littleshakespeareanbaby:

All I want in this world is to be treated like a dumb little child and constantly be patronized, talked down to and babied

Why yes, dear, that’s a lovely anniversary card you’ve made for me! I mean, you could have just bought me something I’d enjoy, like a normal person with a credit card, but you decided that hand-made gifts are “more special”. I just *love* how “creative” you are! Just knowing you spent entire *minutes* on this tells me how much you really care.

Oh, I’m sorry. Are you crying now? Poor thing! Why don’t you come over here, sit in my lap, and I’ll try to make you feel better about disappointing me…

Nothing makes me wetter than a guy confirming all the fears in my head and telling me how I’ll never be what I dream about… but is this just self harm?

Any secret solace can start to look like self-harm, if that’s your favored frame. With that said, getting wet is your body’s automated response to sexual stimulus, and you’ve become acclimated to a world full of fucked-up stimuli; you chose neither world nor response, so if there’s harm in this equation, it’s been done to you, not by you.

Also bear in mind that a man can confirm your fears without becoming them. If you need me to believe that you’re a pathetic, stupid, disgusting girl, consider it believed… but I’m not struck blind by your admitted awfulness. I’m fully capable of seeing all the other parts of you as well: the kind, loyal, funny, or pretty parts. You don’t need a man to beat and fuck you senseless nearly as much as you need a man who can see you —all of you— and embrace your worst and best. The beatery-fuckery will take care of itself from there.

FYI

I’ve got family medical emergency stuff going on, so that’s why I’m even more scarce than usual.

Also, just a periodic reminder: alcohol can slowly kill you in really ugly, unromantic ways, untreated mental health issues will only exacerbate your physical ailments, and you really don’t want to be figuring that kind of shit out in your forties. Start now.

The problem with being the perfect man for your time is that your time can end long before you do. At 91, Hef was past perfect.

But for the twenty years of his prime, he filled a lustful, thoughtful, man-shaped hole in the American tapestry. He edited more than a magazine; he edited the national image of manhood, exposing his audience to the literature, art, and ideas that intrigued him, as well as the big titties that got him hard. Without firing a shot or winning a contest, he pushed a generation of men to be more interesting versions of themselves; that he didn’t really succeed is less an indictment of his vision than the nature of the generation he sought to inspire.

I missed Hugh Hefner before he was gone. His death simply means that I get to miss him out loud.

The problem with being the perfect man for your time is that your time…

The problem with being the perfect man for your time is that your time…

The problem with being the perfect man for your time is that your time can end long before you do. At 91, Hef was past perfect.

But for the twenty years of his prime, he filled a lustful, thoughtful, man-shaped hole in the American tapestry. He edited more than a magazine; he edited the national image of manhood, exposing his audience to the literature, art, and ideas that intrigued him, as well as the big titties that got him hard. Without firing a shot or winning a contest, he pushed a generation of men to be more interesting versions of themselves; that he didn’t really succeed is less an indictment of his vision than the nature of the generation he sought to inspire.

I missed Hugh Hefner before he was gone. His death simply means that I get to miss him out loud.

I don’t consider myself a “zombie fan”; I’m into the dystopian post-apocalyptic scenarios that zombies create, rather than the dead themselves. And despite the occasional request I’ve received for Walking Dead fanfic, I’ve never really thought zombies were relevant to this blog.

But we recently began watching iZombie —which is everything that made Buffy great with none of the crap, plus Rose McIver is the prettiest, funniest little thing in the world— and it prodded me to recall a couple movies that probably do merit a mention here.

First is Deadgirl, which is… well, let’s just cut to the chase. It isn’t a particularly good movie, but it definitely has a clear-eyed view of what would happen if an average teenage boy —that most depraved of all creatures— found a sexy, naked zombie strapped to a table in an abandoned basement. Wikipedia calls it a “black comedy horror”, but I don’t recall laughing; my response was more a combo platter of morbid curiosity, reluctant titillation, ethical perturbation, and a moment or two of stomach-churning disgust. It left an impression, to say the least.

The second is Make-out With Violence, which enters the same territory as Deadgirl —boy finds bound, beautiful zombie— and then veers off in a more creepily thoughtful direction. It’s pretty much Peak Mumblecore —don’t expect vibrant performances— but it’s pleasantly photographed, and it does an amazing job of capturing the vibe of a hazy suburban summer and the associated existential despair. Where Deadgirl is all about boys and the gross things they do with their dicks, M-OWV is about romantic entitlement: that feeling that the universe owes you the happy ending of your choice, and anything done in pursuit of it is justified. It’s an above-average indie, and worth tracking down, if you can.

I can no longer go ten minutes without drifting into thoughts of physical violence and emotional cruelty. I want to believe that I just need these thoughts brutalized out of me once or twice, because I don’t want to admit that I managed to break myself with a heavy diet of masochism at age 20. Can I ever be the kind of girl someone could love?

Of course you can, dummy.

I try not to blatantly lie to you silly bitches; I mean, I lie to you a *lot*, but I’m damned sure winking at you and sending up signal flares to make certain you notice me do it. So I’m not going to bullshit you now with stories about how everyone can have a happy ending, all the pieces eventually fit together, and love conquers all. Because they can’t, they don’t, and it never will.

With that said, shit can usually get *better*. You may end up stuck in a Zeno’s paradox where you always feel like you’re halfway to ”good enough”, but even barely perceptible movement is getting you somewhere. Yeah, you’re prettier and more interesting as a sick little pervert, but face it, life is set to a lower difficulty level when you’re normal. If you ask me, you should keep trying until you feel like you can’t go another step, until there’s nothing left but tears and a frustration that claws at you from the underbrush of shame.

And if you finally reach that point?

Hey, you know where to find me.