vacant more

uncaring this is a horrible jarring record i’ve

strayed too far i’m worse than when i started a

cacophony that keeps repeating. 


i’m reveling in discontent. disgusting.

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i never wanted to become a woman who highlights all the things that women can and can’t do but now i’m starting to feel like such matters are important.

society, at least in the states, doesn’t encourage women to feel openly sexual. to open their legs without shame but while still possessing some sense of worth. to talk about fucking. to fuck for fuck’s sake and not because they’re secretly self-loathing. to do it simply to feel good. 

there’s rarely an in-between. women on one extreme are plastic mannequins. they listen to animalistic howls that cry, “look pretty and don’t open your mouth unless you’re looking for a bonus.” but where do they go when it’s closing time and they’ve spent all day forcing themselves not to think?

on the other end are those who are so overly intellectual that the trait becomes a hinderance. the girls that are afraid to touch themselves for fear of what they might find. they waste bodies that are beautiful. they may as well stitch their cunts closed. 

in the end, it’s not men who keep these subcategories in existence. each woman adapts to life differently and is the biggest source of her own discomfort. the mannequin feels that she’s giving men what they want. the other (the secretary? the nun? i lack a better term) shuns sexuality and feels as though she is giving herself the treatment she deserves. 

we’re all tricked into thinking that being emotional is inherently female. yes, men feel too. if you don’t believe me then try and break one. broken men are odd sights to see because they seem lost but look closely and their faces scream I DON’T KNOW HOW I’M SUPPOSED TO ACT. i have the freedom to cry when i want and be comforted by seas of men. when women feel bad they can cry and cry and cry but when they’re broken it’s different (it’s worse). when they stop crying and become active, they’re ruthless. 

Sex is easy.

sex is a service. it is the act of servicing a bodily need.

this is why some people, mainly men, are willing to pay for it. if you are a woman (especially if you are young) you can probably get it for free. 

To love someone. That takes skill.

in blood and guts, acker’s protagonist is a ten year old whore. 

“one of the most destructive forces in the world is love. For the following reason: The world is a conglomeration of objects, no, of events and the approachings of events towards objects, therefore of becoming stases static stagnant, of all that is unreal. You get in the world, you get your daily life your routine doesn’t matter if you’re rich poor legal illegal, you being to believe what doesn’t change is real, and love comes along and shows all these unchangeable for ever fixtures to be flimsy paper bits. Love can tear anything to shreds.”

i know this is a lot. i keep thinking on page because i need to find out who i am and who i really want to be. plus, my body aches, i need some form of release and this happens to be it. everyone has one.

edit: i’m trying to decide if happiness comes from within or if i need to look for it.

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i’m sure that life will provide me with everything i want but will good things happen more often if i’m passive if i wait for everything to fall neatly perfectly in line?


maybe it’s the active 

the social predators

those who seize all they can manage

who earn the greatest rewards.

am i going to be the catalyst in my environment

or will i become a product of everything that i allow to happen?

i doubt that there’s even a formula for such things.

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when i overexert myself it’s an attempt to push myself towards some unforeseen limit. until my physical sensations match the mental hell. everything is drifting apart. 

pinpoint the root of the problem.

visit the psychotherapist within.

i’m shouting at the doctor down the hall because i’m too docile in life and now i need someone to yell at. but beyond that (the need to display anger just because) is an underlying plea. i’m looking for something to fix it. 

he leads me to the receptacle with my name written on it which is already overflowing with filth because i’m here too often. all he says is “purge.” 

inside me is the want to destroy everything i care about because not everything i care about gives me what i need. i’m going through life cutting and pasting together what i think i want but taking it from different people (a favorable attribute here, a memorable quality there). i can’t handle having my physical needs met by anyone who already meets my emotional ones because if i end up feeling fucked over or slighted then i lose in two respects. it’s not possible to keep emotions “in check” but that’s exactly what i try to do because i feel like if you can control the amount of happiness you feel then you can control the amount of sadness or anger in your life. maybe if i don’t show enthusiasm towards anything then i’ll never end up disappointed. 


if i ever got up the nerve to do a sylvia plath impersonation in your kitchen (if i did it in plain view without shame) i could bet on the fact that you’d do nothing to stop it. LOOK. there’s a bandaid placed on a wound that needs a suture. in retrospect, no, nothing is fixed. now recognize it.

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