Barely holding on

candyncigarettes:

I’m not sure what it is exactly, but in the past year or so I have seen a lot of friends either lose their lives or their minds. Is it cause were getting older? Is it because the pressure is getting too hard to bear? They say once you reach your thirties you feel this great relief, like some weight is immediately lifted off your shoulders. First of all, that has to be bullshit, but second of all, how do they ever expect us to get there if no one warned us about how soul crushing our late twenties would be? I feel like I can’t breathe when I think about my own little insignificant life, nevermind when I take a look outside my bubble of narcissism and see the world crumbling around me. What’s the point in staying clean, on the so-called “straight and narrow” (fuck, I hate that expression) when it isn’t making any difference? I feel suffocated and I know I’m not alone. I watch my friends struggle every single day. I read about people I don’t know cracking under the weight of injustices; fighting battles I’ll never be able to truly understand. And I look down at my bruised, scarred arms and legs and all I can think is “what’s the point?” I know my loved ones I’ve lost asked themselves the same question. Is there a key to finding the point? Cause I’m pretty sure that simply turning 30 in two years isn’t gunna solve things.

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The Manipulation Stipulation

“I’ve been going on a lot of Internet dates lately.” She’s talking to him, and, for a brief moment, he’s listening, as the logical progression in the conversation that they’re having on her couch some nice evening while watching T.V. turns to the age old course of ‘female attempts to manipulate her stone cold lover.’ But he doesn’t bat an eye, and he smiles. He kisses her on the head and says, “How’s that working out for you?”

“Oh, you know, it’s okay. Tinder is just…it’s kinda weird.” He laughs and shrugs off the conversation, aware that these words are meant to galvanize the emotion of jealousy, something that he has trained himself to never feel. Because even though he’s been fucking her on and off for a few months now, her new attempt at roping him in is – well, it’s endearing, really, if, ultimately, quite unsuccessful. Because while the average male might instantly spur into some sort of territorial rage when it comes to the thought of his girl fucking other random dudes, he is above all that. Because she’s not the first one, nor will she be the last one, to launch that kind of emotional abuse his way. And he weathers it well, knowing in the back of his mind that this might be the kind of thing that any of his other erstwhile lovers might attempt to rope him into at this very moment. Because he has other lovers, which is something he knows that she doesn’t know, although even if she were the only one right now, it would be the same scenario. Maybe because he’s spent altogether too much time earning his money as the manager of the world’s oldest profession, even though all that is behind him, or maybe it’s because chronic bachelordom is the kind of fatal disease to which he has submitted himself.

But, regardless, he can’t even think of anything that she could possibly say at this moment that would even slightly inspire him to not leave her house in three hours, texting a variety of other prospective and realized lovers. To turn to her and say, “Please, don’t fuck other men. Please, only fuck me.” Manipulating the master of manipulation is a task that no one has been able to accomplish to date, which is why he hasn’t dated anyone in a long time, but it would be interesting to see someone at least try and succeed a little bit at besting the master at his own game.

Me & My Baby

There’s a little bit of fear itching at the end of my fingers while stand here with this Glock 19 and my magazine with ten beautiful bullets in it. There’s power, too, with my heart all aflutter and my finger on the trigger. It’s a feeling like a feeling I’ve never felt before, and I am so fucking afraid. Not for the reasons that you’d think – this gun isn’t going to misfire or jam or fuck up in any way, and neither am I. Because I am concentrating, and the target is right in front of me. No – the reason I’m afraid is because of everyone else in this world, and me, with my Glock 19. And I have the power. Although, no, it’s not about the force of the physical pain or the threat of bodily injury. That’s not why I’m afraid for everyone else. It’s because I finally have the power, and it’s not just about the gun. It’s not just about the bullets. It’s not just about every time I pull the trigger I get better and stronger and smarter. It’s because I know that I’m smart enough to never even have to use my Glock 19. I’ll never have to pull it out, load it up, and point it at another human being. I’ll never have to shout loudly and threateningly. I’ll never need to use the force and the fear that a gun implies. I’m smart enough to avoid all that, but, despite that, I still have a Glock 19. And I am salivating.

Elephant In The Room

I’m sitting on the edge of his bed, pulling up my stockings and lacing up my shoes. He’s standing there, waiting for me while I gather my belongings so that he can walk me home. For a first time casual hook up, I’ll rate it as “decent,” and I’ll consider hanging out with him again if he texts me later next week. It definitely wasn’t one of those mind blowing, amazing first time sexual encounters, but, hey, any nut in a rut, right?

As he’s waiting for me, watching as I slip my legs into my stockings and my feet into shoes.

“Hey, did you used to date so&so?”

I try to suppress the sensation of feeling slightly miffed by that question, but I respond, “Yeah. Why?”

“Oh, y’know, I just remember a while back I was saying that I thought you were cute, and he said that you would never hook up with me.”

“Oh, hm,” I respond, beginning to feel more than just slightly miffed by this exchange. I realize that bringing up my exboyfriend is a slightly awkward thing to do in this precise post-coital moment, but I continue to grab my shit and put it back in my purse while I realize that I’m about to suffer through a pissing contest between my ex and this guy that I just fucked. Okay, I wonder, does this mean that as soon as I’m tucked in bed at home, he’s going to call my ex and gloat about the fact that he got to fuck me? Or is this just a silently victory for him? A subtle notch on the bed post? And I wish that he hadn’t made his intentions quite so obvious, because while it was a decisively mediocre hook up, this kind of behavior makes me feel like I’ll probably ignore whatever text message he sends me last week. Bringing up my exboyfriend right after we banged…hah! Who does that kind of shit? It’s an amateur move, really, and while, yeah, I knew that they were friends, and, sure, my intention was to (yet again) fuck one of my exboyfriend’s friends – well, I’m not rubbing it in his face, am I? It’s just the polite thing to do, to tacitly smile as we both know that we’re fucking over a mutual acquaintance who, really, now, probably has won over both of us, because here we are, talking about him. Goddammit!

1-800-FUCK-FEAST

“Fuck him! He’s a terrible person! If he ever hits you, I’m going to fucking kill him!”

Which is a sentiment that I appreciate coming from my best friend, but I’d like to reassure everybody that if anybody hits me, ever, then it’s not going to be me and one ninety pound hipster girl against all of misogyny in society. It’s going to be a long line of people who are ready to take down anybody who dares to lay a finger on me, or any of my friends. With me first in line, with my gun, and my gold watch, and my four inch heels, grinning from ear to ear with a gun to your head. I obviously don’t really care about what happens after that, but we’re out here. And if you need help with a problem like this, don’t hesitate to call.

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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 →