Good Morning, Telephone

There’s nothing quite like waking up to text messages from three thirst ass dudes to make getting out of bed in the morning that much easier. Which is saying something, because I usually have a really difficult time getting out of bed, and spending thirty minutes swiping left on Tinder is, for the most part, more stimulating than a cup of coffee. What can I say – judging other people first thing in the morning on a sexual level really gets me going. And it’s something that I do all day long, scrolling endlessly through Instagram, fully immune to the fact that people are trying to induce jealousy in their followers by posting artlessly staged pictures of their so-called beautiful lives. Happiness isn’t something that can be quantified by the number of likes you get on your selfies, but, hey, I don’t take selfies, so maybe I’m wrong about that one. Although, as life goes on, and I walk down the street, maybe there is something distinctly relevant about other people in this world and their need for attention. Which is something I refuse to indulge in, but, if for just one minute, I could take the time out of my day to respond to that text message. To swipe right. To double tap on that photo. Maybe this will truly improve the quality of the lives of those around me, although, in the digital era, I’m not the one to blame for training people to tie their self worth to cell phone notifications, so why should I be the one who has to put in all the dirty work? Maybe modern technology should have stopped at the iPod, patted itself on the back and not fallen into the trap of wasting time inventing online gadgets intended to cull advertising dollars while doing little to help this world truly be a better place.

Total Loss Part II

If I stopped writing right now, then maybe I could be beautiful. But, instead, it’s a compulsion, and I am choking. I am being choked by these words, while they stroke my face and tell me it’s going to be okay. 

My life would have been okay, but here I am, bent over on this keyboard like a needle in my arm. And I am shooting up gerunds and clauses like heroin, and I am so fucking high. On words. 

But – what if? What if I didn’t do that? What if I didn’t waste my days on the clickety clack of nails on this QWERTY and had instead submitted myself to a more noble pursuit? What if I had gotten married? Gone to college and had children? Working at some office with designer shoes and a nice, healthy plant. What would my life be then? But instead I am broken in these moments with nothing left to comfort me except my words. They are the only thing I have left in this world, and I am deserted to my feeble existing. Tending to these words like poison I am about to ingest. 

I shake in my boots. They are going to fucking kill me one day. But, until then, I will love them like the lover I’ll never have. 

Total Loss

All I do is sit and write, well the rest of the world crumbles around me. Me and these words – that’s the only constant I have in my life. It’s the only thing that I can rely on. Words. Sentences. Vowels and verbs. They exist today, they existed yesterday, and they’ll still be here tomorrow. But everything else in my life? It could be burning to the ground this very moment, and I wouldn’t even notice. I am suffocating myself in words while my money slips out my pockets. While my friends abandon me to my vices. While I slither into various permutations of repulsive addictions. My face is falling off and shattering on the floor, but I have failed to notice how ugly I’ve become because these words. These fucking words. They are strangling me. They have monopolized me and my attention. And everything I do – it’s all words. It’s only words. It’s 200 word count short stories that end in no beautiful conclusion, but I am controlled. I am shackled to this keyboard. A prisoner of the page, and all these words that are demanding to trickle from my mind to yours. While everything else is spinning out of control, and one day I’ll just be dumb and drunk and old and alone. I won’t know what’s happened, but I’ll still be here, decaying and writing like I always have been. Abandoned to words.

I’m going to lose everything I have. I sacrifice the golden calf of everything wonderful in my life to these words. It’s just me, and it’s just these words, and there’s absolutely nothing left except the promise of my future destitution.

