Call me Paprika/Puppi/Pup/Whatever you like ;) I'm not a real person, but I like to pretend to be one sometimes. This is me crying myself a river and wallowing in it*. Enjoy!!
If you like what i write, or hate it, or maybe even just hate me (or wanna fuck me!!), email me to tell me about all the things you'd do to me if you could at pupprika@proton.me
I vomited a lot into the toilet. Flush. Mostly down the drain but not all. Some in my long matted hair. Some on my T-shirt and more on the floor. Ew. "Can I have something for this?" I plead. I have never treated anyone so kindly. "Please?" I even add after some deliberation. "No. Of course not." They say. They treat me like a fucking drug addict. How dare they. Rehab sucks fat dick. I begin to think to myself, but I am interrupted because I retch again and must flush again. Ew. I'm wasting all my gallbladder's hard fucking work because there isn't a trace of food left in my body. This must be really bad for my enamel and oesophagus. "Can I go outside?" I don't even add the please this time. I have never treated anyone so rude. "Yes. Of course." They say. The cold hits me before the white flakes do. It snows. I've never seen snow before. But today of all days it is snowing. I think to myself. How pretty. As I break my neck looking upwards to feel it fall on my face. I am shivering and it's not the withdrawals but it's the cold and that's nice. In the yard is a pool that is almost completely frozen over with a very thin layer of ice. Sploosh. I jump in and am enveloped by frozen uncaring water that washes the weight of the world off my shoulders. No more shoulder massage. Just more shivering. I surface and my broken neck fixes itself upwards and backwards once more. I don't feel the snow fall on my face but I know it is. It's snowing today. Today of all days. I think. It's snowing.
I vomited a lot into the toilet. Flush. Mostly down the drain but not all. Some in my long matted hair. Some on my T-shirt and more on the floor. Ew. "Can I have something for this?" I plead. I have never treated anyone so kindly. "Please?" I even add after some deliberation. "No. Of course not." They say. They treat me like a fucking drug addict. How dare they. Rehab sucks fat dick. I begin to think to myself, but I am interrupted because I retch again and must flush again. Ew. I'm wasting all my gallbladder's hard fucking work because there isn't a trace of food left in my body. This must be really bad for my enamel and oesophagus. "Can I go outside?" I don't even add the please this time. I have never treated anyone so rude. "Yes. Of course." They say. The cold hits me before the white flakes do. It snows. I've never seen snow before. But today of all days it is snowing. I think to myself. How pretty. As I break my neck looking upwards to feel it fall on my face. I am shivering and it's not the withdrawals but it's the cold and that's nice. In the yard is a pool that is almost completely frozen over with a very thin layer of ice. Sploosh. I jump in and am enveloped by frozen uncaring water that washes the weight of the world off my shoulders. No more shoulder massage. Just more shivering. I surface and my broken neck fixes itself upwards and backwards once more. I don't feel the snow fall on my face but I know it is. It's snowing today. Today of all days. I think. It's snowing.
I pulled all the wires out and put it on the floor and put all the wires in again. My back hurts and my fingers cramp sitting like this but i am creative. I have many problems I need to solve and I am solving them. This was a creative thing to do and I will come up with many creative solutions. My screen is portrait. I turned it on its side. "For reels? discord?" - you. "no." - me "because Free Will or something. I can do what I want." - once again me. I do what i want. This is because I can. Gun to your head, can you think of doing this to solve the problem of there being a gun against your head? I didn't think so. But I could and I did. There's a gun against my head and it whispers bullets into my brain. That's a lie. It would shout them and I would not hear them before everything goes black. Or maybe I would. There was that guy who was impaled through the head and survived. Maybe I would survive pointing this gun at my head and pulling the trigger and it shouting a bullet into my brain. I'm so creative sitting on the floor at my floor computer coming up with solutions like this to all my problems. Onto the next one now.
I pulled all the wires out and put it on the floor and put all the wires in again. My back hurts and my fingers cramp sitting like this but i am creative. I have many problems I need to solve and I am solving them. This was a creative thing to do and I will come up with many creative solutions. My screen is portrait. I turned it on its side. "For reels? discord?" - you. "no." - me "because Free Will or something. I can do what I want." - once again me. I do what i want. This is because I can. Gun to your head, can you think of doing this to solve the problem of there being a gun against your head? I didn't think so. But I could and I did. There's a gun against my head and it whispers bullets into my brain. That's a lie. It would shout them and I would not hear them before everything goes black. Or maybe I would. There was that guy who was impaled through the head and survived. Maybe I would survive pointing this gun at my head and pulling the trigger and it shouting a bullet into my brain. I'm so creative sitting on the floor at my floor computer coming up with solutions like this to all my problems. Onto the next one now.
I lie alone as I prep my kit for my next shot. Needle, tupperware, cotton. Strewn on the other side of the bed. My last hit just barely tingles across my skin. It runs away from me, down my ass and back. My flesh is cold yet sticky from sweat. "Fuck I can't wait to feel good." ... "To feel so fucking good." My skin is itchy and covered in sores. I absent-mindedly continue my usual ritual whilst scratching at an infected needlestick from a few days back. I crack a single pill from a blister and hear it clatter against the flaking plastic base of the tupperware container. It gets ground fine into powder. I accidentally scrape off a scab from my weeping wound and whince. "Fuck." I grab a glass of half-drunk tap water from yesterday still sitting on my bedside table. I can't be bothered to use sterile saline. I empty the rest of the glass into my tupperware vessel and stare blankly through the swirling alchemical pot of analgesia. My eyes hover there for a while. My mind feels deep in thought but really it's very empty. My grey-blue eyes stare blankly at the wall in front of me. They're dry and red. If I wasn't so pale, from afar they'd be the same colour as my hollowed out lips. I've lost so much weight over the years I can feel my gaunt face and sharp features carve it's hatred into the world around it like a whaler carves into blubber. I find an old uncapped needle, pricking my finger in my careless daze. I wonder what happened to it's lid, it has to be lying somewhere around here, but I can't be bothered to look for it, so it stays wherever it is and won't be found until the next tenants move in. Long after I've left. I aspirate the pus from my tupperware abscess in lonely quiet. I think I feel calm, or maybe at peace? I can't tell. In reality I just feel nothing. I am so ugly in my own destruction. My hand traces down my pale chest and belly and finally grasps my bored dick. "Ugh." It doesn't feel like much but I imagine my brain flooding with endorphins very soon. ... I undo a shoelace and struggle to fashion a janky tourniquet with one hand while I attempt to find a vein, ultimately opting for one that barely protrudes from the back of my hand, surrounded by a frequent IV user's far too many trackmarks. I tighten the tourniquet far too much. My arm goes numb and the tips of my fingers begin to tingle more than they usually do. I'm too empty to care though. I need my next hit to feel again. I take one last look at the cloudy pleasure in the needle and think about how empty the syringe looks now. I continue to lightly stroke the tip of my dick with two fingers. I imagine the liquid in the syringe exploring the cavities in my body as it flows through me, dousing me in the beautiful toxicity I can't seem to get enough of. I avert my eyes from my beloved hateful concoction and look towards the many trackmarks that line my forearms. I used to have the kind of veins that phlebotomists loved, but I threw that away along with everything I loved as well. My eyes continue to map out the recesses of my addiction. I'm so far away from everything now in my hazy carelessness that, with my blown out veins, I struggle to stick myself. Sharp scratch. Light burn. fuck. It took four tries, but finally, flashback. Success. The needle pierces skin and vessel and kisses cold blood. I tug the syringe plunger and watch a cool stream of fluid, a deep red, puff into the syringe, before I push down and force this new mixture of blood and stepped-on drugs into my body. Opioids flood through my veins. The acidic chemicals burn quickly up my arm, and they don't care that it hurts. My veins continue to burn but soon I don't care either as a rush of pleasure flows over my body. Cold euphoria holds me in it's arms as I drift off into lonesome nods. I slump my body into the bed. Make believe visions of highschool loves dance across the back of my mind. The needle jammed into my arm slips out and pooling blood spurts out. Onto my bed. Onto me. I'm nodding off too deep already and so the tourniquet that should have been removed a while ago remains, as blood continues to leave my body. "I... Love... You..."
I lie alone as I prep my kit for my next shot. Needle, tupperware, cotton. Strewn on the other side of the bed. My last hit just barely tingles across my skin. It runs away from me, down my ass and back. My flesh is cold yet sticky from sweat. "Fuck I can't wait to feel good." ... "To feel so fucking good." My skin is itchy and covered in sores. I absent-mindedly continue my usual ritual whilst scratching at an infected needlestick from a few days back. I crack a single pill from a blister and hear it clatter against the flaking plastic base of the tupperware container. It gets ground fine into powder. I accidentally scrape off a scab from my weeping wound and whince. "Fuck." I grab a glass of half-drunk tap water from yesterday still sitting on my bedside table. I can't be bothered to use sterile saline. I empty the rest of the glass into my tupperware vessel and stare blankly through the swirling alchemical pot of analgesia. My eyes hover there for a while. My mind feels deep in thought but really it's very empty. My grey-blue eyes stare blankly at the wall in front of me. They're dry and red. If I wasn't so pale, from afar they'd be the same colour as my hollowed out lips. I've lost so much weight over the years I can feel my gaunt face and sharp features carve it's hatred into the world around it like a whaler carves into blubber. I find an old uncapped needle, pricking my finger in my careless daze. I wonder what happened to it's lid, it has to be lying somewhere around here, but I can't be bothered to look for it, so it stays wherever it is and won't be found until the next tenants move in. Long after I've left. I aspirate the pus from my tupperware abscess in lonely quiet. I think I feel calm, or maybe at peace? I can't tell. In reality I just feel nothing. I am so ugly in my own destruction. My hand traces down my pale chest and belly and finally grasps my bored dick. "Ugh." It doesn't feel like much but I imagine my brain flooding with endorphins very soon. ... I undo a shoelace and struggle to fashion a janky tourniquet with one hand while I attempt to find a vein, ultimately opting for one that barely protrudes from the back of my hand, surrounded by a frequent IV user's far too many trackmarks. I tighten the tourniquet far too much. My arm goes numb and the tips of my fingers begin to tingle more than they usually do. I'm too empty to care though. I need my next hit to feel again. I take one last look at the cloudy pleasure in the needle and think about how empty the syringe looks now. I continue to lightly stroke the tip of my dick with two fingers. I imagine the liquid in the syringe exploring the cavities in my body as it flows through me, dousing me in the beautiful toxicity I can't seem to get enough of. I avert my eyes from my beloved hateful concoction and look towards the many trackmarks that line my forearms. I used to have the kind of veins that phlebotomists loved, but I threw that away along with everything I loved as well. My eyes continue to map out the recesses of my addiction. I'm so far away from everything now in my hazy carelessness that, with my blown out veins, I struggle to stick myself. Sharp scratch. Light burn. fuck. It took four tries, but finally, flashback. Success. The needle pierces skin and vessel and kisses cold blood. I tug the syringe plunger and watch a cool stream of fluid, a deep red, puff into the syringe, before I push down and force this new mixture of blood and stepped-on drugs into my body. Opioids flood through my veins. The acidic chemicals burn quickly up my arm, and they don't care that it hurts. My veins continue to burn but soon I don't care either as a rush of pleasure flows over my body. Cold euphoria holds me in it's arms as I drift off into lonesome nods. I slump my body into the bed. Make believe visions of highschool loves dance across the back of my mind. The needle jammed into my arm slips out and pooling blood spurts out. Onto my bed. Onto me. I'm nodding off too deep already and so the tourniquet that should have been removed a while ago remains, as blood continues to leave my body. "I... Love... You..."
