An assortment of ramblings; some thoughtful, some thoughtless
Y’know, I kinda thought this went without saying, but apparently not, so…
If you’re a self-described MRA, you are an insta-block. Absolutely nothing I have to say should ever be understood to be supportive of your pseudo-political self-pity trip. The average radfem may hate me, but I’d rather give each and every one of them a warm-n-fuzzy hug than enjoy even a microsecond of your enthusiastic support.
Look somewhere else to justify your jihad, junior.
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.
Affection is a man’s way of distracting you from what he’s really up to.
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.
I’m sometimes asked about my tastes and interests in matters outside the scope of BS4BG, so I’ve decided to revive my long-dormant first blog –secretsilkenworld– which will now be semi-SFW and dedicated to nerd shit, cool chicks, and whatever mundane things cross my mind.
There’s absolutely no good reason for you to follow it, but I know some of you won’t let a little thing like “reason” get in the way, so do what you must.
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.
According to Tumblr, it has taken me almost three years to finally hit my 1,000th post to this blog. Which is kind of a milestone, and kind of ridiculous, since I’m not sure a Tumblr blog can truly be said to exist if it generates less than a post a day.
Honestly, I’m amazed anyone still finds my stuff. Amidst the raging torrent of porn and puppies that swamps the average Tumblr dashboard, how on earth do you little weirdos keep track of someone who barely posts? And dear god, when he *does* post, it’s usually just pompous prose poetry about the eternal plight of womankind or some sort of disturbing, oddly-constructed story designed to make your feel dirty for enjoying it… hardly seems worth the effort to keep up.
So I’m forced to conclude you girls either have incredibly refined taste or no common sense whatsoever.
Or both. It’s both, isn’t it?
I know you’re sitting out there, waiting. Because you’re a girl, you just sit there and wait.
Wait for something good, or at least something better. Wait to be saved, and cured, and fixed, like an inmate in an empty asylum. Wait for everything to change around you so no one notices you’ve remained the same. Wait for the feelings to go away. Wait for your loins to learn their lessons. Wait for the tide to come in and wash you away to oblivion.
But you know what?
Fuck you.
You don’t get off that easily.
Every girl gets hurt, but brave girls get hurt in more interesting ways.
Men are oft but boys, and the world an empty lot in which they play.
And you, my dear? You’re the attractive nuisance.
