A Collection of Spectacles


With men, I have no tongue, nothing which would facilitate articulation. Words flow from the mouth without hesitation, without a slight pause. Feeling freely is sometimes a burden, as it ends up looking as if I’ve spread myself too far, when really I’m indecisive and stubborn. With both hands clasped firmly around my beliefs, I refuse to change the way in which I conduct myself simply to make others more comfortable, leaving me content and severely unhappy at the same time. Either “the boys I mean are not refined,” or I mold monsters out of men. Sprawled out, as close to lifeless as possible, I will mouth something along the lines of, “It’s okay to like me but not want much to do with me,” to the next faceless hostage (though it’s never phrased well enough or uttered loud enough for anyone to hear). Maybe, one day the world will fit my curves with more grace.

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i never wanted to become a woman who highlights all the things that women can and can’t do but now i’m starting to feel like such matters are important.

society, at least in the states, doesn’t encourage women to feel openly sexual. to open their legs without shame but while still possessing some sense of worth. to talk about fucking. to fuck for fuck’s sake and not because they’re secretly self-loathing. to do it simply to feel good. 

there’s rarely an in-between. women on one extreme are plastic mannequins. they listen to animalistic howls that cry, “look pretty and don’t open your mouth unless you’re looking for a bonus.” but where do they go when it’s closing time and they’ve spent all day forcing themselves not to think?

on the other end are those who are so overly intellectual that the trait becomes a hinderance. the girls that are afraid to touch themselves for fear of what they might find. they waste bodies that are beautiful. they may as well stitch their cunts closed. 

in the end, it’s not men who keep these subcategories in existence. each woman adapts to life differently and is the biggest source of her own discomfort. the mannequin feels that she’s giving men what they want. the other (the secretary? the nun? i lack a better term) shuns sexuality and feels as though she is giving herself the treatment she deserves. 

we’re all tricked into thinking that being emotional is inherently female. yes, men feel too. if you don’t believe me then try and break one. broken men are odd sights to see because they seem lost but look closely and their faces scream I DON’T KNOW HOW I’M SUPPOSED TO ACT. i have the freedom to cry when i want and be comforted by seas of men. when women feel bad they can cry and cry and cry but when they’re broken it’s different (it’s worse). when they stop crying and become active, they’re ruthless. 

Sex is easy.

sex is a service. it is the act of servicing a bodily need.

this is why some people, mainly men, are willing to pay for it. if you are a woman (especially if you are young) you can probably get it for free. 

To love someone. That takes skill.

in blood and guts, acker’s protagonist is a ten year old whore. 

“one of the most destructive forces in the world is love. For the following reason: The world is a conglomeration of objects, no, of events and the approachings of events towards objects, therefore of becoming stases static stagnant, of all that is unreal. You get in the world, you get your daily life your routine doesn’t matter if you’re rich poor legal illegal, you being to believe what doesn’t change is real, and love comes along and shows all these unchangeable for ever fixtures to be flimsy paper bits. Love can tear anything to shreds.”

i know this is a lot. i keep thinking on page because i need to find out who i am and who i really want to be. plus, my body aches, i need some form of release and this happens to be it. everyone has one.

edit: i’m trying to decide if happiness comes from within or if i need to look for it.

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