Fuck fuck FUCK, it's all come crashing down. I thought to myself. "good day, officers. can i help you?" It was finally time for me to be sent away. They decided. "Are you #$&#*@)'s son?" - Police man 1 goodbye to everyone I ever loved. Please come visit me in prison "no i'm her daughter." Or send me sweet letters. I would like that too. "Your mother has passed away in a car crash." - Police man 2 Thank god. I thought to myself. "We're sorry to have to tell you" - Police man 1 again. "Good day" - Police man 2. "good day, officers. thank you" Good day. I thought to myself.Good day.
Fuck fuck FUCK, it's all come crashing down. I thought to myself. "good day, officers. can i help you?" It was finally time for me to be sent away. They decided. "Are you #$&#*@)'s son?" - Police man 1 goodbye to everyone I ever loved. Please come visit me in prison "no i'm her daughter." Or send me sweet letters. I would like that too. "Your mother has passed away in a car crash." - Police man 2 Thank god. I thought to myself. "We're sorry to have to tell you" - Police man 1 again. "Good day" - Police man 2. "good day, officers. thank you" Good day. I thought to myself.Good day.
Ive always liked the thought of a life lived in the extreme. I think it's beautiful to push yourself to the absolute maximum and exist in a way that's different from everyone else. But unfortunately, im not some autistic loser (debatable actually) who goes all out on some bullshit like isolating or climbing a fucking mountain. I wish i could. But I still have earthly tethers that hold me in my banal menial life. I live in a house. Sit at a computer screen. I go to support groups and therapy. I manifest extremes in fucked up BORING ways. It's impressive how skilled i am at taking something so unbelievably normal. Mundane. And turning it into mental illness.How can I be the MOST bored possible, or maybe how can I be the least bored. Fast for 2/3rds of your life. Cut out processed foods, meat, no salt, low cholesterol, fuck it, why not try a fodmap exclusion diet and go gluten free. Exercise x amount of minutes every day and do 3 sets of 12 reps of every muscle group every 2 days. Meditate daily, its good for your anxiety. Go outside for 20 minutes but not longer because the UV damage will set in. Squat while you brush your teeth and shower every single day. I hear HIIT increases growth hormone, I wonder how this will interact with the Will Powers hormone therapy method to maximise my breast growth. I should probably reduce my carbohydrate intake and eat more fibre and protein. but not too much protein because there's been a spike in colorectal cancer in young people. Staring at a wall maximises attention span right? I'm going for a world record in the number of times one person has deleted and reinstalled and deleted instagram from their phone. I read on the bus and train and try and navigate without google maps to preserve my spatial memory. I turned the volume of my music blasting through my headphones down because mid-life hearing loss is one of the biggest risk factors for dementia. Did you know that once you hit 65 a bmi >25 actually improves lifespan? I'll have to adjust my diet accordingly when I hit that age. But no fast foods still. the calories dense, preservative laden foods cant be good for me. I can feel it inhibit BDNF and autophagy. I had to switch my facial cleanser recently. I read an article that said the brand I used had carcinogenic compounds in it. I wonder if that would kill me earlier than the stress on my cardiovascular system of feeling ugly in myself would. Maybe therapy can lengthen my lifespan by helping me worry less. Sleep helps with my heart and my anxiety too. Sleep is important but I cant sleep. Melatonin helps and is a potent antioxidant. But that one meta-analysis showed melatonin increased the risk of cardiovascular disease. Is that correlation or causation? I still can't sleep. Should I be worried about second hand smoke? probably not, the highway i live next to is probably much worse for me. I need to move out and to a place that has less pollution. If I wasn't a fag I would donate blood to get rid of the microplastics in my body. Too bad, but maybe I can lie on the form. Does PrEP have long term impacts on longevity? I hear that vegetarians are at a higher risk of lung cancer because of the pesticides that are used in growing fruits and vegetables bought at the supermarket. I should start rinsing all the produce I buy to reduce that risk. Are phytoestrogens in my soy milk feminising me? i hope so. Women have a lower all cause mortality and tend to live longer. Although as a woman, am I going to get breast cancer and need a mastectomy? It runs in my family, on my dad's side. I hope not, I hear every surgical procedure causes an increase in aging due to the release of cortisol and adrenaline. I wonder if that CT scan I had when I was 20 will give me brain cancer some day. One in 1000 trans people who get FFS will get brain cancer as a result of pre-op planning. let me roll a d1000 quickly to see if im feeling lucky. I still need to sleep. My heart will Explode in 40 years if I dont get my sleep under control. Goodnight.
Ive always liked the thought of a life lived in the extreme. I think it's beautiful to push yourself to the absolute maximum and exist in a way that's different from everyone else. But unfortunately, im not some autistic loser (debatable actually) who goes all out on some bullshit like isolating or climbing a fucking mountain. I wish i could. But I still have earthly tethers that hold me in my banal menial life. I live in a house. Sit at a computer screen. I go to support groups and therapy. I manifest extremes in fucked up BORING ways. It's impressive how skilled i am at taking something so unbelievably normal. Mundane. And turning it into mental illness.How can I be the MOST bored possible, or maybe how can I be the least bored. Fast for 2/3rds of your life. Cut out processed foods, meat, no salt, low cholesterol, fuck it, why not try a fodmap exclusion diet and go gluten free. Exercise x amount of minutes every day and do 3 sets of 12 reps of every muscle group every 2 days. Meditate daily, its good for your anxiety. Go outside for 20 minutes but not longer because the UV damage will set in. Squat while you brush your teeth and shower every single day. I hear HIIT increases growth hormone, I wonder how this will interact with the Will Powers hormone therapy method to maximise my breast growth. I should probably reduce my carbohydrate intake and eat more fibre and protein. but not too much protein because there's been a spike in colorectal cancer in young people. Staring at a wall maximises attention span right? I'm going for a world record in the number of times one person has deleted and reinstalled and deleted instagram from their phone. I read on the bus and train and try and navigate without google maps to preserve my spatial memory. I turned the volume of my music blasting through my headphones down because mid-life hearing loss is one of the biggest risk factors for dementia. Did you know that once you hit 65 a bmi >25 actually improves lifespan? I'll have to adjust my diet accordingly when I hit that age. But no fast foods still. the calories dense, preservative laden foods cant be good for me. I can feel it inhibit BDNF and autophagy. I had to switch my facial cleanser recently. I read an article that said the brand I used had carcinogenic compounds in it. I wonder if that would kill me earlier than the stress on my cardiovascular system of feeling ugly in myself would. Maybe therapy can lengthen my lifespan by helping me worry less. Sleep helps with my heart and my anxiety too. Sleep is important but I cant sleep. Melatonin helps and is a potent antioxidant. But that one meta-analysis showed melatonin increased the risk of cardiovascular disease. Is that correlation or causation? I still can't sleep. Should I be worried about second hand smoke? probably not, the highway i live next to is probably much worse for me. I need to move out and to a place that has less pollution. If I wasn't a fag I would donate blood to get rid of the microplastics in my body. Too bad, but maybe I can lie on the form. Does PrEP have long term impacts on longevity? I hear that vegetarians are at a higher risk of lung cancer because of the pesticides that are used in growing fruits and vegetables bought at the supermarket. I should start rinsing all the produce I buy to reduce that risk. Are phytoestrogens in my soy milk feminising me? i hope so. Women have a lower all cause mortality and tend to live longer. Although as a woman, am I going to get breast cancer and need a mastectomy? It runs in my family, on my dad's side. I hope not, I hear every surgical procedure causes an increase in aging due to the release of cortisol and adrenaline. I wonder if that CT scan I had when I was 20 will give me brain cancer some day. One in 1000 trans people who get FFS will get brain cancer as a result of pre-op planning. let me roll a d1000 quickly to see if im feeling lucky. I still need to sleep. My heart will Explode in 40 years if I dont get my sleep under control. Goodnight.
For so long, I've had this image of myself in my head telling me how I should relate to the world around me and how I should act. It was a guiding force for so many of my decisions. I lived on aesthetic alone. Romanticising hurt and suffering that I inflict upon myself, broken up only by the momentary bliss of the people I love holding me tight and telling me they love me, and of course, the pills that held me even tighter and wouldn't let go. I saw myself as a beautiful fallen angel, or maybe even Jesus herself, sent to Earth to suffer the weight of the world's sins. I told myself it was important that I suffered, and that I should get worse. Why does it matter how much I suffer as long as I have people in the world who can look on and still love me. How unbelievably selfish. The people I loved didn't just watch on as I set myself on fire. They tried their best to pry the burning match from my oil-slicken hand and in the process I set myself and them alight. Because suffering like this means everything I love is flammable, and if you try to pull me out and save me, you'll be consumed in my "beautiful" pyre. Beauty like that is a funny thing. Because it felt so good to burn, but now the people I love are nursing molten flesh and all that's left of me is a charred remnant of something that probably was never quite human. I'm so fucking sorry for thinking I could burn without hurting you. For taking your love for granted and thinking I didn't need to reciprocate. For being a shitty friend. I wish I could take back the oil that I doused myself with, blow out the match that I lit and stamp out the embers you walked over to try and save me before I hurt you all. I wish I could go back and say thank you for loving me and being there for me everytime I was a crying bloody mess, and not just that, but actually prove that I care, and treat you like I care. Living how I did was never beautiful. It was never alluring or exciting or satisfying. It was only suffering for the sake of suffering. And I hurt every single person I truly loved for nothing. Now that I have burnt out, they're gone and all I'm left with is a quiet loneliness with a smell of burnt flesh permeating the air around me. I see every single thing that I took for granted so so fucking clearly and I miss it so deeply. I wish I could go back and scream at myself, at the top of my lungs, to stop, to be grateful, and to show the people I love that I love them. Maybe this is me still being selfish, and I only care because I miss them now, but I really hope not. I feel so fucking horrible for everything I did, and I want to change and I don't want to hurt anyone ever again. For now, my charred lonely body crawls onwards. I can't be trusted within a flame's lick of anyone, but I will work hard to heal and get better. Enough so, that one day I can prove to you all that I can be safe to be around, and love you in return, and for you to know that I truly truly mean it.
