A Collection of Spectacles


I don’t think I want to have children. I’m uncomfortable having my body change, and it seems rude to have a kid in a world where people can’t get it together. While out earth burns and we’re twiddling our thumbs. I’m getting more frustrated as I get older, because all these societal hallmarks feel like they strip away the respect I should be given as an autonomous being. Like, my family always talks to my boyfriend as if he is responsible for me in a patronizing way. If they found out what I do, they’d probably ask why he “let me” do that, as if I never had a life before being partnered. As if I don’t have my own strength.

He’s upset when I say I don’t want to take his last name. I want to live and die with the name I was born with unless we take each other’s names. Women are not dowry, I say. I’m endlessly confused because aren’t we Marxists or something? I mean, we’re not really -ists at all but certainly we orbit the left sphere. Then again, he is admittedly a reformed reactionary. I keep finding and fucking men like this, so it must say something about me. More women are giving me attention which is exciting, but I’m always afraid that they’re too homophobic to take my affection seriously, so often I preemptively shy away.

You can fuck whoever you want and see whoever you want just let me know how passionate you are for me. I’m always trying to cut back on talking too much, because I want you to tell me everything about you. I’m looking for deep levels of intimacy and obsession without monogamy. I think many conflate possessiveness with love, but I want obsession and desire without hierarchical rankings. Maybe I’m asking for the impossible. We’ll play with knives only when we have access to the sharpest one. It has to be real or its not worth it.


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Forever disappointed in others and often myself. I play tough but fold quickly like most romantics, tender and frightened underneath. I’m more like a sadomasochistic one though, chasing love because I know it will be wretched and painful. I wonder if I act differently with platonic friends because love interests are always hot and cold with me (and I can never keep their attention long enough). I endlessly stress over why someone rejects me and obsess over past scenarios, a list of my previous actions and deeds.

Maybe it’s all just bad timing, or maybe I don’t know how to be sexually empathetic. It’s easier to seem desirable from behind a screen, but real life interaction terrifies me. I’m better in two dimensions. I rant to you about larger concepts and ideas, showing off books and music because I can’t muster up the courage to say that I think about you all the time. Always gotta play it cool, you know. Whatever. Part of me thinks I should just give up on the idea of love altogether and focus on working on myself.

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My best friend is having a mental breakdown and we don’t know what to do. He said during a moment of clarity that he didn’t want to get better and have to apologize to everyone, and that the idea of facing such tremendous embarrassment was not as bad as death. Growing up surely makes things more interesting, but it never seems to get less tragic.


I’ve been asking myself lately to re-evaluate the kinds of people I let into my life. I don’t want to be bothered by unnecessary stress or put down or berated. This is hard at times because I have spent too long fetishizing power dynamics. At this point I get off most to being forced to feel a mixture of desire and pain, or knowing that someone would do anything to please me. There’s nothing sweeter than hearing how much I’m desired while I get fucked, but my masochistic tendencies bubble up from time to time.


Last week was filled with wet dreams, visions of him cumming in and on me everywhere. I like to be brought close to tears as I near sex-death. I want to feel every thrust until my voice is hoarse.

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I was coming down from class in the elevator at school when this woman stopped me and told me I had “k pop hair.” Her name was Gina Faye, and I wondered if she took the name after Tina’s because she seemed like an SNL watcher. She was an older actress with crowd feet around her eyes and dull red hair. Her eyes grew wider as she told me about k dramas and their depth, and I found her childlike enthusiasm endearing. I kept nodding my head, even took time to write down a few titles to add to the list of things I should get around to  “when I have time.”


I’ve never cum without jerking myself off during. I never learned to play with others. Sometimes I think of isolating myself and getting away from romance because I’m always fucking up. I keep playing over the time he told me I taught him how to be cruel. I want to be treated gingerly, but what do I give in return? I look outside my window and see that flowers are beginning to bloom, bass has been rattling from shitty car speakers all day.

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I can never tell if someone really likes me or if I just get them off.

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K and I were fucking as other thoughts started to creep into my head. I started to think about my ex and how he mistreated his ex. I thought about how she must feel that she was at her most beautiful years ago, brainwashed and having been handed a series of complexes by him. I rolled this around in my head for a bit, fixating on this delicate medley of emotions. I turned it around in my head and examined it until it felt as if I could taste her tears. I came thinking about this, about how remarkably precious and sad it all seemed.

