A Collection of Spectacles


I thought this blog’s ten year anniversary was a big deal. Now I’ll be 30 in two years, and I’m still crying about boys and how they’ve hurt me. Time hasn’t killed my optimism, though. Maybe that’s one good takeaway. That happens far too often with people my age.

There’s a bit of a chicken or egg thing when it comes to my sexual interest in rotten behavior, and my mistreatment by sexual partners. Actually, who am I kidding? I read De Sade at 13 while jerking off in my family’s computer chair. Still, I can’t figure out why every romantic interest treats me like shit at some point. I’ve started to assume it’s partially due to how dark I am, as unfortunate as that is. Everything I study confirms that racism, both outward and internalized, is more alive then we’d like to think. Maybe it’s a case in which I can see others transcribe these rotten historic lines upon me, a micropolitics of desire. I don’t really think about being black when I walk though the world, but I walk around in a world that puts far more (negative) importance on it than I’d like to think, and I have to remember that. All I know is I’ve gotten many apologies over the years.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t foster some anger at times. I’ve had to work very hard to become ten times more talented than most, only to get recognized far less than I should.


I’m heartbroken, if I’m to be honest. I’m feeling like I’m 16 again, upset I tailored a playlist just for it to be left unseen. Fuck. A sign that you care would be nice, even if you can’t send it directly.


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