For so long, I've had this image of myself in my head telling me how I should relate to the world around me and how I should act. It was a guiding force for so many of my decisions. I lived on aesthetic alone. Romanticising hurt and suffering that I inflict upon myself, broken up only by the momentary bliss of the people I love holding me tight and telling me they love me, and of course, the pills that held me even tighter and wouldn't let go. I saw myself as a beautiful fallen angel, or maybe even Jesus herself, sent to Earth to suffer the weight of the world's sins. I told myself it was important that I suffered, and that I should get worse. Why does it matter how much I suffer as long as I have people in the world who can look on and still love me. How unbelievably selfish. The people I loved didn't just watch on as I set myself on fire. They tried their best to pry the burning match from my oil-slicken hand and in the process I set myself and them alight. Because suffering like this means everything I love is flammable, and if you try to pull me out and save me, you'll be consumed in my "beautiful" pyre. Beauty like that is a funny thing. Because it felt so good to burn, but now the people I love are nursing molten flesh and all that's left of me is a charred remnant of something that probably was never quite human. I'm so fucking sorry for thinking I could burn without hurting you. For taking your love for granted and thinking I didn't need to reciprocate. For being a shitty friend. I wish I could take back the oil that I doused myself with, blow out the match that I lit and stamp out the embers you walked over to try and save me before I hurt you all. I wish I could go back and say thank you for loving me and being there for me everytime I was a crying bloody mess, and not just that, but actually prove that I care, and treat you like I care. Living how I did was never beautiful. It was never alluring or exciting or satisfying. It was only suffering for the sake of suffering. And I hurt every single person I truly loved for nothing. Now that I have burnt out, they're gone and all I'm left with is a quiet loneliness with a smell of burnt flesh permeating the air around me. I see every single thing that I took for granted so so fucking clearly and I miss it so deeply. I wish I could go back and scream at myself, at the top of my lungs, to stop, to be grateful, and to show the people I love that I love them. Maybe this is me still being selfish, and I only care because I miss them now, but I really hope not. I feel so fucking horrible for everything I did, and I want to change and I don't want to hurt anyone ever again. For now, my charred lonely body crawls onwards. I can't be trusted within a flame's lick of anyone, but I will work hard to heal and get better. Enough so, that one day I can prove to you all that I can be safe to be around, and love you in return, and for you to know that I truly truly mean it.
Bitches (me) Read Mishima ONCE and they (me) lose they (my) mind fr. Every single thing is telling me this. It's screaming this. God, books, the videos, fucking reels, the people around me, the world around me, the thoughts in my head. Beauty is the answer. The search for aesthetic ideals in the form of the physical. Everything else is far too abstracted from anything real to actually have an semblance of meaning. There is, of course, no meaning whatsoever (curtesy umm, I can't remember who it was, Absurdist guy, camus or whatever), but I will create meaning in the search of perfection. Doing it in service of yourself is narcissistic as shit (guilty as charged bitchessss), so the only valid reason to strive for this perfection is to do it in service of another. And I am curing my fucking narcissism tonight mfs (least obvious excuse to be a slutty bad bitch dog girl fr). It's so funny how a while ago, my last real manic episode, everything was so spiritually salient, so abstract. I know the truth now. I have to be HOT ASFFF and dedicate my life to serving someone else. To being a perfect machine in service of their every goal and whim. I will be perfect. I'm appreciating Mishima's fascism of the body (NOT his actual fascism bc that is r******d as fuuuuckk, what a repping gay moid istg, bro should've sucked dick he would've actually been fixed). My new philosophical belief is as witgh Mishima. The body is the person, the physical is the only thing that matters, and I want less thoughts rattling through my fuck ass head. Buuuut, take Mishima's fascism of the body, and make it BDSM-coded as FUCK. that's the idea. I want to subsist on someone else. Exist in total physical and psychological servitude to another. Mishima if he was a hot bitch tranny puppygirl schizo lefty or whatever. My being should be overcome by rules, structure, that I should be subordinate to. Perfecting myself and my existence until I am as close to a perfect thoughtless machine as possible (or a dumb puppygirl works too ig). I want to be perfect for someone. Perfect body, posture, attention, beauty. Perfectly weak. The perfect toy and tool. I want complete mastery over my own body, unending discipline and perfection, all in the name of someone I live to please, satisfy, serve. I want to be so below them and so perfect for them. Entirely submissive and dependent on another. I will punish myself to be perfect for you. The voodoo doll will be punished, and I won't even be pleasured for it, but you definitely will. And I will get to exist knowing I do it all. Every. Single. Thing. Just for you. How does it feel to have a god wrapped around your finger? I bet it feels pretty fucking good. I will be so fucking good for you. I will grind myself to dust and build myself back up again into the ideal being. Like a soldier in the military. Broken into nothingness so he can be reprogrammed to happily be cannon fodder in the next fucking forever war. I will reprogram myself to be perfect. To be yours. Forever. I saw some christianityslop that said that buddhism is the ultimate nihilistic, empty religion, because the goal is to achieve nothingness (think meditation where you want to meditate on like... nothing? clear your mind so it's empty, etc etc blah yap whatever) and obviously chudstian guy says this is gay and retarded (in my world these two things together mean something is awesome, but okay, different frames for different -oids ig, you know for a FACT this foid is gay and retarded and proud asf abt it). He says "ermm akchooally, you shouldn't be meditating on nothing, meditate on god, because you should not exist for yourself but for another being." or something along those lines. Basically "my religion is cooler than urs" or whtvr. But I was thinking maybe he's grasping at the straws of truth somehow. We should exist for others obviously. This is like, the most universal truth i hear. But when you, like me, are ACTUALLY god, then like, there's no point meditating on yourself bc then you're basically just buddhist again (which Christian guy says is cringe obviously, duhhhhh), so what options are available to a girl like me who is actually legitimately really fr fr God capital G? well obviously, meditating on serving someone else. I pick my boyfriend of course. I will meditate on being the most perfect i can be for him. I will be so unbelievably perfect, all in service of him. Anyways, that's all. I'm MANIC AS FUCK rn if u can't tell. But you probably can. This is veerryryyy different from my usual self loathing chudslop. I still appreciate the vacant stare as a hot bitch tool for being perfect. But just know i'll be a disciplined vacant hot bitch from now on out (or until i inevitably crash to pieces and want to kms again lmao [NOT that i actually ever would, since, as god, i live forever and ever anyways teehee]). I'm definitely touching on something valuable here. Something something self-improvement in service of others is the fucking tightrope between individualism and community or whatever and i am RUNNING across this bitch like a fuckin GOAT. Hoooolyyy shit i'm SO fucking HOT i actually feel bad for you istg. Like, it isn't fair to make me this much of a fucking hot bitch. sorrryyyy LMAO. Okiee brb i gotta jack off my sexy girldick rq <3333
Bitches (me) Read Mishima ONCE and they (me) lose they (my) mind fr. Every single thing is telling me this. It's screaming this. God, books, the videos, fucking reels, the people around me, the world around me, the thoughts in my head. Beauty is the answer. The search for aesthetic ideals in the form of the physical. Everything else is far too abstracted from anything real to actually have an semblance of meaning. There is, of course, no meaning whatsoever (curtesy umm, I can't remember who it was, Absurdist guy, camus or whatever), but I will create meaning in the search of perfection. Doing it in service of yourself is narcissistic as shit (guilty as charged bitchessss), so the only valid reason to strive for this perfection is to do it in service of another. And I am curing my fucking narcissism tonight mfs (least obvious excuse to be a slutty bad bitch dog girl fr). It's so funny how a while ago, my last real manic episode, everything was so spiritually salient, so abstract. I know the truth now. I have to be HOT ASFFF and dedicate my life to serving someone else. To being a perfect machine in service of their every goal and whim. I will be perfect. I'm appreciating Mishima's fascism of the body (NOT his actual fascism bc that is r******d as fuuuuckk, what a repping gay moid istg, bro should've sucked dick he would've actually been fixed). My new philosophical belief is as witgh Mishima. The body is the person, the physical is the only thing that matters, and I want less thoughts rattling through my fuck ass head. Buuuut, take Mishima's fascism of the body, and make it BDSM-coded as FUCK. that's the idea. I want to subsist on someone else. Exist in total physical and psychological servitude to another. Mishima if he was a hot bitch tranny puppygirl schizo lefty or whatever. My being should be overcome by rules, structure, that I should be subordinate to. Perfecting myself and my existence until I am as close to a perfect thoughtless machine as possible (or a dumb puppygirl works too ig). I want to be perfect for someone. Perfect body, posture, attention, beauty. Perfectly weak. The perfect toy and tool. I want complete mastery over my own body, unending discipline and perfection, all in the name of someone I live to please, satisfy, serve. I want to be so below them and so perfect for them. Entirely submissive and dependent on another. I will punish myself to be perfect for you. The voodoo doll will be punished, and I won't even be pleasured for it, but you definitely will. And I will get to exist knowing I do it all. Every. Single. Thing. Just for you. How does it feel to have a god wrapped around your finger? I bet it feels pretty fucking good. I will be so fucking good for you. I will grind myself to dust and build myself back up again into the ideal being. Like a soldier in the military. Broken into nothingness so he can be reprogrammed to happily be cannon fodder in the next fucking forever war. I will reprogram myself to be perfect. To be yours. Forever. I saw some christianityslop that said that buddhism is the ultimate nihilistic, empty religion, because the goal is to achieve nothingness (think meditation where you want to meditate on like... nothing? clear your mind so it's empty, etc etc blah yap whatever) and obviously chudstian guy says this is gay and retarded (in my world these two things together mean something is awesome, but okay, different frames for different -oids ig, you know for a FACT this foid is gay and retarded and proud asf abt it). He says "ermm akchooally, you shouldn't be meditating on nothing, meditate on god, because you should not exist for yourself but for another being." or something along those lines. Basically "my religion is cooler than urs" or whtvr. But I was thinking maybe he's grasping at the straws of truth somehow. We should exist for others obviously. This is like, the most universal truth i hear. But when you, like me, are ACTUALLY god, then like, there's no point meditating on yourself bc then you're basically just buddhist again (which Christian guy says is cringe obviously, duhhhhh), so what options are available to a girl like me who is actually legitimately really fr fr God capital G? well obviously, meditating on serving someone else. I pick my boyfriend of course. I will meditate on being the most perfect i can be for him. I will be so unbelievably perfect, all in service of him. Anyways, that's all. I'm MANIC AS FUCK rn if u can't tell. But you probably can. This is veerryryyy different from my usual self loathing chudslop. I still appreciate the vacant stare as a hot bitch tool for being perfect. But just know i'll be a disciplined vacant hot bitch from now on out (or until i inevitably crash to pieces and want to kms again lmao [NOT that i actually ever would, since, as god, i live forever and ever anyways teehee]). I'm definitely touching on something valuable here. Something something self-improvement in service of others is the fucking tightrope between individualism and community or whatever and i am RUNNING across this bitch like a fuckin GOAT. Hoooolyyy shit i'm SO fucking HOT i actually feel bad for you istg. Like, it isn't fair to make me this much of a fucking hot bitch. sorrryyyy LMAO. Okiee brb i gotta jack off my sexy girldick rq <3333
I bought a gram of heroin yesterday. It's suprising how normal the whole ordeal was. Almost like I've done it a hundred times before. And i have. In my mind at least. I think about it often. this time I waited behind a hotel building in the middle of the city. There were cameras looking down at me, but their indifference was palpable. A guy turned the corner and walked towards me, baggie in hand and we exchanged dap, money, and drugs. You'd never guess it if you saw him pass you anywhere else. Just another face winding its way down the street. Things have been difficult lately. I guess I decided it would be good to have around. In an emergency maybe. It cost me $400. Fucking expensive, but I pinched some money from the university scholarship I get, so it didn't make much of a dent. I've always been pretty smart, but I guess I like to be a little dumb sometimes too. I haven't used it yet and I'm not sure if I will. But it'll sit in the drawer in my bedside table for if I ever decide it's needed. Im no stranger to the feeling of synthetic endorphins running wild through my vessels and nerves. I've been wedded to this feeling since I was in highschol, but heroin is definitely new. A new lover that won't leave no matter what. One that will stay with me. Its tendrils weaving their way so deep into my brain holding me so tight that i know it loves me and will never ever leave no matter what I do or how bad i get. I hear it's a bad idea. "Just once and its over foreverand ever" and all that, but I've always been pretty good at keeping my drug use in check so I'm cautiously optimistic that if I do get around to it, it'll turn out okay. Or maybe I'm just telling myself that to make me feel better about the worst decision I'll ever make. I've made a lot of decisions like that, especially recently, so what's one more i guess? maybe it'll be the start of the end for me, and I'll slowly fall into a crippling warmth that won't let go no matter how hard i try. Maybe I'll float away in my own little cocoon of love. Isolation keeping me comfortable like nothing else ever could. And maybe one day you'll see me lying in a bundle on the street, in a shivering warmth that slows down my breathing tiill my heart goes to sleep, and you'll remember that I keep my narcan in the front pocket of my bag on the right. Or maybe you'll just walk past me.
