(no subject)
i could be anywhere.
i want a cigarette.
i want a drink. i want love and inebriation. i want to be fucked, hard.
i am fucked.
everything is nonsense. hitler was a jew. paper exists only because the world did not have enough surfaces. paper exists because of the jaws of wasps. there are ants climbing my walls. everything is perfectly coherent.
today i tested the viscosity of two brands of lubricant. at first i could not tell the difference between them. i thoughtfully rubbed each between my forefingers and thumb, but to me the thickness and silkiness of each were indistinguishable. the only way i was able to differentiate one from the other was because i could feel my cunt throb with recognition when i touched it. i said i liked it better. they asked why. i lied.
there was a time when i did not want to own anything, because i worried it would ascribe to me an identity. i did not want an identity attached to the disgust i understood to be my most essential nature. during this time, i owned only a few items of clothing, a mattress, and a blanket.
today i wore an armani suit. i wore a white button down shirt, in poplin. i wore a pair of leather stilettos. my psychiatrist asked me how i felt. "with my fingers, usually." i told him. i didn't tell him that i found a new doctor. neither of them know about each other.
i am not an essentialist. i sleep without a conscience.
i still want a cigarette.
i can't write anymore.