A Collection of Spectacles

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I keep making the same mistakes over and over and over and over and over and over

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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 complexly 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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A series of depressing dreams

I’m hooking up with this girl from college, some soft butch I’m not actually attracted to in reality. I’m trying to eat her out and she stops me and just keeps asking what I’m doing and if I know what I’m doing.

I wrote him a going away letter and then lost it, but I don’t realize this until I’m supposed to give it to him. I get sweaty and nervous as I rummage through my bag.

K thinks his work check is going to be for some large amount but it’s actually for a fraction. I’m upset and disappointed because I was depending on him but when I voice my frustration, we begin to argue.

 

 

I don’t really want to let go. I’m a fool and I’m always underselling my emotions to you so why would you think this time was any different?  Why wouldn’t you just wait a week till I folded like I always do?

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I feel like I’m never going to find a relationship where the glue that holds us together is a willingness to examine the man’s sexual inadequacy ever again.

There’s a limit to how willing I am to change and become less maladaptive. It’s why I left my last therapist. Not Peter, but Nicole. I can’t remember if I’ve spoken about her here. It’s been so long.

Life is getting better, I guess. In a Master’s program now and I can play the grown up game ok for a whore. But the older I get, the more apparent the fork in the road becomes. The better part of me knows I should probably forgo at least some of my once previously held lifelong goals in order to curb my more salacious desires.

When I say I hate you part of me means it but you know it’s mainly a paper thin bluff because in actuality I owe you a lot for forcing me to rethink my entire schema. I never knew how far I would push myself just to cum.

I wish I could be a regular bitch and have a boring life and a normal job and a husband I really love. Some guy with the courage to smile at me in class or something. After a few years, we throw a housewarming party to placate my family. We save up to get a car and argue over who should cut the grass next. After years of blissful mediocrity, he has a one night stand with some drunk woman at a bar and though I’m devastated, I take him back because when he tells me about it, I see tears glisten in his eyes.

 

 

 

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I bought a sleep aid from Duane Reade today around 9:30 am. I got off from work after seeing some dude with a really small curved dick right before. I couldn’t make myself pretend like I had a gag reflex.

I’m tired of trying to make men feel self important. I wanna call you disgusting to your face. They stopped selling dxm when I was in high school so I don’t even know whats in this pill I’ve taken, but at least I have enough courage to visit this.

*****

I started this post five days ago and I’m trying to finish it now. I started writing, “I wanna say that I can’t stand men, but I’ve pivoted away from gender essentialism over the years,” but now that I’ve reread the paragraph above, I’ve realized how full of shit I am. He always says that the future is something that we can’t describe because the language for it doesn’t exist right now.

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Domming in 2018

“What about if I take you out to the park with my boots all muddy and make you lick them while you kneel in public?”

”I don’t wanna end up viral.”

”Fair enough.”

*****

I’m on my knees watching you breathe heavily. I’m trying to flick my tongue around and take my time because out of the hundreds of girls who wish they were me right now, I feel like I’m the only one who wants to watch you pant and sigh. This moment feels like a well earned eternity, blissfull and saccharine. Yet after releasing a steady stream of cum in me, you start sobbing violently and my body runs cold. Later, sitting on the couch after everything has settled and cooled, you ask if I think you have ptsd.

I can’t even think of how many times and ways I’ve examined every encounter endlessly, observing and gathering information in order to maybe try and answer why this happens when it does, but instead I choke up like I always do and say, “from what,” even though I know what from. I don’t think words exist yet to describe how I feel, but I hope everyone feels something this bittersweet at least once.

 

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Remember when I used to play with my hair while you fucked me and that alone could make you cum?