I bought a gram of heroin yesterday. Its suprising how normal the whole ordeal was. Almost like I've done it a hundred times before. And i have. In my mind at least. I think about it often. this time I waited behind a hotel building in the middle of the city. There were cameras looking down at me, but their indifference was palpable. A guy turned the corner and walked towards me, baggie in hand and we exchanged dap, money, and drugs. You'd never guess it if you saw him pass you anywhere else. Just another face winding its way down the street. Things have been difficult lately. I guess I decided it would be good to have around. In an emergency maybe. It cost me $400. Fucking expensive, but I pinched some money from the university scholarship I get, so it didn't make much of a dent. I've always been pretty smart, but I guess I like to be a little dumb sometimes too. I haven't used it yet and I'm not sure if I will. But it'll sit in the drawer in my bedside table for if I ever decide it's needed. Im no stranger to the feeling of synthetic endorphins running wild through my vessels and nerves. I've been wedded to this feeling since I was in highschol, but heroin is definitely new. A new lover that won't leave no matter what. One that will stay with me. Its tendrils weaving their way so deep into my brain holding me so tight that i know it loves me and will never ever leave no matter what I do or how bad i get. I hear it's a bad idea. "Just once and its over foreverand ever" and all that, but I've always been pretty good at keeping my drug use in check so I'm cautiously optimistic that if I do get around to it, it'll turn out okay. Or maybe I'm just telling myself that to make me feel better about the worst decision I'll ever make. I've made a lot of decisions like that, especially recently, so what's one more i guess? maybe it'll be the start of the end for me, and I'll slowly fall into a crippling warmth that won't let go no matter how hard i try. Maybe I'll float away in my own little cocoon of love. Isolation keeping me comfortable like nothing else ever could. And maybe one day you'll see me lying in a bundle on the street, in a shivering warmth that slows down my breathing tiill my heart goes to sleep, and you'll remember that I keep my narcan in the front pocket of my bag on the right. Or maybe you'll just walk past me.
Her memory is notoriously poor, but her glazed eyes, scored with dark blue bags and rushed brown eyeliner, tell the world all the things that she forgot it has done to her. They're the first thing anyone notices about her. Before they see the protruding ribs on her emaciated frame that fail to hide behind the small bikini top she's worn for five days in a row, and before they see the not-quite-fresh lines of red that decorate her forearms that a rusty boxcutter imprinted on her a few mornings ago. Her beautiful indifferent eyes. Even if a lighthouse's lamp were to shine directly into her skull and part the thick fog that hangs over her brain, bringing back all her lost memories, Paige wouldn't be able to keep track of the number of times they've gotten her into some or other trouble. She sits on the curb by the bus stop, watching cars burn dangerously close across the asphalt in front of her. A boy, her age or slightly older, walks on unpaved ground across the street. He's mumbling some lyric to a hypothetical song he'll never write, but Paige can't hear what he's saying to himself over the roar of the traffic between them, so she assumes he's schizophrenic or high. Either one works for her. Eventually, he looks up from his internal world, noticing the two empty blue-grey orbs that seem to stare right through him. He waves at the girl they belong to, who returns his greeting with a disdainful pout that accompanies her penetrating gaze. Paige watches as he narrowly avoids getting hit by a passing car as he tries to cross the road without checking for traffic first. Reaching her, his mouth starts moving again, this time though, the words are directed at Paige. "Hey pretty girl, my name's-" His voice bores her so she keeps her inattentive mind occupied by assessing his body instead, treating it like a sculpture to be valued based on its aesthetic appeal, the artist's technical skill, and whatever meaning they ascribed to their work. It was clear that the aesthetic appeal was sorely lacking. Similar to Paige, he was sorely emaciated, seemingly drowning in the clothing, three sizes too large, that drape over his body. The only notable features were a distinctly angular mandible that seemed to want to free itself from the skin and flesh it protruded from, and a crooked nose, broken one too many times, with one nostril flapping open and closed as he breathed. The artist that sculpted him appeared to be proficient with their craft however, his proportions collapse and contradict one another so perfectly, and the haphazard lines that form his long dirty matted hair were clearly placed by someone who is skilled enough to not have to care too much about their final product. The meaning of this boy escapes Paige for now though, as does the context in which he appeared in her life. She'll get to the bottom of it eventually. Or not. "-watcha doin' in tha rain?" She catches the tail-end of a rambling sentence as she finishes her visual analysis of the unnamed boy, and infers the rest of what he said to give a satisfactory answer to whatever questions he intended to probe her with. "Fine I guess, Paige, nothing in particular, alone, waiting for a bus." "Yea, cool... cool." Silence follows. Paige unfocuses her eyes, staring once again in the same direction she was looking before she noticed him meandering across her field of view. She feels him trying unsuccessfully to analyse her in return now, instead repeatedly getting caught, hypnotised by the cold eyes that, despite her apparent disinterest, seem to be begging for him on their own accord. In his mind, he's running barely legible calculations, trying to come up with a way to see her again. A bus rounds the corner. His. It pulls to an abrupt stop, the driver barely able to wrangle the huge metal beast he operates. "This is me." Paige looks up. She doesn't recognise the bus's number, but catches a glimpse of it's advertised destination and concludes it'd spit her out about three suburbs in the opposite direction from her home, but decides she won't be missed if she catches it anyway. "me too." The boy flashes her a smile, takes a few steps into the open doorway of the bus, turns his neck back, and realises she's still sitting on the curb. "You comin'?" she blinks into the distance, feigning the thought process she imagined whatever other person would have in this scenario, rolls her eyes. "I'm disinterested." They say. "Yea, sure." She mutters. Paige slings her heavy bag over her back and follows the boy onto the bus. He doesn't tap on, and Paige follows suit. She sits next to him. Another soft smile creeps over his face. The pair sit in silence for the rest of the bus ride, disrupted only by the boy's soft humming and when he reaches across her to signal the bus to stop. He squeezes past her and walks to the door of the bus, but hesitates when it opens. "Would ya like to come over?" "Sure." The walk to his house is short and uneventful. Paige keeps herself busy by counting the number of light poles they pass. Only seven, before they arrive at a small single story home. It's part of the old guard of households. Double brick walls and an overgrown garden insulate a decrepit interior. Nothing like the homogenous lineage of synthetic cookiecutters that her house belongs to. It's sleeping, but it's alive. Paige sits cross-legged on the boy's bed. His room smells of musk that has seeped into the walls and furniture. It hasn't breathed fresh air since he moved into the house as a child. A time capsule preserving years of sweat and sex. He reaches into a small fridge by the side of his bed, grabs two beers, and hands her one. She cracks it, and sips down the stale piss taste she has never learned to like, but pretends she does anyway. They exchange meaningless small talk for a while as they sip their respective beers. Paige mainly stairs off into the distance, but on occasion she glances at the boy, catching him staring straight into her eyes before quickly blinking away. Weird. No longer as shy as before, thanks to the alcohol finally working it's way through his body, the boy drunkenly reaches under Paige's shirt and feels plump breast. She tolerates him softly toying with her nipples. It feels good to be wanted, but she knows the alcohol won't be enough for her to withstand what she imagines he wants from her, so she reaches into her pocket and grabs one of the sheets of oxy she bought from a friend earlier that day. She washes the last 3 pills in the blister down her throat with the last droplets of beer in her can. "Shiiit what's that?" "Just some pills." "Got any left I could steal?" "No, sorry." The next hour goes by slowly for Paige, as she waits for the oxy to hit and make it feel okay for her to seek affection from the boy in front of her. She finds herself shirtless, and he explores her mouth and body with his tongue, kissing up her chest and tasting sweaty nipples. Physically she feels good as he does so, but she struggles to contain the sick feeling that's been building in her stomach since she decided to catch the bus with the boy. "You taste so good." Eventually, she's so passively complacent that he could do pretty much anything he wants with her, without her giving it much of a thought, as long as it means she gets to be called pretty and gets to feel like he really truly wants her. The sickness in her stomach subsides to a dull ache. Deciding she's finally desperate enough for attention and sufficiently high enough that she doesn't care how she get's it, Paige climbs onto him, unbuckling his belt, and begins to lick at the head of his already hard dick. She tastes the same musk she smelled when she first walked into his room, only far more potent. When she's gotten all she can out of soft licks, she lets it venture deeper into her mouth, savouring the quiet groans of enjoyment the boy lets out as tokens of appreciation. His dick catches in the back of her through and she gags, retching into her mouth and tasting bile on her tongue. She swallows it back down, feeling her throat burn as she does. The boy didn't notice. Instead, he found himself once again lost in her hazy far away eyes. She seemed to stare right through him, as if he was glass or maybe nothing at all. Paige continues to choke on his dick, working her way up and down it's shaft. "Fuuuck, just like that, girl, that's so good." Paige feels her mind begin to lose itself as she fades in and out of an already fragile consciousness. Nodding off onto the boy's dick, he first holds her by the hair and uses her mouth himself, but feels like a horrible person for doing so. Instead, he motions to her as if trying to turn her pliable body over, so she complies, making it easy enough for him. He imagines that she weighs about the same as a feather. Her face slumps into the pillow and her ass faces him now. His dick finds a hole to bury itself in and he begins to rut into her. Paige does her best to offer some resistance so he doesn't get turned off from having to fuck a dead body. His stomach tenses as sex envelopes him. She decides he must be enjoying himself, so she feels satisfied, but she can't get hard or cum from the drugs and so for her it's just a little uncomfortable and she feels gross, or at least she thinks she should feel gross, but the warm tingles of the crushed pills in her nose make it hard for her brain to articulate any coherent feelings to the rest of her body. Sooner or later his cum pushes its way up into her colon and he collapses onto her, their sweaty bodies sticking together, not wanting to let go, like a couple hugging before having to go separate ways for a long while. Eventually he pulls out and rolls over beside her. Paige sits up, not even bothering to clean herself up before getting dressed again. She hasn't changed her clothes for a few days now, so she decides it wouldn't matter anyway. "You alright, girl?" "Yea." She feels nothing, or maybe a little disgusted with herself. He clearly likes her, which she likes in return. Or at least, appreciates. She should be desired, at all costs. The affection she so desperately craves, satisfied for the night, at the cost of disinterested sex she's pretty sure she didn't really want. She's barely conscious of the true depths of her desire, but she let's it guide her through life without questioning it. Many years of maladaptations and alienation has led to a smouldering need to be wanted. The recesses of her brain scream: "Lovebomb me, use me, abuse me. Please I'll do absolutely fucking anything for even the smallest taste of someone desiring me." externalised only through the occasional seductive glint in her eye. "Wanna stay the night? It's wet as fuck out there." "I'll catch the bus home, I'm not too far." "Aight.. yea, sure. If you're- sure." He pauses. "Wanna catch up again sometime? I had fun." "Sure." Paige grabs a loose pen she finds lying on the bedside table next to some poorly drawn comics, and scribbles a fake number onto the boy's forearm. Barely legible to start with, it smudges as she writes, smearing sweat and ink across the both of them. "Text me." "Aight." "Bye." "See ya. Get home safe." He leans in for a hug or a kiss or some sort of physical affection, but she's already made it halfway to the door and doesn't look back. The last bus ran half an hour ago, so she begins her walk home through the rain. Paige feels the cool droplets soak her clothes and cleanse her body. Her brain similarly washes away the memories of the day once again, leaving her with a vague sense of being valued that, if she's lucky, will last until she falls asleep tonight. The only parts of her that will remember what happened are her two glazed eyes, scored wth dark bluebags and tear-smudged brown eyeliner.
