I’ll grant that his “don’t they know we’re bringing them the plague?” is the kind of line I’d love to craft, but like Freud, you suffer from a lack of imagination.
Never blame a mother for the babysitter’s handiwork; then as now, bored teenaged girls can be surprisingly perverted.
Women fascinate me; everything about them is interesting. The way they look, smell, talk, laugh, move, and feel… all the classic stuff. But I also love the weird, fucked-up parts, the bits they’re reluctant to let men see; the stuff they work so hard to pose and primp and prance around.
Jesus fucking Christ… women’s own bodies punish them for being sexual entities; from the loss of virginity to the misery of menopause, through every menses-soaked, yeast-infected minute in between, it’s just one long fuck-storm of maintenance, worry, frustration, and physical pain. And none of it is due to the systematic oppression of anyone by any -archy you can name: it’s just fucking life for them. How do they even survive that? How does a woman manage to get out of bed in the morning, knowing today is just one more day when she might wake up to ruined sheets, an invisible fist clenched around her uterus, an overwhelming urge to alienate everyone she knows, and the near-certainty that every dog she meets is going to announce her personal business to the world? And so much horribly worse, she has to live with the knowledge that all of this is perfectly fucking normal.
I look at women and think: what must that do to your head? How does the constant connection of blood, pain, and dread to your sexuality screw with your ideation? Your body is built to house more than one brain; how does that alter your perception of what it means to exist within that body? How maddening must it be to intellectually crave autonomy as deeply as any other human, and yet physically crave invasion and occupation? And this is all before we even touch on the societal stuff like misogyny and patriarchy, mind you. Once you get to know the generic Alice, you begin to realize she doesn’t need to fall down the rabbit hole; she is the hole.
So I suppose one reason I write this stuff is my deep appreciation of the beautiful horror of womanhood and femininity.
That’s hella possibleeeee.
(Sorry, I just wanted to see if repeating an unpronounced letter to imply extended audible emphasis looked as goofy when I do it. It does.)
sillysexystupid-deactivated2020:
Daddy sewing my cunt shut & forcing me to be an anal only cunt. I like to picture myself kicking & screaming. Begging Him not to. Telling Him He can’t do that, it’s not fair. In my head, Daddy patiently smiles at me, explains that I’m His property, so of course He can do whatever He wants with me. Then He slaps me across the face, tells me to shut up & hold still, & finishes what He was doing.
Was not expecting this to get any notes😳😳
Hey, it’s a post about a man teaching himself to sew. That’s bound to be popular.
I hope Santa touched you inappropriately in the night and gobbled up your cookies.
The only way I’ll kill you is softly, with my song.
Triggering her is the easy part; the trick is in aiming her at something interesting and keeping your grip on her butt.
I hate giving an honest answer here, because it’s going to come off so film-buff cliché, but… it’s Citizen Kane. Since first seeing it in my early twenties, I’ve watched it dozens of times. Gregg Toland and Orson Welles invented the look of modern cinema in 1941, and I’m continually amazed by it.
Close runner-ups are Blue Velvet, Goodfellas, Fargo, There Will Be Blood, and Pulp Fiction, among others. My top 20 are all good enough to be my favorite, really. They all matter to me in some really formative way.
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor’d youth,
Unlearned in the world’s false subtilties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue;
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress’d.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not t’ have years told.
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
— W.S. – Sonnet 138
Grr. Argh.
