Us On The Internet

I go on the Internet because I’m looking for something to validate my existence, to give me a reason for being here on the Internet. It’s easy to click through articles aimlessly, but really what I’m looking for is an accurate reflection of myself and my community. Of our existence on this planet. On what it’s really like to be us, and if that’s worth something. That’s the thing about the Internet – it is so fucking vast, and there is so much shit here, but am I here? Are we here? Is this really us? Are we really the people in those photos? Are those really our good times? And what is that worth.

It’s easy to feel numb in the current paradigm. Which means that it’s easy to agree. It’s easy to hop on a bandwagon filled with rash emotions, to get high on new grief and let down by news articles. But for all the images that I see, all the information I absorb, I really only have one question at the end of it all: does he love me? I think all I’ve ever really wanted to know is whether or not he loves me, and I scroll through these feeds looking for evidence of that. I need a verification of this emotion, something that tells me I’m supposed to be here. That I’m doing the right thing. That I’m making the right decisions. That I’m pretty. Or I’m smart. Or I am exactly whatever it is that I think gives my self value, and that he can see that, too. Or that anybody can see that. That everyone can see my worth. Because sometimes I can’t, so I click through the Internet looking for the best things in my generation reflected back at me, to give me reassurance, so I can know that this is all worth and that this existence is meaningful. I search for that every day, and if I’m not searching for that, then I’m numb. I do not want to be numb. 

On The Current Feminist Epoch

This is a very exciting time to be a woman in the first world. (Of course, it’s usually exciting to be a woman in the first world.) But due to current shifting paradigms, we have been given the opportunity to redefine our role within society, as well as reshaping society to accommodate our new role. We are in the midst of a vast social change, and this is our time to create an impact. This is our time to say the things we want to say. This is the time to be the woman we want to be, and to be that woman loudly and without regret. Thanks to new technologies and changes within the media, we have been able to amplify our voices and our messages. So, seeing as we are being given this opportunity to shape the experience of woman in years to come, we must ask ourselves: what are we doing to effect positive social change? Thinking critically about every aspect of feminism that arises as well as initiating action on top of the theories that we spout is essential to ensuring the success of this feminist wave. We must not follow each other, but, instead, lead ourselves, because this is our opportunity to be the women we want to be. Today, and tomorrow, and forever after that. 

The Power & Privilege of Being Number Two

My best friend is really hot, and I’m really down for that. She’s hotter than me, actually, and while I’m aware that most people with their pithy little egos generally can’t handle playing second fiddle to someone who is more physically attractive than they are – well, that’s an art that I’ve mastered. I like it better than being number one, actually, because being the hottest girl in the room comes with a plethora of responsibilities and expectations that I simply cannot be held to. Being number two though? That works much better. Because while my best friend is swatting away the attention of every man in the room, I’m sitting there, right next to her, with this big grin on my face because I run game like a champ. And I know that every crestfallen young man who drags his feet past her, feeling defeated, rejected and dejected – well, that young man is ready for the taking. He’s ripe, really, and vulnerable, too, knowing that he doesn’t have what it takes to bag the hottest girl in the room, but, me? I know that I make for an excellent consolation prize, and as the catch all for all the beautiful boys that my best friend rejects, I have to admit that I’m doing quite well in this game. It also helps that she does not love the kind of boys that I love, and I get to be the slutty ones. So, to all you boys who want to bang my best friend, I say: go for it! You’ll probably fail and wind up spending the night with me instead, but that ain’t so bad, is it?

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Sleepless (Guest Post by Mob Moxie)

The hardest part about breaking up, for me at least, has been the adjustment to sleeping alone. I find myself occupied and entertained, during my waking hours, you know, slowly but surely moving on with my life. Even content in a way with this healing process. Then late night hits and the anxiety sets in. Anything past 11pm and I am totally freaking out because I start to realize that I am exhausted from NOT thinking about my ex all day, an that there my very well be no end in sight for me. No sleep on the old dawn horizon, or more perfectly no sleep till the dawn horizon.
I mean it has been two straight weeks of trying everything: Drinking myself into a stupor, moking myself into a comatose state…the list goes on, but you get the gist. I have been trying anything and all things numbing and tiring in hopes of a good night’s sleep. Sadly, it’s not working out for me. I spend all night cold, then eventually hot, I can’t decide which side of the bed to sleep on, the middle of the bed just feels to foreign, every sound scares me, and, worst of all, I can’t stop thinking.

Read more →

This is How You Use Her

I am a bad girl. I can’t stop wanting to fuck him every time I see him, which is why I have to look away every time he walks into the room. Even though every time I walk into any room anywhere, I look for him desperately because I want him to be here, now, and I want to feel a certain way. I want to feel my unstoppable lust like a train wreck until my crotch is crashing into his crotch, and things are on fire, and something has exploded, and there are people screaming and crying and gnashing their teeth while we are broadcast across Times Square on some oversized TV screen like an international crisis of utmost importance. This is the kind of thing that makes people wince and want to turn away, but they don’t because there’s something so fantastical about fatalistic self destruction. And that’s what he is for me: my own destruction. Read more →

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.”