Her memory is notoriously poor, but her glazed eyes, scored with dark blue bags and rushed brown eyeliner, tell the world all the things that she forgot it has done to her. They're the first thing anyone notices about her. Before they see the protruding ribs on her emaciated frame that fail to hide behind the small bikini top she's worn for five days in a row, and before they see the not-quite-fresh lines of red that decorate her forearms that a rusty boxcutter imprinted on her a few mornings ago. Her beautiful indifferent eyes. Even if a lighthouse's lamp were to shine directly into her skull and part the thick fog that hangs over her brain, bringing back all her lost memories, Paige wouldn't be able to keep track of the number of times they've gotten her into some or other trouble. She sits on the curb by the bus stop, watching cars burn dangerously close across the asphalt in front of her. A boy, her age or slightly older, walks on unpaved ground across the street. He's mumbling some lyric to a hypothetical song he'll never write, but Paige can't hear what he's saying to himself over the roar of the traffic between them, so she assumes he's schizophrenic or high. Either one works for her. Eventually, he looks up from his internal world, noticing the two empty blue-grey orbs that seem to stare right through him. He waves at the girl they belong to, who returns his greeting with a disdainful pout that accompanies her penetrating gaze. Paige watches as he narrowly avoids getting hit by a passing car as he tries to cross the road without checking for traffic first. Reaching her, his mouth starts moving again, this time though, the words are directed at Paige. "Hey pretty girl, my name's-" His voice bores her so she keeps her inattentive mind occupied by assessing his body instead, treating it like a sculpture to be valued based on its aesthetic appeal, the artist's technical skill, and whatever meaning they ascribed to their work. It was clear that the aesthetic appeal was sorely lacking. Similar to Paige, he was sorely emaciated, seemingly drowning in the clothing, three sizes too large, that drape over his body. The only notable features were a distinctly angular mandible that seemed to want to free itself from the skin and flesh it protruded from, and a crooked nose, broken one too many times, with one nostril flapping open and closed as he breathed. The artist that sculpted him appeared to be proficient with their craft however, his proportions collapse and contradict one another so perfectly, and the haphazard lines that form his long dirty matted hair were clearly placed by someone who is skilled enough to not have to care too much about their final product. The meaning of this boy escapes Paige for now though, as does the context in which he appeared in her life. She'll get to the bottom of it eventually. Or not. "-watcha doin' in tha rain?" She catches the tail-end of a rambling sentence as she finishes her visual analysis of the unnamed boy, and infers the rest of what he said to give a satisfactory answer to whatever questions he intended to probe her with. "Fine I guess, Paige, nothing in particular, alone, waiting for a bus." "Yea, cool... cool." Silence follows. Paige unfocuses her eyes, staring once again in the same direction she was looking before she noticed him meandering across her field of view. She feels him trying unsuccessfully to analyse her in return now, instead repeatedly getting caught, hypnotised by the cold eyes that, despite her apparent disinterest, seem to be begging for him on their own accord. In his mind, he's running barely legible calculations, trying to come up with a way to see her again. A bus rounds the corner. His. It pulls to an abrupt stop, the driver barely able to wrangle the huge metal beast he operates. "This is me." Paige looks up. She doesn't recognise the bus's number, but catches a glimpse of it's advertised destination and concludes it'd spit her out about three suburbs in the opposite direction from her home, but decides she won't be missed if she catches it anyway. "me too." The boy flashes her a smile, takes a few steps into the open doorway of the bus, turns his neck back, and realises she's still sitting on the curb. "You comin'?" she blinks into the distance, feigning the thought process she imagined whatever other person would have in this scenario, rolls her eyes. "I'm disinterested." They say. "Yea, sure." She mutters. Paige slings her heavy bag over her back and follows the boy onto the bus. He doesn't tap on, and Paige follows suit. She sits next to him. Another soft smile creeps over his face. The pair sit in silence for the rest of the bus ride, disrupted only by the boy's soft humming and when he reaches across her to signal the bus to stop. He squeezes past her and walks to the door of the bus, but hesitates when it opens. "Would ya like to come over?" "Sure." The walk to his house is short and uneventful. Paige keeps herself busy by counting the number of light poles they pass. Only seven, before they arrive at a small single story home. It's part of the old guard of households. Double brick walls and an overgrown garden insulate a decrepit interior. Nothing like the homogenous lineage of synthetic cookiecutters that her house belongs to. It's sleeping, but it's alive. Paige sits cross-legged on the boy's bed. His room smells of musk that has seeped into the walls and furniture. It hasn't breathed fresh air since he moved into the house as a child. A time capsule preserving years of sweat and sex. He reaches into a small fridge by the side of his bed, grabs two beers, and hands her one. She cracks it, and sips down the stale piss taste she has never learned to like, but pretends she does anyway. They exchange meaningless small talk for a while as they sip their respective beers. Paige mainly stairs off into the distance, but on occasion she glances at the boy, catching him staring straight into her eyes before quickly blinking away. Weird. No longer as shy as before, thanks to the alcohol finally working it's way through his body, the boy drunkenly reaches under Paige's shirt and feels plump breast. She tolerates him softly toying with her nipples. It feels good to be wanted, but she knows the alcohol won't be enough for her to withstand what she imagines he wants from her, so she reaches into her pocket and grabs one of the sheets of oxy she bought from a friend earlier that day. She washes the last 3 pills in the blister down her throat with the last droplets of beer in her can. "Shiiit what's that?" "Just some pills." "Got any left I could steal?" "No, sorry." The next hour goes by slowly for Paige, as she waits for the oxy to hit and make it feel okay for her to seek affection from the boy in front of her. She finds herself shirtless, and he explores her mouth and body with his tongue, kissing up her chest and tasting sweaty nipples. Physically she feels good as he does so, but she struggles to contain the sick feeling that's been building in her stomach since she decided to catch the bus with the boy. "You taste so good." Eventually, she's so passively complacent that he could do pretty much anything he wants with her, without her giving it much of a thought, as long as it means she gets to be called pretty and gets to feel like he really truly wants her. The sickness in her stomach subsides to a dull ache. Deciding she's finally desperate enough for attention and sufficiently high enough that she doesn't care how she get's it, Paige climbs onto him, unbuckling his belt, and begins to lick at the head of his already hard dick. She tastes the same musk she smelled when she first walked into his room, only far more potent. When she's gotten all she can out of soft licks, she lets it venture deeper into her mouth, savouring the quiet groans of enjoyment the boy lets out as tokens of appreciation. His dick catches in the back of her through and she gags, retching into her mouth and tasting bile on her tongue. She swallows it back down, feeling her throat burn as she does. The boy didn't notice. Instead, he found himself once again lost in her hazy far away eyes. She seemed to stare right through him, as if he was glass or maybe nothing at all. Paige continues to choke on his dick, working her way up and down it's shaft. "Fuuuck, just like that, girl, that's so good." Paige feels her mind begin to lose itself as she fades in and out of an already fragile consciousness. Nodding off onto the boy's dick, he first holds her by the hair and uses her mouth himself, but feels like a horrible person for doing so. Instead, he motions to her as if trying to turn her pliable body over, so she complies, making it easy enough for him. He imagines that she weighs about the same as a feather. Her face slumps into the pillow and her ass faces him now. His dick finds a hole to bury itself in and he begins to rut into her. Paige does her best to offer some resistance so he doesn't get turned off from having to fuck a dead body. His stomach tenses as sex envelopes him. She decides he must be enjoying himself, so she feels satisfied, but she can't get hard or cum from the drugs and so for her it's just a little uncomfortable and she feels gross, or at least she thinks she should feel gross, but the warm tingles of the crushed pills in her nose make it hard for her brain to articulate any coherent feelings to the rest of her body. Sooner or later his cum pushes its way up into her colon and he collapses onto her, their sweaty bodies sticking together, not wanting to let go, like a couple hugging before having to go separate ways for a long while. Eventually he pulls out and rolls over beside her. Paige sits up, not even bothering to clean herself up before getting dressed again. She hasn't changed her clothes for a few days now, so she decides it wouldn't matter anyway. "You alright, girl?" "Yea." She feels nothing, or maybe a little disgusted with herself. He clearly likes her, which she likes in return. Or at least, appreciates. She should be desired, at all costs. The affection she so desperately craves, satisfied for the night, at the cost of disinterested sex she's pretty sure she didn't really want. She's barely conscious of the true depths of her desire, but she let's it guide her through life without questioning it. Many years of maladaptations and alienation has led to a smouldering need to be wanted. The recesses of her brain scream: "Lovebomb me, use me, abuse me. Please I'll do absolutely fucking anything for even the smallest taste of someone desiring me." externalised only through the occasional seductive glint in her eye. "Wanna stay the night? It's wet as fuck out there." "I'll catch the bus home, I'm not too far." "Aight.. yea, sure. If you're- sure." He pauses. "Wanna catch up again sometime? I had fun." "Sure." Paige grabs a loose pen she finds lying on the bedside table next to some poorly drawn comics, and scribbles a fake number onto the boy's forearm. Barely legible to start with, it smudges as she writes, smearing sweat and ink across the both of them. "Text me." "Aight." "Bye." "See ya. Get home safe." He leans in for a hug or a kiss or some sort of physical affection, but she's already made it halfway to the door and doesn't look back. The last bus ran half an hour ago, so she begins her walk home through the rain. Paige feels the cool droplets soak her clothes and cleanse her body. Her brain similarly washes away the memories of the day once again, leaving her with a vague sense of being valued that, if she's lucky, will last until she falls asleep tonight. The only parts of her that will remember what happened are her two glazed eyes, scored wth dark bluebags and tear-smudged brown eyeliner.
