A Collection of Spectacles

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A mental, and hopefully therapeutic, exercise.

What you would say about me, most likely…

You tend to make things difficult on yourself by trying to force yourself to be around me when you really don’t want to. You’re too passionate. When you’re angry, you do ridiculous things that don’t solve the problem at all, and make me second guess being around you sometimes. There are a million things I don’t want to deal with concerning relationships, but  those outbursts are number one.

To switch back, another exercise.

You will never be as honest with me as I would like, because you hold too much in and keep too many thoughts to yourself by nature. This irritates the fuck out of me because I want to know a person as wholly and completely as possible, because there are far too many barriers that one puts up during the day and in life and few people try to break through those. I like to strip a person naked emotionally, and maybe there’s some sadistic pleasure to be gained, but more so because it’s my glass slipper test. I’m waiting for someone to ask me the right questions and make me have a breakthrough and weep on the floor, because I would run my tongue along every tidbit of flesh they’d called theirs.  I almost hate that it’s so easy though. In five minutes I can locate a place you don’t want to go.

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How many times can I possibly say I absolutely hate turning, going back and forth. No, again, I don’t want to talk about a fucking thing because there’s nothing to say that hasn’t been overdramatized, and then presented again rationally, with a calm voice.

He blames my incidental play outside of him to a reconfiguration of our plans. Maybe he thought he’d made my disappointment swell. The unseen event is equated to searching for another drug pusher, and the words are playing over again because of the reductionistic attempt to quantify my decisions.

When I play, I like to be a good girl. I don’t like to fuck up. When I’m deep in my headspace, I tend to regress and act much younger. Something to warn you about. My muscles twitch involuntarily, hooked up to a beautiful device. The bitch who lives a floor up must have heard me scream and scream. “Are you going to cry? Go ahead, cry.” Cathartic release is a blessing.

Now that I have weird, sadistic shit done to me all the time, I’ve finally gathered up the courage to kill roaches.

They’ve both asked, actually, if I’ll submit to a woman. Never, I can’t take one seriously, not even myself. Maybe one with particularly linear body type. But, then what separates her from a man?

I stopped playing music for a moment, as the muffled screams from outside were mistaken for protestors. Excited, I paused. Instead, another drunken crowd.

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Disposable parts: If I could take the physical force of him, and the trust from him, and the mental connection between him and I, I would have the makings of quite the lovely doll.

Weird dreams, always. Mom and Dad find my kinky books and I yell, “I’m not a deviant!” over and over. I am fighting to be taken seriously as an intelligent pervert. The bubbliest co-worker I know kills herself and I spend the whole time trying to convince everyone that, indeed, I knew her. That, indeed, we were friends. Other odd stories of rejection, denial, and what I feel to be self-affirming activities. Usually, when I am cognizant of my dreams at all, it tends to mean that I need to change something.

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All day, all week. Complete solidarity.

Lacking leadership, and encompassing many causes, this is the affective politics I’ve only seen on paper thus far.

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