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Maybe this should be renamed A Collection of Muses. This has turned out to be a museum for those I loved when I was 16. Maybe one day I’ll put together a reader’s companion for this online diary, which would finally divulge who I’d written about and what my experiences were. First note: I was 16 and in love with a boy who constantly toyed with my emotions. Years later he would mention that he thought I was the one he was supposed to marry. He never did though, and now I’m in love with someone else, because love stories are rarely picturesque nor do they always work out as originally intended. The perils of consuming neatly packaged and unrealistic romance tales can be found on any Facebook feed, where women in their mid-twenties still pine over the princesses of their youth (also known as the Disney Effect). At 16, I loved a boy who was incapable of love and listened to too much post-rock. Well of course I was an adolescent too, so armed with works by Kathy Acker, J.G. Ballard, E. E. Cummings, a tendency to overuse punctuation, and dreams of postmodernism, I set off to write this online journal with the hopes of logging my experiences while avoiding the pitfalls of oversharing.

You asked why I still put up with you. I despise reading love stories but enjoy standing on the precipice of requited passion, the pained moment when you’re unsure of how you’ll be perceived so you’re hyper-aware of your actions. Maybe I’m not even that interested in you in reality, but I enjoy that you’re difficult to read. You had your hand in my underwear, beneath my stockings, and you brought your face close to mine, but I couldn’t move. Do you find it odd that I’ve never kissed you? The ultimate Millennial move, leaving a direct question in the middle of a ranting blog post in the hopes that you’ll find it.

I had a dream that he was still alive. I knew he was dead in real life the moment my mind conjured him up so I was angry at myself. I couldn’t figure out why I wanted to tease myself with his face, making me wistfully and pathetically ask the question every child has phrased at least once: why won’t you just come back?

You’re next to me, snoring with your mouth open because you’re allergic to our cat but you adore him anyway. If I had to make a list of all the ways in which I love you I’d most likely fail, because I see you so often that I probably take you for granted, which is a shame.

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I got a call a few days before Thanksgiving. When I hung up I was nervous, shaken. If this is true, I thought, then it probably won’t kill me, but I may never feel the full force of my femininity. Worst case, I’d lose the option to one day feel my body swell up to twice its size, to feel my breasts pull me down with weight, to feel nauseous and sick daily.

I went in for my appointment and met a doctor I hadn’t seen before. We shook hands as she made small talk and mentioned that she had gone to California for the holiday, that it was surprisingly cold and that she stuffed herself with food. I thought about how many times she must have told the same story while staring at a gaping vagina. She made some shifting motions or, I don’t know, did something that I couldn’t see because my legs had some weird hospital cloth draped over them. She said, “You’re going to feel a little bit of pressure.” A cold, wet, gloved hand pushed around inside.

Days of stress boiled down into one examination a half hour long. The doctor poked around with a sterile hand that was in no way sexual, but as the idea of perverting the situation entered my mind I tried my hardest to keep from getting aroused. Ultimately, whatever lesion they saw originally had vanished. “These things happen sometimes. Looks like there’s nothing there now.” She removed her glove and smiled. “Also, you should get your period soon. There was a little bit of blood in there, but you knew that.”

Had my body dealt such an indefinite sentence it would have been upsetting, surely, but oddly comforting. Now, I’m relinquished again to not knowing what the future might hold. I’m just a regular, normal, relatively healthy person and I’ll have to face the future’s uncertainty by myself.

Maybe my Mother found God in order to attach some order to the world. She can look at every tree, every being, every object, and place it in a huge schema that assures her things happen as they should, for better or worse. I’m here leading a contemptuous life because she will somehow claim that her knees are cramped for a reason, even if it goes against all logic.

 

 

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Really tired of men and their pseudo-intellectual musings, bleh.

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These constant fantasies are both a release and a burden. I think he’s having way more reservations about this and it’s really starting to show. I’m either praised or vilified for my sexual interests. It’s easy to ignore negative comments unless those criticisms are coming from the person who lays in your bed at night. Every time I look at my cat I think about how much I love him but fret that he’s always on the verge of death. I’m trying a “diet,” sort of. Mainly just cutting out junk and unnecessary snacks. I’m becoming more comfortable with the fact that I’m not happy if I’m above a certain weight and that I’ll always fawn over how thin I once was. This isn’t a very literary post but more of an actual journal entry, I guess.

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