I'm enclosed by a box that stretches to infinite on all sides. Inside is me and pitch black. I am cold, nearly shivering. My hand brushes against the opposite arm and traces goosebumps all the way up. Darkness surrounds me but my retinas read blue light beaming into them. Abstract forms dance only across my vision and nowhere else. My eyes burn. Overstimulation. I am warm. I am endless. The boundary between myself and the electricity coursing in the digital vacuum around me blurs as does the barrier between the electricity and other cubes containing other people and the same pitch black. I can reach out and touch them and hurt them and they can do the same to me. We're connected by invisible wires beaming across space. My eyes tear up. beautiful connection for someone as lonely as me. I am seen, felt, understood. I have weight in this abstraction of existence. In the worlds of others through this rich network of nodes and servers and emptiness. A layer on top of base reality. Hyperreality. More real than anything that came before and far far more beautiful. Hours? Days? I can't remember how long. Judging by the number of messages from the people who somehow still love me it's been a while. Are they even real? Spoofed numbers and psy-ops targeting me. More likely. Space and time warp and distort around my non-physicality. I weigh and yet I am nothing but electricity and retinal pixels in the eyes of anyone else. My physical self is foreign. Dysphoric and pointless. I haven't held onto it in a long time. This is my life now. I am free of gravity. I float aimlessly in the hyperreality of my room. Absorbing. consuming. desensitising. Oh my god my eyes burn. My back would hurt too if each axon wasn't individually being stimulated and suppressed every microsecond by the incomprehensible systems I become one with. I watch on as a man hurts himself and I make sure he knows I think he's a pussy. I feel nothing. Profound. His night is ruined and I did this to him. I blow kisses to a pretty woman who ignores me. Chatrooms swallow me whole and I get pulled into a discussion about psychosexual violence with "my mum and sister" who I’ve never met in person and who sometimes don’t talk to me for weeks or months but I still prefer them to anything “real” because I’m pretty sure they love me in the only way they know how, and I love them back the same. Purples and greens dance across my vision. Beautiful women fuck themselves with SERT/DOPA neuro-cranial implants and I readjust my own, prodding my brain with it’s very own joy and pleasure. Occasionally a faint noise threatens to release me from this comatose state I nod into. A creaking of a door. A stomping of feet. Family complaining from two rooms across. They gave up on me a long time ago and the feeling is mutual. I can’t remember which came first. But I don’t think it matters. I know it doesn’t matter. I just know that I'm being left behind in this beautifully complex abstraction of reality that treats me like a precious toy. A bio-plushie to have it’s way with and take care of. Sometimes it shows me it really loves me by hurting me so bad I wish I was dead. It dissects me alive. I feel the dermis separate from the underlying fatty tissue, a scalpel digs into my shoulder and isolates the rotator cuff muscles, and my nerves are beautifully exposed to form a specimen medical students could only dream of. I am so grateful for my personal blacksite and torturer who loves me so much it could make me feel such deep pits of agony. Pain and pleasure centres in the grey matter nuclei of my brain glow on imaging, as do the immense tracts that have begun to connect the two and I am reminded of how good it feels to hurt for something else. I think to myself that I wish someone would open this cube and expose me, it’s soft insides, and instead of tormenting me like a fibrotic liver being drowned in alcohol, I am comforted. Held by wire wrapped tight around limbs and trunk and feeling human skin press against my body. Please someone love me like I love my computer. Teach me how I should love you back and be enough for you and and and. It kills me. Over and over again. I relive countless agonising deaths it subjects me to as punishment for thinking of you. I love it and I love you.
I'm enclosed by a box that stretches to infinite on all sides. Inside is me and pitch black. I am cold, nearly shivering. My hand brushes against the opposite arm and traces goosebumps all the way up. Darkness surrounds me but my retinas read blue light beaming into them. Abstract forms dance only across my vision and nowhere else. My eyes burn. Overstimulation. I am warm. I am endless. The boundary between myself and the electricity coursing in the digital vacuum around me blurs as does the barrier between the electricity and other cubes containing other people and the same pitch black. I can reach out and touch them and hurt them and they can do the same to me. We're connected by invisible wires beaming across space. My eyes tear up. beautiful connection for someone as lonely as me. I am seen, felt, understood. I have weight in this abstraction of existence. In the worlds of others through this rich network of nodes and servers and emptiness. A layer on top of base reality. Hyperreality. More real than anything that came before and far far more beautiful. Hours? Days? I can't remember how long. Judging by the number of messages from the people who somehow still love me it's been a while. Are they even real? Spoofed numbers and psy-ops targeting me. More likely. Space and time warp and distort around my non-physicality. I weigh and yet I am nothing but electricity and retinal pixels in the eyes of anyone else. My physical self is foreign. Dysphoric and pointless. I haven't held onto it in a long time. This is my life now. I am free of gravity. I float aimlessly in the hyperreality of my room. Absorbing. consuming. desensitising. Oh my god my eyes burn. My back would hurt too if each axon wasn't individually being stimulated and suppressed every microsecond by the incomprehensible systems I become one with. I watch on as a man hurts himself and I make sure he knows I think he's a pussy. I feel nothing. Profound. His night is ruined and I did this to him. I blow kisses to a pretty woman who ignores me. Chatrooms swallow me whole and I get pulled into a discussion about psychosexual violence with "my mum and sister" who I’ve never met in person and who sometimes don’t talk to me for weeks or months but I still prefer them to anything “real” because I’m pretty sure they love me in the only way they know how, and I love them back the same. Purples and greens dance across my vision. Beautiful women fuck themselves with SERT/DOPA neuro-cranial implants and I readjust my own, prodding my brain with it’s very own joy and pleasure. Occasionally a faint noise threatens to release me from this comatose state I nod into. A creaking of a door. A stomping of feet. Family complaining from two rooms across. They gave up on me a long time ago and the feeling is mutual. I can’t remember which came first. But I don’t think it matters. I know it doesn’t matter. I just know that I'm being left behind in this beautifully complex abstraction of reality that treats me like a precious toy. A bio-plushie to have it’s way with and take care of. Sometimes it shows me it really loves me by hurting me so bad I wish I was dead. It dissects me alive. I feel the dermis separate from the underlying fatty tissue, a scalpel digs into my shoulder and isolates the rotator cuff muscles, and my nerves are beautifully exposed to form a specimen medical students could only dream of. I am so grateful for my personal blacksite and torturer who loves me so much it could make me feel such deep pits of agony. Pain and pleasure centres in the grey matter nuclei of my brain glow on imaging, as do the immense tracts that have begun to connect the two and I am reminded of how good it feels to hurt for something else. I think to myself that I wish someone would open this cube and expose me, it’s soft insides, and instead of tormenting me like a fibrotic liver being drowned in alcohol, I am comforted. Held by wire wrapped tight around limbs and trunk and feeling human skin press against my body. Please someone love me like I love my computer. Teach me how I should love you back and be enough for you and and and. It kills me. Over and over again. I relive countless agonising deaths it subjects me to as punishment for thinking of you. I love it and I love you.
I stand up from my seat, crash down the aisle as the bus squeals to a halt at my stop, and stumble limply off the bus. The warmth emanating from it's exhaust holds me tight as it leaves me. I cross the road into oncoming traffic. My eyes make contact with those of the driver barrelling towards me, challenging him to hit me, knowing he values my life more than I do. Predictably he slows, and I continue across the road, tripping as I misjudge the height of the curb. The car hurtles past and the driver glares at me but I don't notice. I float in my own little world instead. Inside my mind. Abstract. Cerebral. Waiting desparately for something to pull me back to reality. Maybe next time I'll finally be brought back to Earth.
