A Collection of Spectacles


I always follow up admissions of happiness with an acknowledgment of how strange that is. Should I be totally honest with someone who admits, in their dedication to honesty towards me, will never care about anyone but themselves?

Everything seems like gesturing, sometimes. I’m tired of being placated. My biggest pet peeve is men giving me disingenuous comments about my work in order to fuck me.  I figured I was one out of three, not one out of ten. I hate sex.

Boys and their antics are less frightening the second time around. They give themselves away easily, or maybe it’s just easier to examine situations I’ve been in before.

You have to read in order to get to know me because I can’t explain my feelings succinctly sometimes, even though I talk incessantly. Everyone’s fucked up. Seems like everyone wants to want someone who doesn’t want them at all.

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