A Collection of Spectacles


A few weeks ago, K and I decided to split a tab a friend gave to us as a thank you for letting them stay over. I knew I would feel something, but I thought I’d be able to control it since I can typically function even on hallucinogens.

Hours later, the room is spinning and I can’t stop from laugh-crying. We invite our friends over to do some spell and I agree though I’m not very spiritual. K is the king for it and I’m the queen. He has to give me something that represents his staff and I’m left to rule over the kingdom he’s left behind. I complain about how phallic this all is.

I always thought I wanted to be a writer or a psychologist and later a theorist but getting back into the grinder of academia makes me realize why I left. Grad school is fine, though frustratingly saturated with older liberals.  Still, they’re way more fun to introduce ideas to than the “already enlightened,” who are too stuck in their ways.  After getting deep in the art/academia world, I’ve realized that I fucking hate some of these people. Dying a nobody instead of a wiki page seems like a wet dream.


“The boys I mean are not refined.” They’re precious and jealous and endlessly cruel. They’re sick and arrogant but charming and sweet, though less in a nectarious way and more like a knife pressed to my throat that I long for. If I’m to be completely  honest, I’ve thought about slitting his throat in his sleep for all the times he’s painted me a hysteric.

You can only be born once and we’re all limited by the time we were brought up in. Collective memories forever inscribed upon our flesh. I feel stuck, endlessly doomed to wage war in my relationships because my partners trivialize my feelings and can’t handle me. Even when it’s good, it still goes to shit because I’ve preemptively sexualized strife between us.



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