Repost from CandynCigarettes


Whenever things feel too real, I run away. It’s a defense mechanism I’ve learned over the years after being burned over and over again. Any of my friends will tell you I love them so openly, so fully, but when it comes to romance I shut off completely. I can’t tell you exactly when I put up the wall, but I can tell you about the times I tried to let it down. There have only been two boys I let see me at my most vulnerable and they both died within a year of each other. If I didn’t already feel like a crazy person, this certainly helped me over the edge. They were the only ones I ever felt comfortable even remotely expressing feelings to. But the both of them, regardless of how much I know they loved me, still put me through hell. No matter how open I thought I was being, I was still told that they didn’t realize how much I cared or some other bullshit line. But honestly, doesn’t that seem like a cop out on their part? I mean, I’m not trying to pass blame completely because I know I was at fault in some instances, but just because I’m a strong woman doesn’t mean I don’re want to be loved. I’ve spent so many years wondering what it is about me that isn’t loveable. I’m funny, I’m smart, I’m independent, I’m caring, I’m a babe, and I’m adventurous in various different ways. So what is it exactly that stops boys from wanting to pursue something further? And furthermore, always choosing a girl that is nearly the opposite of me? At almost 28, I still have no answer. These two boys that I was able to be so honest with seemed to get frustrated when I asked. They both, no joke, told me I was “perfect”, yet neither of them wanted to be with me. And now they’re both gone forever. I’ll never be able to show them that I’m not closed off, I’m just confused. Cause really, it just doesn’t seem fair, how can one be both perfect and yet still not enough? I feel like I’ve been fighting this battle for far too long, but how am I supposed to let my guard down when I tried for the only two people I thought really understood me and that still wasn’t enough for either of them? When I was young I spent years questioning what was wrong with me, asking what it was I was doing wrong. But then I found confidence within myself and realized I didn’t need anyone to validate my own self worth. Unfortunately though it seems that confidence began to come off as coldness. It seems as though no matter what I do, I can’t win. My heart ends up broken every time. I either protect myself too much or not enough. Is there a balance?

The First Week of This Year’s Manic Episode

No, but that’s not it. I’m just losing my fucking mind. As I’m sitting here reeling, feeling completely separated from the decisions that are emanating from my mouth. And from my hands, and instead of feeling absolutely in control of everything I’m doing, I am subjected to this slightly spinning, slightly dizzying sensation of being three feet away from everything that’s happening in my life right now. Pushing through the molasses of my mind to try to regain some semblance of control while some automatic monster sits at the steering wheel and directs me down a path of irreconcilable violence and destruction. Things are getting messy again. I’m making more horrible decisions, and my friendships are slipping through my fingers like sand. My friends are leaving me, and I’m not sure what my master plan is here. I’d like to keep my job. I’d like to have friends. I’d like to look at myself in the mirror and feel like the person looking back is me, but I don’t feel that way. I have been possessed. There is a demon inside me, and why is my life such a mess? And by the time the demon gets bored of ruining my life, and when this demon leaves, what pit of despair will I be clawing out of then? Jesus, help me.

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Date Part IV

My stomach hurts. As I try to stay clever things in this conversation in this nice bar next to the Lake. My stomach’s been hurting for days now, but I try to tamp down on the sensations of achy-ness and discomfort as I sip down this beverage that is intended to dull so many things right now, but stomach still hurts. And he’s sitting there next to me, with his smile and his nice, intelligent things that he’s saying. If he knew that my stomach hurt, what would he say then? What would he have said if I had blown off this date? Would he have been sad and dismayed? Would he have called me again? I didn’t want to bank on him calling me again, because I’m aware of the value of doing things right now and not waiting for next week. So I swallowed a bunch of antacids and called a cab to this bar so I can sit here and pretend not to feel too much pain while pretending to feel like I’m interested in being here and engaging in this conversation.

There was no way I could have blown him off, anyways. Look at him. I try not to look at him as he chews on his food and says things to which I am supposed to respond. What are we talking about right now? Oh, yeah, that’s right. We’re doing the first date, introductory dance of, “Where are you from?”