Want me to take the whole thing? Fine. Deep in my ass, I feel you press against the bend up towards my colon, something I’ve read about before but never felt firsthand. I say something about getting close and you say something about cumming soon too, at least I think. I was too wrapped up in feeling you, thinking about nothing else, to remember exactly what happened.

It’s hard to hear over my own moans anyway. Something falls off the bed. Whatever, fuck it. I only cum when I feel you empty into me. Afterwards, I’m stoned and embarrassed, apologizing profusely as always. I can’t find the words because I don’t want to look foolish, but I’ve never felt anything like this before.


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It feels like I’ve gone from living with my parents to voluntarily living in a situation where I always have to think about how late I’m gonna be out or where I’m going. I love relationships, but I don’t always know why living together is part of one.

I’m pretty demotivated when it comes to school right now. The semester (hopefully my last) is almost over soon and I’m kind of slacking off. I’m laying in bed a lot, caught up in my fantasies and my fears.

I’m anxious all the time and fearful of letting people really know me. I figure if I’ve served all of my worst attributes on a platter and you still want to stick around then you’re either just as insane as me or a really sweet person or a masochist. I’m a little more closed off than usual because I’m more fearful of trusting others at the moment. I need help learning how to be affectionate, because I don’t know when to send an emoji or when to say something sweet. I wish I was better at these things because you honestly give me a sense of hope.

I think about taking a break from smoking so I can get my dreams back for a bit. I’ll get back to actually writing on here and not just ranting soon. It’s getting a little solipsistic, even for a diary.


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I’ve probably posted more this month than I have in years. Procrastinating from homework right now. Did coke at 11 this morning and smoked a blunt. My epileptic music critic client has told me enough stories about using binges to finish work that I feel like this is ok.

I’m tired of sighing. I should have shut up and pitched myself as more demure. That’s where I always fuck up. I’m mean and come off as too slutty. Not like it even matters, but I have so much less sex than people think mainly because I hate how people treat me. It’s also really hard for me to be interested in people even though I’ll tolerate an admirer as a friend.  I mean, that overlap is impossible to avoid (I am naked on the Internet a lot) but I actually  experience romantic feelings rarely. I guess that’s everyone, though. I’m everyone, pretty much. Tired of begging for humanity.

I only think about fucking and dicking around after, laughing and feeling the spot where I got fucked after, I swear. I want to fuck all day then walk around talking about stupid shit so bad that I’m peppering vulgarity in every post as of late to where I’ll probably look back on these with embarrassment. I’m just fearful and avoidant. Excitement is frightening.

I’m so bad at making the ones I care about feel unique and special. If I look back on every serious romantic interest or partner (a small but unfortunate club) I realize I’ve ended up saying, “how could you think I never loved you? I’ve never done [x,y,z] for anyone else” at some point. I’m a terrible comic as well, making jokes about shit that makes the people special to me feel like they don’t matter, even when they’re all I think about.

How does someone learn to be tender?

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Been pretty sick the last few days. I’m making way less money than usual. I believe things will be fine, though. The world’s oldest profession has had a way of regrouping and paving new ways forward. Maybe augmented reality porn stars? Who knows? People love to get off but hate talking about it.

I feel more forgiving lately yet my attention is short at the same time, if that even makes sense. Second chances are fine, but a third strike is something I can’t handle or tolerate right now. K says I’ve been selfish, points to stuff I can’t even remember from years ago. Maybe I’ve been selfish before but it’s not a one way street and currently I’m trying to be more, I don’t know, based (for lack of a better word). Maybe it’s all too late, but we should figure it out soon.

How many ways can I say I want to be filled up, loaded, drenched, stuffed with cum? Fuck, when I’m not angry or depressed, I’m longing. Every minute seems steps farther away from what I desire. I just wanna pant and sigh and make little noises all day from under, then over you, stuck in a carved out universe of bliss.

Picking a “main partner” makes sense, but the jealousy that accompanies monogamy is absurd. I can make life long friends but love is always contentious. I hate this. It seems like I’m desired from afar but I can’t keep anything or anyone interested for long. Everyone I love turns into a series of ignored messages or unwanted outbursts. Like a little pig in filth, I’m constantly rolling around between violence, sex, and numbness.

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Maybe back together. Not really sure. I don’t reflect much, but maybe I should think back on my twenties. Maybe later.

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