You don’t feel alive unless someone is using you.
I want to raise you from the dead and make you immortal.
Category: Essays & Bad Ideas
An assortment of ramblings; some thoughtful, some thoughtless
The night deepens as she walks.
The street empties. Shop lights fade.
Heels on concrete the only sound.
Click and scrape with each footfall.
A faun with a lion’s mien.
A girl in a woman’s shape.
Lost her way, lost in shadow.
Lost her will. (Never had it.)
Her lighter sparks. She drags deep.
The cherry blooms, the smoke slithers.
This is how her world ends.
Lights behind her burst to life.
Her eyes widen, naught else moves.
Startled and frozen, lazy man’s prey.
An engine growls and tires squeal.
Her hair whips in the breeze.
Doors fly open, hands seize her.
(The hands all have men attached.)
They don’t speak, but they demand.
The lion roars. The faun breaks.
The cigarette falls to the pavement.
Her only trace, a dying ember.
Porn featuring violence against women is also extremely popular among women. It is far more popular among women than men. I hate saying that because misogynists seem to love this fact. Fantasy life isn’t always politically correct.
The rate at which women watch violent porn is roughly the same in every part of the world. It isn’t correlated with how women are treated.
Seth Stephens-Davidowitz
…talking about his book, where he mines Google searches for data about the hidden truths of modern life.
For the record, I can’t say I love that fact, but I’m not even slightly surprised by it.
I mean, that’s kinda why I’m here.
Plan Ahead
When Sally came to stay They said “Boy, she’s gonna leave” They knew I’d been in sway You see, to girls who oft deceive But that’s not an option For sweet Miss Sally and me I’ve a few precautions Should her heart get a mind to flee Cords will bind her ankles A frown will adorn her lips Her hair all in tangles As bruises decorate her hips If ever she should dream Of a life beyond my sight I’ll show her what I mean About a love that’s worth the fight
I don’t know how you cunts do it.
In a way, you’re my life’s work, a puzzle I was built to ponder. I’ve spent years listening to you and analyzing your conflicted, constricted, and convoluted thoughts; you’re all such sad little knots, awaiting an Alexander to untangle you with the edge of a blade. I learn something new every time one of you comes apart for me.
But I’ll never truly, viscerally understand how you manage it, how you turn the sundering of your mystery and the exposition of your shame into abject, sobbing need. I suspect the answers will forever elude me.
Fortunately, a wet hole is its own special solace.
Life Lessons
I find fucked up people to be the most interesting of all… well, that is, when they know they’re fucked up.
Those who are fucked up and just haven’t noticed are the scariest people alive, and there are more of them than us.
I want you to cry.
Not just a little, nor merely a lot; I want it to be always, and forever. I want you to weep rivers that mark your cheeks with their sediment, carving your anxieties into the soft terrain of your skin. I want your tears to impinge on every moment of your life, every aspect of your existence, until they taint even your joy, and you can no longer tell loss from love. I want you to drown in your weakness while I skip pebbles across the glassy surface of your saline grave.
You can do it for me, if you really try.
I believe in you.
Life Lessons
Men are careless archaeologists, digging deeply within their women and destroying as much as they unearth.
I want to hang out with you at 2am, when the endorphins have abandoned you and the money’s been spent. I would consider it a gift to hold your face in my hands and watch the dead thing behind your eyes reassert itself in the moonlight.
Dear Bedtime
Someone recently asked if I thought she should cheat on her age-appropriate boyfriend with her much-older college professor. I decided to answer her publicly for the edification of all.
Dear Aspiring Tramp:
I seldom give advice, and when I do, it should always be assumed to come with a disclaimer indicating that I’m not an authority on jack-shit. You silly things know I get off on playing with your emotions… what on earth makes you think my input is going to lead to anything more than a series of very arousing mistakes?
With that said, I hope you bang the professor. What’s the point of having a boyfriend, if not to make sex hotter with the guys you fuck behind his back? Chances are, your cunt is craving the guilt as much as the academic cock. And I suspect you already know that, since you’re asking the opinIon of someone who gets off on the guilty secrets of misbehaving girls.
Just imagine how amazing it will feel! Not simply the betrayal of a petty trust –he’s not your husband, after all– but all of it, all the possible repercussions. I mean, eventually, your whoreish proclivities will end the relationship… you’ll get caught, if only because you want to. What happens then? Your boy goes off jaded and embittered, a little wiser, a little more cruel. It’s like you’re giving a special sort of gift to the next girl who comes into his life; he’ll take the things you’ve taught him about wayward women and apply them to her: with any luck, he’ll make that little bitch suffer for your sins.
In fact, if you want things to be perfect as you degrade yourself with your ethically flexible authority figure, I have a suggestion. While that learned old man dick is sawing in and out of your thirsty, amoral holes, just picture your boy choking the shit out of his next sweetheart and calling her a faithless slut. It’s not like she won’t have it coming.
I mean, you already know he has wretched taste in women!