A Collection of Spectacles

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This is childish but it is honest.

I had this dream a while ago.

[A] is there with [B] in a corner and they’re talking. I keep trying to run over to say “hey,” but I have to travel down the length of this long ass table. There is a girl with me, but the chick looks like 19 or something, and she keeps telling me how she likes to be spanked and other shit, but basically she’s a virgin. She goes over and I go over with her to [A] and I notice she’s trying to hit on him, so I try to chat it up, and I keep talking to him when she leaves. We talk about cats or something, cause for whatever reason [A]’s house is a cat halfway zone.

What can I do? I need to get this out of my system and just rant. I hate that I am broke but I also hate jobs. I love learning but hate school. I want to be with someone sometimes, but I hate the people that want to be with me.

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Constantly stressed. My mind is other places, and I never act like I care about other people. Can I go somewhere and ask them about some sort of cure for extreme apathy? I’m also an awful parasitic daughter. I sit and press refresh for hours. My feelings towards others change constantly, so maybe I really never have feelings for anyone. I like the construct, but can’t give anything in actuality.

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“In Clean House the actual work of transforming the home is edited out. While it is going on the property owners are holed up in a hotel to contemplate the error of their ways or engage in soul-searching. On their return they are invited to take off their blindfolds and open their eyes. The reactions—conditioned by previous viewing of reality shows—are always the same.”

 

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I would hope that you, he, whatever (I don’t want to admit that I care about something, so I’ll try to mask it with various pronouns) don’t care about me the same way I do about other men. I might actually want someone again. For some reason, the idea scares me more than anything.  I like them all, but from a well calculated distance. Sometimes they’re like interchangeable parts, and that’s unfortunate. I don’t want to dress up like a fucking whore tomorrow.

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Maybe it’s because I haven’t had my coffee yet. Domme life is hard, I know. It’s only been said more than a thousand times by now. It’s weird watching random men assume the same positions before me, curling into themselves like children, all slightly overweight, wearing L’Air Du shit and dripping sweat. I love all of those fuckers, those awful middle-aged toys. I used to go into prospective romantic situations with the honest intention of being myself, knowing I might leave upset. Now I don’t really give two shits, feelings of want come from my mind and nothing emotional.

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Yesterday was a day dedicated to nostalgia. I haven’t thought about that fucking place in ages. A large portion of who I am is always going to be thankful for shows and good people. My life is going to be alright, and I am going to be happy. I need to keep trying to convince myself of this. I’m losing my passionate edge. I’m finding a funny kind of complacency inside this weird halfway house between loneliness and its opposite, whatever that is. There’s nothing I can do about anything, if I’m going to be completely honest, anyway. I project too far ahead, and it’s awful. It fosters anxiety and bitterness towards things that can’t be controlled.

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