Category: Essays & Bad Ideas

Sometimes I want to follow you there and take it from you, colonize it as I have every other aspect of your existence. You should know that you don’t deserve a refuge I cannot despoil, a private hell I cannot infest; the arid steppes of your imagination are mine, by the right of the conqueror over the conquered.

But mostly, I really don’t mind that you’re absent. Your body is more beautiful when it isn’t animated by your awkwardness and insecurity, leaving it capable of actually pleasing a man. In fact, I’ve found that your least attractive feature is your self; watching it leave your eyes as I sink inside you is the best part of knowing you.

An excellent question. Why is modesty so revered? I maintain that a modest girl should have the same opportunity to be disrespected as anyone else.

Do you people have any idea how many creepy, evil-minded, clit-obsessed little perverts are out there right now, shrouded head-to-toe in eight layers of black-on-black fabric that they’ll tell you is fashion, but is really just a wall of goth clichés they’ve constructed to obscure the public view of their sickness?

Do you not get that there are countless desperate, sex-addled, cum-starved, and sinful daughters of God among us, rubbing and sweating away in the shameful dark, who seldom allow their bodies to see the light of day simply because they’re so fucking broken they’ll even let dead men in books control their lives?

Is it possible not to notice how much frustration, fear, and far-fetched fantasy is building up behind the eyes of so many of those hard-working little achievers, the neighborhood good girls who keep their grades up, skirts down, knees together, and career options open, who never really learn to trust anyone, and thus spend their adult lives growing out while rotting within, until the weight of the living upon the dead brings everything crashing down?

They’re out there, if you know how to look. All of them and more, so normal and demure, each telling the world the lies it needs to hear so it will leave her to cry in peace. They are pathetic, ravenous little creatures who cannot be sated until they’ve been fed upon, but you’ll overlook them every time if you’re fooled by their camouflage.

So always remember: the amount of skin a woman shows you doesn’t make her a whore.

It’s what’s inside that counts.

My love for you is a meager thing, embracing as it does such a tiny fragment of what you are. For any decent girl, it would be far too little; she would wither in the wasteland of my pejorative affections, a place where only the rankest weeds of your sort may thrive.

My love for you is a meager thing, but better still than any love you’ve ever known, because I save it for the hateful things that haunt your eyes.

I detest your silence, not the madness and fear that it hides. It’s your pestilent distance than plagues me; the pernicious strain of isolation that you exhale with every labored breath befouls the room and makes a sickbed of my sheets. You can hear the bell ring as I call, and yet you heedlessly refuse to bring out your fucking dead.

No matter. If you won’t surrender your secrets, I’ll simply have to come in after them.

You come to me because I will make you look as ugly as you feel. You come to me a broken little puppet girl, longing to be real.

The scary thing about a roller-coaster isn’t the dizzying speed, the sudden turns, or even the steep drops. It’s knowing you’ve said “yes” to something you can’t stop.

Scream, cry, beg, pray… it doesn’t matter. No one will hear you, or care if they do. Hell, they’ll probably laugh. You made your choice; even if it feels as if every part of you is tearing itself away from every other part in an effort to escape, you’re there until the ride is over. You don’t get to ruin everyone else’s good time just because you’ve had enough, silly girl.

So when it’s finished, and they make you look at a photo of your face at the precise moment you truly feared you would die, just remember… you asked for it.