A Collection of Spectacles

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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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