literary masochism: my vagina, my vagina, me…

I usually refer to To All The Men Who Called Me Disgusting as “my vagina book” out of a lazy tongue and a grown distaste for the title. My opinion on it when I was putting the book together was hazy; I impetuously decided on it once the deadline I (foolishly) set for myself grew…

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the story of how i blew through my wall like a drunken kool-aid man except I wrote it in third person and it sounds like a fan-fiction

“Are you drunk? You sound a little drunk.” She was very drunk: It was Valentine’s Day and the happiness of others had drained her blood and she didn’t know what to do besides replace it with something better. 

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what’s worse: the exploitation of children for political propaganda or the hangover?

There are not many physical activities that I am good at or would ever care to be. I grew up poor to a busy single mother, so extracurricular sports were quickly replaced with browsing Godless sites on the Internet; I applied makeup well enough to trick my way into the beds of many men and…

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literary masochism: i am too old for this shit

I have not purchased a copy of Alternative Press magazine since early high-school. By that time, I had already adopted the “I listen to Glassjaw, and thus, I am above you and allowed to insult your dilettante taste in music on this here Internet forum freely” aesthetic. The appearances of any metalcore band I deemed…

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i no longer have sex but i do hunt nazis

Girls, usually those younger than me (so around how old I was when most of the debauchery chronicled in TATMWCMD took place), just love to tell me their whorror stories. I don’t mind it: I branded myself and showed it off to everyone like a new tattoo, and it’s probably best that they do not…

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