And yet I did answer this one.
Ain’t I a stinker?
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.
Everytime i use nair i realize i should have left the door open. What do i forget every time? Any ventilation what so ever.
A woman’s bathroom counter is a fucking minefield for my nostrils. Half of everything there is borderline toxic, while the other half just makes me sneeze.
And yet somehow, I can still go to Best Buy to pick up an HDMI cable and end up olfactorily Pied Piper’d around the store by some delicate angel who smells like she just made love to a bed full of Care Bears and then cleaned up in a bath of unicorn spunk.
It’s in those moments that I realize witchcraft is real.
“December” — Collective Soul
It’s been twenty-two years, and I still think it’s weird that this was the chorus of a hit song that was pretty much omnipresent on radio and MTV for several months:
Don’t scream about, don’t think aloud
Turn your head now, baby, just spit me out
Don’t worry about, don’t speak of doubt
Turn your head now, baby, just spit me out
How will you fuck with my mind Daddy?
By raising you to believe in god.
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!
Every so often I think of you and your blog and decide to stop by. It’s always the best decision ever. ❤️
Aw, you’re sweet. Good girl.
For the record, I love the relationship some of you have with this blog; y’know, those of you who like what I do, but don’t follow me because you know you need to control your intake, as if I’m a demonically decadent dessert that you both relish and dread. (A moment for your hole, a lifetime for your soul.)
I also appreciate those who tell me now and then that they love me, but can’t reblog my stuff because they don’t want to be forced to defend their taste to the uninitiated, or don’t want to give a bunch of Internet dickwits a perceived license to treat them like shit. I don’t mind that you’re ashamed to adore me; the shame is yours and the adoration mine, so it actually works out nicely for both of us.
My dad left when I was 9 bc snorting coke was more important than his own kid. Now I’m dating a coke addict and I hate myself more and more everyday for it
Good.
Not “good, I’m glad your dad was a dick,” nor “good, you’re fucking a drug addict!” I mean “good, you’ve finally reached one of those rare moments in your life when you get to make a meaningful choice.” That hate you’re feeling is there for a reason… it’s asking a question that only you can answer.
“What am I?”
Not knowing the particulars of your situation, I can only speculate, but the responses before you seem to be threefold:
- “I’m a woman.” You can see clearly what you’re doing and why, and you know you can be more. You can do better. Congratulations, you’ve leveled-up. Get outta here and figure out how to make the world work for you.
- “I’m a little girl.” You’re confused and lost and tired a lot, so you stick with things you know are bad purely out of familiarity. It’s easier to accept being secondary –or wholly unnecessary– in your man’s life than it is to change. You’re a bit lazy and a lot weak, and everything is just simpler when there’s someone else to make decisions and take the blame.
- “I’m a cunt.” Because being a little girl makes you wet.
Whatever you choose, just remember that hate’s the question, not the answer.
Minutiae
It’s quite a thing, living life at floor level. Growing acquainted with the dust, even as you silently pray that it never settles upon you.
Each crack in the floor boards becoming, like you, a pretty little abyss, ripe with mystery and portent.
Hearing the bright, sharp music your chain makes, keeping time with your breathing’s shallow rhythm.
Experiencing the vibration of his heavy footsteps in your flesh, the tiny foundational echoes of his progress through a world so much bigger than you will ever know.
Learning to mark the hours within your days by the shape of shadows, and learning to dread those hours wherein the shadows place their marks upon you.
There’s so much to appreciate down there, if you can make yourself small enough to take it all in.
Lament
Fragile, fragile, oh so fragile
Coming apart at the seams
Wasting away, gone any day
With eyes as dead as your dreams