A Collection of Spectacles

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24 is already miles better than 23. I felt really forgotten last year and lost. Well, not exactly doing better in the lost department. I have a session 9 hours from now. I wonder how long I can continue doing this and not paying taxes. Sometimes clients “dad” me, especially one in particular, and they tell me how I’m not saving for retirement or putting anything away for my future. They ruined it all for us anyway, so what’s the point of that? My mind wanders and complains. I will probably never pay my loans back because there are a million other things I’d rather do then tap into that pile of shit, like going over that long list of things I should do today but probably won’t one more time. Go back to therapy and tackle the mountainous task of finding a psych that isn’t going to call me depraved and fucked up because, whatever, I love my fetishes and I care deeply about the men who serve me. Clean more. Go outside.

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Staring at this empty box frightens me. It’s weird to have a conversation with someone whom you love very much about whether or not things were consensual, if you were playing, or if you really got hurt but in an “ok” way. “No, it was not a game. I was really putting up a fight. Yes, it is ok.” I think I secretly wanted, needed to feel like shit. Sometimes I really want to have my face pushed into the ground till my cheeks are sore, called a fucking slut, and rammed but not enjoy it at all. I found myself on the bed, high and immobile, with my eyes shut tightly, afraid to move. I didn’t want to get slapped in the face again because I hate that, so I just didn’t move. I felt worse for him and comforted him because he is not used to making himself feel bad through “controlled situations” in order to feel better. His therapist called us disgusting. I can’t explain in words why I have these urges, but I figure it’s better that I do these things than spend my whole life running away from pain.

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How depressed should I be, now that I’ve graduated?

 

 

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A Working Girl’s Haikus

“Come to this hotel,

Right in the heart of Times Square.”

…Looks a lot like Hell

 

The old man canceled

Now my pockets are empty

My bag full of dicks

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Every time I think I have things figured out, I am dropped from the sky and reminded of the finite nature of my being. I am too preoccupied with love, too obsessed with the most unstable of volatile beings. I want to wall myself up, sew myself shut till the chemicals in my brain fail to cross a synapse for the first time. Apoptotic fantasies rush inward, what suffocating thoughts. “I am a fan of breath play, but this asphyxiation knows no end, and it surely isn’t erotic,” I think. Then, as I take a breath and revel in the soreness of my tar stained lungs, I check my phone, and a new glimmer from the same dark place appears.

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I’m hoping that I haven’t messed up, because that would be the most embarrassing, painful thing ever.

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I am going to get photos taken today. Work is sometimes fun and sometimes grueling, but It is like any other job, and no one tried to save me when I was hating myself while I folded clothes all day. It is better than most menial jobs, because I don’t have to pretend that I like you. Going to Connecticut for a while tonight.

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Went over to the ex’s to pick up some stuff. We had a good time, drank, smoked, and watched movies. We went out to eat and suddenly I felt like I was too drunk at 3 in the afternoon. Soon enough, I’m yelling at him on the L train platform about how much I hate him.

Then, I go home and furiously masturbate. What the fuck am I doing?

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I’m always meeting someone, and it has happened again. We kissed in front of Union Square. I am so scared. I want to be loved and liked and I am terribly afraid of being left alone, even though the sting usually subsides eventually. He said he’s down to try kinky things, which is exciting. I’ve always had to hold the two realms far apart. _____ texted me which was nice because we had not spoken in a while and it is good to know that we will always love each other. At the heart of it all, I am a whore. I do not say this to be shameful or because I am ashamed. Well, maybe that is partially a lie. I am ashamed sometimes of what I am doing because of what other people will think, which is totally reasonable. I will run far away from anyone at this point who tries to convince me that they don’t care about what anyone in the world thinks, not even their best friend or their family. I am enjoying myself though, and money truly seems to soothe some of my pains. Society today is so odd. I’m spending my work money on philosophy books and preparing for student loans. I thought the other day about how I used to think love was this one time magical thing, that we were meant to fall hard for one or two at most. Now, I think it is just a feeling we float in and out of. I am always stuck between opposite ideals. I have a housewife’s aspirations but a harlot’s mindset. How can I be loved and settle down when I put a catheter in an old man’s urethra the other day? This morning I danced to Billie Holiday around the room, swirling and gyrating. He put his face close to my panties and whiffed deeply, but it’s okay because I never have sex with them. And if I never fall in love again, that’s soon enough for me/I’m gonna lock my heart and throw away the key. The words are running through my ears, but I keep thinking about what time it is and how I need to fill my pockets. It’s okay because I never have sex, at least, but I’m doing all these other things and surely this is still tip toeing a line. They always ask how it went and I can’t say anything but, “fine.”

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