A Collection of Spectacles


How many times can I possibly say I absolutely hate turning, going back and forth. No, again, I don’t want to talk about a fucking thing because there’s nothing to say that hasn’t been overdramatized, and then presented again rationally, with a calm voice.

He blames my incidental play outside of him to a reconfiguration of our plans. Maybe he thought he’d made my disappointment swell. The unseen event is equated to searching for another drug pusher, and the words are playing over again because of the reductionistic attempt to quantify my decisions.

When I play, I like to be a good girl. I don’t like to fuck up. When I’m deep in my headspace, I tend to regress and act much younger. Something to warn you about. My muscles twitch involuntarily, hooked up to a beautiful device. The bitch who lives a floor up must have heard me scream and scream. “Are you going to cry? Go ahead, cry.” Cathartic release is a blessing.

Now that I have weird, sadistic shit done to me all the time, I’ve finally gathered up the courage to kill roaches.

They’ve both asked, actually, if I’ll submit to a woman. Never, I can’t take one seriously, not even myself. Maybe one with particularly linear body type. But, then what separates her from a man?

I stopped playing music for a moment, as the muffled screams from outside were mistaken for protestors. Excited, I paused. Instead, another drunken crowd.

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