I stand up from my seat, crash down the aisle as the bus squeals to a halt at my stop, and stumble limply off the bus. The warmth emanating from it's exhaust holds me tight as it leaves me. I cross the road into oncoming traffic. My eyes make contact with those of the driver barrelling towards me, challenging him to hit me, knowing he values my life more than I do. Predictably he slows, and I continue across the road, tripping as I misjudge the height of the curb. The car hurtles past and the driver glares at me but I don't notice. I float in my own little world instead. Inside my mind. Abstract. Cerebral. Waiting desparately for something to pull me back to reality. Maybe next time I'll finally be brought back to Earth.
Ashton lies next to me as I prep my kit for my next shot. Needle, alcohol wipes, rubber glove, tupperware, cotton. All strewn on my side of the bed. Skin against skin. He pushes his body against my ass and back. Warm flesh, and not yet sticky from sweat. "Fuck you feel good." Ashton's skin feels so nice against mine. I absent-mindedly continue my usual ritual as he fondles my breast. I crack a single pill from a blister and hear it clatter against the flaking plastic base of the tupperware container. It gets ground fine into powder. Ashton lets go of my nipple, pinching it as he does. Whince. "Cute." He reaches across and passes me one of the little plastic saline containers that he loves to collect. I empty it into my tupperware vessel and let myself be mesmerised by the swirling alchemical pot of euphoria, before my eyes instead become captured by Ashton's face. It's adorned with two hazel brown eyes tickled by overly long eyelashes, glistening alongside the hints of metal piercings that penetrate his lips and protrude from either side of his septum. Despite losing weight, Ashton's cheeks have remained beautifully full, and I can feel my gaunt face and sharp features carve into his pretty softness every time we kiss, like a whaler carves into blubber. I uncap the needle and drop the orange top to the side. Bounce. Once. Twice. Then it rolls down the side of the bed and i tell myself I'll get it when I finish, but in 5 minutes I'll forget and it won't be found until the next tenants move in. Long after we've left. I aspirate my beautiful tupperware abscess as Ashton looks on in quiet awe. Or maybe concern? Horror? I can't tell. Whatever emotion(s) he feels seeing how beautiful I am in my own destruction. His hands follow the beauty he sees and traces down my body to my dick. A drop of saliva coating his fingers moistens me. "Is that nice?" I imagine my brain flooding with endorphins very soon. "Yea. Very." He helps me fashion a janky tourniquet with the rubber glove while I attempt to find a vein, ultimately opting for one a small length down my forearm that seems to be, as of yet, a miraculously untapped asset for a frequent IV user. Ashton tightens the glove slightly too much. My arm goes numb and the tips of my fingers begin to tingle. I'm too in love to care though. Both with him, and with the drugs. I take one last look at the cloudy pleasure in the needle and realise Ashton is sitting inside the syringe now. He seems unbothered, continuing to lightly stroke the tip of my dick with two fingers. I turn my neck and push my lips into his, and wrap them around his tongue, feeling it explore the all-too-familiar cavity it loves. I avert my eyes from his, which are closed anyway, and look towards the lonely vein, lightly bulging in my forearm. My lips don't follow. They're bound to Ashton's tongue as it continues mapping out the recesses of my teeth and gums. Despite my hazy carelessness and the disinterested kiss I share with Ashton, I find it easy to stick myself. Sharp scratch. Light burn. I lied. It took two tries, but finally, flashback. Success. The needle pierces skin and vessel and kisses warm blood. Teeth and tongue disentangle. I escape from the kiss, tug the syringe plunger and watch a warm stream of fluid, a deep red, puff into the syringe, momentarily dousing Ashton in my blood, before I push down and force this new mixture of blood, drugs and boyfriend into my body. He floods through my veins. His pointed angel bites burn quickly up my arm, but I think he realises it hurts, because he follows it with a rush of soft kisses that remind me he loves me. Ashton holds me in his arms, cooing softly in my ear, as I drift off into peaceful nods, and I hold him in my veins. I slump my body into his. Make believe visions of us going to highschool together dance across the back of my mind. The needle jammed into my arm slips out and pooling blood spurts out. Onto my bed. Onto Ashton. He helps undo the tourniquet that should have been removed a while ago, before returning once again to patrolling the vasculature of my body. "I... Love... You..."
Ashton lies next to me as I prep my kit for my next shot. Needle, alcohol wipes, rubber glove, tupperware, cotton. All strewn on my side of the bed. Skin against skin. He pushes his body against my ass and back. Warm flesh, and not yet sticky from sweat. "Fuck you feel good." Ashton's skin feels so nice against mine. I absent-mindedly continue my usual ritual as he fondles my breast. I crack a single pill from a blister and hear it clatter against the flaking plastic base of the tupperware container. It gets ground fine into powder. Ashton lets go of my nipple, pinching it as he does. Whince. "Cute." He reaches across and passes me one of the little plastic saline containers that he loves to collect. I empty it into my tupperware vessel and let myself be mesmerised by the swirling alchemical pot of euphoria, before my eyes instead become captured by Ashton's face. It's adorned with two hazel brown eyes tickled by overly long eyelashes, glistening alongside the hints of metal piercings that penetrate his lips and protrude from either side of his septum. Despite losing weight, Ashton's cheeks have remained beautifully full, and I can feel my gaunt face and sharp features carve into his pretty softness every time we kiss, like a whaler carves into blubber. I uncap the needle and drop the orange top to the side. Bounce. Once. Twice. Then it rolls down the side of the bed and i tell myself I'll get it when I finish, but in 5 minutes I'll forget and it won't be found until the next tenants move in. Long after we've left. I aspirate my beautiful tupperware abscess as Ashton looks on in quiet awe. Or maybe concern? Horror? I can't tell. Whatever emotion(s) he feels seeing how beautiful I am in my own destruction. His hands follow the beauty he sees and traces down my body to my dick. A drop of saliva coating his fingers moistens me. "Is that nice?" I imagine my brain flooding with endorphins very soon. "Yea. Very." He helps me fashion a janky tourniquet with the rubber glove while I attempt to find a vein, ultimately opting for one a small length down my forearm that seems to be, as of yet, a miraculously untapped asset for a frequent IV user. Ashton tightens the glove slightly too much. My arm goes numb and the tips of my fingers begin to tingle. I'm too in love to care though. Both with him, and with the drugs. I take one last look at the cloudy pleasure in the needle and realise Ashton is sitting inside the syringe now. He seems unbothered, continuing to lightly stroke the tip of my dick with two fingers. I turn my neck and push my lips into his, and wrap them around his tongue, feeling it explore the all-too-familiar cavity it loves. I avert my eyes from his, which are closed anyway, and look towards the lonely vein, lightly bulging in my forearm. My lips don't follow. They're bound to Ashton's tongue as it continues mapping out the recesses of my teeth and gums. Despite my hazy carelessness and the disinterested kiss I share with Ashton, I find it easy to stick myself. Sharp scratch. Light burn. I lied. It took two tries, but finally, flashback. Success. The needle pierces skin and vessel and kisses warm blood. Teeth and tongue disentangle. I escape from the kiss, tug the syringe plunger and watch a warm stream of fluid, a deep red, puff into the syringe, momentarily dousing Ashton in my blood, before I push down and force this new mixture of blood, drugs and boyfriend into my body. He floods through my veins. His pointed angel bites burn quickly up my arm, but I think he realises it hurts, because he follows it with a rush of soft kisses that remind me he loves me. Ashton holds me in his arms, cooing softly in my ear, as I drift off into peaceful nods, and I hold him in my veins. I slump my body into his. Make believe visions of us going to highschool together dance across the back of my mind. The needle jammed into my arm slips out and pooling blood spurts out. Onto my bed. Onto Ashton. He helps undo the tourniquet that should have been removed a while ago, before returning once again to patrolling the vasculature of my body. "I... Love... You..."
Cures For Depression, 19/04/2026:
Sex and stimulants. Mechanistically one in the same, if I'm being honest. Just violent gusts of dopamine blowing away the wispy fog of sadness and longing that clouds my tired mind. I can suddenly see clearly. So fucking clearly. The sounds in my mind quieten down to the low rumbling and chatter of the first train carriage. I'm sitting on the train and then lying on the tracks as it barrels towards me. It carves straight through me and severs my limbs and neurology into surprisingly neat pieces like the kid i watched a decade and a bit ago die in the same way on liveleak. I think for a second that I'm kind of beautiful but it's a shame I didn't put more effort into my make-up this morning. I hope he knows I love him, which he does, because I remind him a little bit too often that it sours a little, but at least I'm cemented as his true love forever now. Shit did I have an assignment due in a few days? Oh well, I hope they don't chase me up about that or feel disappointed that I didnt finish it earlier or something. I'm back on the train and my attempts to scream that sound like soft bloody gurgles begin to quiet again and I remember I have class to go to and lectures to watch and an assignment to write and I have to help people and I'm normal again. Stimulants. Sex. I'm fixed and luckily people know I'm normal and okay.
Sex and stimulants. Mechanistically one in the same, if I'm being honest. Just violent gusts of dopamine blowing away the wispy fog of sadness and longing that clouds my tired mind. I can suddenly see clearly. So fucking clearly. The sounds in my mind quieten down to the low rumbling and chatter of the first train carriage. I'm sitting on the train and then lying on the tracks as it barrels towards me. It carves straight through me and severs my limbs and neurology into surprisingly neat pieces like the kid i watched a decade and a bit ago die in the same way on liveleak. I think for a second that I'm kind of beautiful but it's a shame I didn't put more effort into my make-up this morning. I hope he knows I love him, which he does, because I remind him a little bit too often that it sours a little, but at least I'm cemented as his true love forever now. Shit did I have an assignment due in a few days? Oh well, I hope they don't chase me up about that or feel disappointed that I didnt finish it earlier or something. I'm back on the train and my attempts to scream that sound like soft bloody gurgles begin to quiet again and I remember I have class to go to and lectures to watch and an assignment to write and I have to help people and I'm normal again. Stimulants. Sex. I'm fixed and luckily people know I'm normal and okay.
Punches remind me I'm loved. They're the burning lack of attention i so desperately crave. So much so that I'd rather hurt for you than feel nothing at all. Punches remind me I'm dependent, and if I depend on you, that means you owe me a baseline of care that I'll latch onto and won't let go of. Not when I feel my body involuntarily tense near you, or when I'm sitting so close to you that we're worlds apart. The dull thuds and the ache in my gut and my paralysed lungs gasping for air spell it out "you still love me."
