A Collection of Spectacles


The internet has probably altered my experience of time forever. Every moment seems like it is prolonged, like it stretches out in a neverending quest for validation and likes. I miss websites, and I hate these stupid platforms. I’ve bitched about this before.


Laying in my bed, thinking about fucking. Grateful I have nice memories to jerk off to. Impatiently waiting till I can pose again and spread my legs wide. Leaning over while perched on top makes me feel powerful. I move my hips until cum begins to fill me, sometimes as sputters, sometimes in streams. The sticky-warm fluid coats my insides.

Leave your dick inside of me while we talk. I’m trying to choose my words carefully, wondering if finding out that I’m a crazy bitch detracts or adds to my attractiveness.

I’m mad that you seem motivated by what’s convenient. You can’t write anything about that. It’s not poetic enough.

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The world seems depressing and oppressive at the moment. Last year seemed like five years crammed together into one. These platforms are monopolistic and I can’t escape them. People seem increasingly anti-sex. My dad could use donations, but of course these useless academics are nowhere to be found.

Every classmate in high school who told me not to change became really close minded.

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