*possible whoredumb*

Anonymous (I don't know who this is written by, but I think it is amazing)

so tell me, how does it feel to live with soul rot? I mean really, what's it like to wake up everyday, fully cognizant of the fact that you're young and contaminated? I can only imagine sleeping being able to wake up instead of always being awake, and then awaking wide-eyed and well aware that i am just another automation, walking down the streets with my fake smile and my blonde cockdummy. It's been an easy pattern for me to recognize, an easy pattern for me to consciously rebel against. If i fuck you first, and if I'm the first to get out of bed in the morning and dress myself and drive home unattached and smirking, then who is the conquerer and who is the conquered? Who is the conquest, and who is the victor- the one home alone without the stench of stagnant sweat on her bedsheets?

It's not such an easy pattern for me to consciously rebel against when i, for a short breath of a period in my lifetime, went along with the mindfuck. "Wouldn't it be nice," i thought maybe subconsciously and maybe not, "to be real cute and go to shows and know that my boyfriend is out there playing that song, and everyone's jumpin and everyone's lookin and i can sit back here in my corner and think, "well damn, I'm part of that." Wouldn't it be nice, i thought, if i could be an ornament to it all, an ornament to young tortured souls who read the communist manifesto for the sheer fuck of it all and then go sit in their basements with an obsolete typewriter in their laps, punching out poetry about ideological warfare and breathless friendships. It would be wonderful to not be the aggressor, to not be the activist, to not be the pissed off, unsatisfied revolutionary; to be rather, just "yeah i get it i work for it kinda, but sometimes i just sit in my room and listen to pop songs and cry

It was comftorble and simple, albeit foreign and awe-inspiring to fall into the folds of the blanket and the warmth that was generated from being only one of two bodies, half-naked in a bed together, smoking and talking about addiction and nightmares. It was strange and strangely refreshing to sleep, and sleep well, and sleep unafraid anducautious.
It was fucking pathetic.
It was a facade.
It was a mistake.

It's easy identifiable, easily attaintable, easy to set your heart on being another part of the love-striving, warmth-seeking masses. It's easy to walk down the suburban streets holding hands with an automation, being a blonde cockdummy.

A conventional pattern is comftorble but it's convention nonetheless. It's more repressive in the end, when you are alone and eveloped in the stench of stagnant sweat on your bedsheets, and your crying to pop songs, and you want to be inspired but instead you just smoke and vomit, and you're more a whore (at the mercy of another) now than you ever were before and you wish you had known better.
I know better now.

i am not a show and tell girl unless you want to see it RAW