“I’m from here,” I say, already mildly irritated by the question that I have to answer every time I meet someone new. I’ll never be from anywhere different. I’ll always be from here, which is why people often respond with, “Oh, you’re a local! How rare!” That’s what he says, too, and I hate that answer, although I try to check my hatred and irritation at this conversation, because maybe I’m feeling ornery because of my stomach. Read more →

Burning Sensation

I’m feeling slightly scalded at exactly the place where I can feel his eyes looking at me. My skin might be smoking from the heat that he’s generating with his eyes alone, and I’m shriveled slightly from the sensation of his eyes on my skin. Which I think might be the chemical reaction of lust itching just out of reach and beneath my clothes as I fill my self up with the hotness of wanting and the unbearable desire to suddenly find myself naked and in his arms. But, no, that’s not where I am. Instead, I’m here, which is in the food court at the mall eating a salad while I slowly chew and try to dip into the conversation with clever remarks and without spitting my lunch all over my plate. 

Do I look pretty? I wish I had put on more make up. I wish I had prepared for this moment. I wish I had known he would show up, and, no, I’ve never met him before, but it’s turning out to be a rather unpleasant onset of love at first sight while I secretly hope that my lipstick isn’t smeared all over my face and this dress isn’t very flattering, is it? 

So I smile, and I burn, and I smolder slightly in this plastic chair on the basement level of the food court in the mall. I am wrapped up in flames from his existence as he sits there in that chair, and I wonder if he can smell the charred heart wafting from inside my chest. 

Happy International Pussy Appreciation Day

My pussy. My pussy. My golden fucking pussy.

So I stand in front of the mirror, and there it is, smiling out at me from between my legs. I smile back. At its little lips pressed together, and flesh like tongue poking out slightly.The small hairs that wind out and grow like a well manicured mustache.

“Pussy, I love you,” I whisper as I touch it gently as a sign of appreciation.

“I love you, too,” my pussy whispers back. Read more →

Demoralize Me

I just want to be held. In his arms, with his arm roped around my neck while he’s fucking me from behind. And his other hand in my hair, not gently stroking but violently grabbing and pulling my hair. So that it hurts. I want him to throat fuck me while the mascara runs down my face and all traces of the lipstick that had been smeared along my cheeks dissolves quickly with the saliva that keeps spilling from my lips. I want him to call me a slut. A whore. A cunt. Cheap. Worthless. To spit on me. To slap my ass and shove me face first into the pillow while he fucks me in the ass. Yank on my nipples and touch me and fuck me and that way I’ll know he loves me. I want him to cum on my face, and, then when everything’s all said and done, I want him to ask me, “Who’s Daddy’s little girl?” 

“I’m Daddy’s little girl.”

The Fuck Feast Guide to Whether You Should Fuck That Guy You Know You’re Not Supposed To

~because Teen Vogue isn’t breaking it down with enough realness~

Society is constantly telling us, among other things, that there are certain people that we just shouldn’t fuck. It’s rude, it’s embarrassing, it’s desperate, it’s imprudent, it’s social suicide, it’s politically catastrophic. Well, you know what? Just because you shouldn’t fuck him doesn’t mean you can’t, and because it’s someone you shouldn’t fuck, you know what that means: it’s probably fun as fuck! So, we’d like to give you a quick guide to the pro’s and con’s of fucking that guy that you just know you shouldn’t. (Warning, this is kinda gross. I know, right??)

Your Sister’s/Best Friend’s/Mom’s/Roommate’s Boyfriend (or, even better, Husband!)

They call it sloppy seconds for a reason, but let’s admit it: if you’re in your 20’s, you’re always going to be someone’s sloppy seconds. So don’t let that reason stop you. On the other hand, nothing tastes better than forbidden fruit. The only downside to fucking homegirl’s main man is that you have to be ready to completely forfeit your friendship, and, like any break up, you might find that some of your formerly mutual friends are taking sides that might slightly ostracize you. If you’re just hanging out for a one night stand, you can always rectify the situation with the whole, “Sluts before Fucks! Don’t let men come between us!” bullshit. If you’re going for a full on relationship – well, you can’t get mad when he starts fucking your other best friend. So, before you go down this path, ask yourself: is his dick worth it? I mean, homeboy better be throwing down something fierce in the bedroom. And if he’s not, then revert to the “Don’t let men come between us” bullshit. It might not work, but it also might work. Be prepared to wear the “homewrecker” mantle for a moment, you scurrilous cunt, you! Read more →