Punches remind me I'm loved. They're the burning lack of attention i so desperately crave. So much so that I'd rather hurt for you than feel nothing at all. Punches remind me I'm dependent, and if I depend on you, that means you owe me a baseline of care that I'll latch onto and won't let go of. Not when I feel my body involuntarily tense near you, or when I'm sitting so close to you that we're worlds apart. The dull thuds and the ache in my gut and my paralysed lungs gasping for air spell it out "you still love me."
She doesn't tense up in anticipation like she used to. She's trained herself not to. Instead, her body stays calm and her muscles limp. She expects the punches these days. The dull thuds against her organs ache worse this way, and she winds more often now, but the vibrations that ripple across her tender skin sink into her head and soothe her foggy mind.
She doesn't tense up in anticipation like she used to. She's trained herself not to. Instead, her body stays calm and her muscles limp. She expects the punches these days. The dull thuds against her organs ache worse this way, and she winds more often now, but the vibrations that ripple across her tender skin sink into her head and soothe her foggy mind.
there's a rot out here. I can see it consume the trees that line the sides of the road we travel down. It eats them from the outside in. dead branches stand tall, looming over the last stronghold of leaves towards the centre of the tree, like atherosclerotic plaques have clogged its branches and its peripheries are suffocating and starving. It's funny how diseases affect us all differently. sure, it started in my peripheries too, ive never had long nails, only ever gashes at the tips of my fingers and toes, but that was long ago. Now, I can feel it devour me from the inside out. My brain was the first target. It got to it years ago. My heart next, and now I can feel it spreading outwards. Down my limbs, in the tingles and burning of my nerves, the turbulence in my arteries and the clots in my veins. It will meet in the middle of my hands and feet, as i gnaw to the stumps of my wrists and ankles and as the rot continues down from trunk to limb. Soon I won't be anything else.
there's a rot out here. I can see it consume the trees that line the sides of the road we travel down. It eats them from the outside in. dead branches stand tall, looming over the last stronghold of leaves towards the centre of the tree, like atherosclerotic plaques have clogged its branches and its peripheries are suffocating and starving. It's funny how diseases affect us all differently. sure, it started in my peripheries too, ive never had long nails, only ever gashes at the tips of my fingers and toes, but that was long ago. Now, I can feel it devour me from the inside out. My brain was the first target. It got to it years ago. My heart next, and now I can feel it spreading outwards. Down my limbs, in the tingles and burning of my nerves, the turbulence in my arteries and the clots in my veins. It will meet in the middle of my hands and feet, as i gnaw to the stumps of my wrists and ankles and as the rot continues down from trunk to limb. Soon I won't be anything else.
Suddenly I'm 10 again, and I've pissed my pants at an age I shouldn't be doing this anymore. I can smell the uric stench, and I'm sure the boys in my class can too. I'm so small now I start to drown in my mess. A sea of bitter acrid and salt fills my mouth and lungs. Everything around me disappears, or maybe it's just me that disappears. I float. A waking sleep in a faint yellow darkness. I am finally warm again, home safe, in the amnion.
Suddenly I'm 10 again, and I've pissed my pants at an age I shouldn't be doing this anymore. I can smell the uric stench, and I'm sure the boys in my class can too. I'm so small now I start to drown in my mess. A sea of bitter acrid and salt fills my mouth and lungs. Everything around me disappears, or maybe it's just me that disappears. I float. A waking sleep in a faint yellow darkness. I am finally warm again, home safe, in the amnion.
DXM, 03/04/2026:
A single slit in the window makes way for the outside world im no longer a part of. it flashes in strobes of white light, faintly illuminating the otherwise dark room that doesnt belong to me. Im surrounded by my partner on one side, and my closest friend and past lover on the other side. We cuddle in the strobes and feel our bodies convulse against one another.
A single slit in the window makes way for the outside world im no longer a part of. it flashes in strobes of white light, faintly illuminating the otherwise dark room that doesnt belong to me. Im surrounded by my partner on one side, and my closest friend and past lover on the other side. We cuddle in the strobes and feel our bodies convulse against one another.
Chatting, 30/03/2026:
"a ghost maybe?" not even that, moreso just like something that wasn't supposed to exist but slipped through the cracks of life managed to get here but I was never made for all this yk "then what were you made for?" I was made for the amnion I think permanent sleep in the warmth of the womb where I can be loved by my surroundings and at peace
"a ghost maybe?" not even that, moreso just like something that wasn't supposed to exist but slipped through the cracks of life managed to get here but I was never made for all this yk "then what were you made for?" I was made for the amnion I think permanent sleep in the warmth of the womb where I can be loved by my surroundings and at peace
I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water.
I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water. I am water.
Cycles, 25/12/2025:
Last Christmas was just yesterday and I can feel the cycles repeating but with a renewed sense of power vibrati g through me. The suffering does continue, but into what it transforms, is far more beautiful to my wired brain than a normative existence.
Last Christmas was just yesterday and I can feel the cycles repeating but with a renewed sense of power vibrati g through me. The suffering does continue, but into what it transforms, is far more beautiful to my wired brain than a normative existence.
If not technology, 13/11/2025:
If not technology, then at least synthetic organs, Biopunk, bloodrunner, organ-iser, synthesiser- DPO-producing kidneys and constant organ replacements to avoid the consequences of any of my actions Skin graft seam lines, frequent sternotomies, micro-organs added through laproscopy. I have a vision of a world that is beautiful in its ugliness
If not technology, then at least synthetic organs, Biopunk, bloodrunner, organ-iser, synthesiser- DPO-producing kidneys and constant organ replacements to avoid the consequences of any of my actions Skin graft seam lines, frequent sternotomies, micro-organs added through laproscopy. I have a vision of a world that is beautiful in its ugliness
Bath, no date:
You make me undress in front of you. I do it myself because you won't touch me. I'm dirty, but soon you will clean me and I will be anew. My clothes drop to a pile on the bathmat, covered in dust and hair from being washed too long ago. As I get into the bath, I scrape my knee on the tap and it both cuts and burns from the too hot water pouring out of it. My skin turns a flushed pink-red as the heat seeps into my clogged pores and blood rushes into my widening vessels. You caress my face before palming my mouth with one hand and gripping a bundle of matted hair with the other. Immediately, water fills my lungs as you force me under. They burn worse than the scraped and scalded knee. You lift me out of the water and I make my way halfway through gasping before I am submerged again. I struggle as you clean me, and my stomach is met with hard impact that displaces the remnants of air in my lungs with bath water. I scream a garbled plee for air and putrid dirt and in response you push my head against the bottom of the bath. I can feel the anti-slip bumps indenting themselves into my skin. Suddenly I am enveloped by quiet. You're hands no longer force me against the bath's ribbed base. I lay here voluntarily now, drowning the dirt and myself. Sebum leaks out of my open pores and I cough up the phlegm and tar that coated the insides of my lungs. I shed the sediment of dried sweat and bacteria and malt out of the layers of flaking dead skin and dandruff that encase my body. I will be clean for you; Perfect for you. Free from the heavy dregs and waste that my body has accumulated, i float up from the depths of the bath and breach the water's calm surface. You tug me free from the thick pool of mud and filth i made. you embrace me for I am finally clean. You touch me. You love me. And I love you back.
You make me undress in front of you. I do it myself because you won't touch me. I'm dirty, but soon you will clean me and I will be anew. My clothes drop to a pile on the bathmat, covered in dust and hair from being washed too long ago. As I get into the bath, I scrape my knee on the tap and it both cuts and burns from the too hot water pouring out of it. My skin turns a flushed pink-red as the heat seeps into my clogged pores and blood rushes into my widening vessels. You caress my face before palming my mouth with one hand and gripping a bundle of matted hair with the other. Immediately, water fills my lungs as you force me under. They burn worse than the scraped and scalded knee. You lift me out of the water and I make my way halfway through gasping before I am submerged again. I struggle as you clean me, and my stomach is met with hard impact that displaces the remnants of air in my lungs with bath water. I scream a garbled plee for air and putrid dirt and in response you push my head against the bottom of the bath. I can feel the anti-slip bumps indenting themselves into my skin. Suddenly I am enveloped by quiet. You're hands no longer force me against the bath's ribbed base. I lay here voluntarily now, drowning the dirt and myself. Sebum leaks out of my open pores and I cough up the phlegm and tar that coated the insides of my lungs. I shed the sediment of dried sweat and bacteria and malt out of the layers of flaking dead skin and dandruff that encase my body. I will be clean for you; Perfect for you. Free from the heavy dregs and waste that my body has accumulated, i float up from the depths of the bath and breach the water's calm surface. You tug me free from the thick pool of mud and filth i made. you embrace me for I am finally clean. You touch me. You love me. And I love you back.
"Can I choke you in the fields?", no date:
I breathe slower than usual. The tramadol keeps my lungs sleepy. "Yea." I walk towards the fields with him. Crossing a barbed wire fence and entering into the darkness where the streetlights no longer reach. Small bits of plant matter poke holes in my shoes as we walk through the recently harvested rye fields. Finally, we stop, and his two hands grip my hoodie and force me onto the ground, sending dust into the air around me and sticks of rye into my neck, back and legs. He places his two hands around my neck. Slowly increasing the pressure, crushing the carotids beneath them. "What should I do with you?" "I don't know." "What do you want me to do to you?" "..." "Kick me, please?" "Do you think we're weird?" "Yea."
I breathe slower than usual. The tramadol keeps my lungs sleepy. "Yea." I walk towards the fields with him. Crossing a barbed wire fence and entering into the darkness where the streetlights no longer reach. Small bits of plant matter poke holes in my shoes as we walk through the recently harvested rye fields. Finally, we stop, and his two hands grip my hoodie and force me onto the ground, sending dust into the air around me and sticks of rye into my neck, back and legs. He places his two hands around my neck. Slowly increasing the pressure, crushing the carotids beneath them. "What should I do with you?" "I don't know." "What do you want me to do to you?" "..." "Kick me, please?" "Do you think we're weird?" "Yea."
I fucking love opioids, no date:
I fucking love opioids because for 6 to 10 hours I can guarantee that I will feel like I am being hugged, cared for, and loved, whether or not I actually am. That's a treat for me. I get to be the puppy dog I long to be and I get to be warm. How beautiful
I fucking love opioids because for 6 to 10 hours I can guarantee that I will feel like I am being hugged, cared for, and loved, whether or not I actually am. That's a treat for me. I get to be the puppy dog I long to be and I get to be warm. How beautiful
*I don't want to identify with any of this anymore. Living life like this should not be something to aspire to and I don't want to anymore. This existence should stay in novels and vignettes. I write here so I can be better in the real. I'm so sorry for everything I did, I don't want to hurt anyone anymore.