Anonymous asked: I wanna see your pussy get pounded until you scream from pleasure. I want you.
yes.
thank you. maybe one day i shall film that for you.
The Hardships of Ownership and Respect and Becoming an Openly Autonomous Being
this interview with antonia and my mom going crazy and this move and my grandma leaving and the men that aren’t present in my life are driving me mildly manic but it’s cool because i remember how to breathe i know how to breathe i elongate my neck and thrust my chest and stretch my ribs and i can breathe
then the anxiety subsides even though i feel like i’m crumbling inside.
this feels like sex this feels like wanting to cry.
i’m so tired, so, so tired,
but i’m giving it all away because
you, i love.
(Source: corwinprescott, via modfetish)
head ache split
sometimes my come, my squirt, smells like piss. they come from the same hole anyway. sometimes it’s odorless liquid. i need to put a towel underneath me before i do squirt. it’s like safety, it’s comfort, to have a towel underneath my bum. otherwise i can’t squirt. unless i’m in the tub, or if my hips are elevated so that it drips down my ass crack to my back. i squirt often because if i don’t squirt loads i won’t want to stop. i came on the rug today. oops.
oops
oops. i feel like information overload lately. i feel like too much information, over share. i feel like self splitting in half self halved sliced down the middle tender and exposed as a peach. peach. stuffed mouth. peach, buried face in mound. peach. bite. sweet.
c and t are moving more of my stuff today. i love them so much and it drains me. i don’t understand how i can love people so much but i’m such an introvert. being around people drains me loving people drains me giving my self drains me i’m selfish. i can’t stand people sucking my tits placing their mouth on my tits no no not my nips you’ll suck all my life blood you’ll irritate my skin there is no milk for you here
We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.
— T.S. Eliot, from The Cocktail Party (1949)
(Source: janebook)
moving is a slow process
the more i move in, the more depressed i become. not so much in a devastatingly sad sense, more in the way that my immune system and my overall energy is depleted. it is as ending a book and trying to start a new one when you don’t want the last book to end, even if you’re ready for a new story. new stories are scary; you have to craft a whole other being. other beings are unknown and unknown is primally scary. i want to be frightened out of my wits. i am stretching myself too thin, but i will adapt. i always will.
Post Dom Pillow Talk Part 1
GABBY GABBY POETRY: intelligence as the ability to hold opposing views on the same subject (or: tits and lit) →
this will be brief because this is Tumblr—no country for long blog posts—and i need a nap after staying up until 4 AM.
here, i wrote about online literature. a rant. an angry rant which, in hindsight, was mere anger at myself but projected outwards. anyway, i made a remark regarding exposing one’s tits, or any body part, to gain online lit fame. i stand by those words, but to a point—my only qualifier is “those who expose themselves only to gain fame, as opposed to speaking on a larger artistic/sociopolitical issue, should be derided” except that sounds a bit like slut-shaming to me and besides, how will i ever know a person’s motives? anyway, i stand by my words because i wrote them. i meant them. no need to be a coward and delete them from PANK’s blog.
here, i tell poet Gabby Gabby to express herself without shame, to show her breasts if she wants. for one, it’s her body. two, as i’ve followed her blog, i recognize her attempt to suss out the juxtaposition of her art and her gender—an exploration still relevant today, sadly—and i get what she’s trying to do. even if i can’t describe it—i “get” it. and three—muting one’s self-expression because of what others say/think is a slippery, precarious, and fatal slope. once you do it—you do it again and again—and you wonder one day who the fuck you are and what, if anything, are you trying to say in your art and, most importantly, who are you trying to express—yourself or others?
my point? i’m trying to suss out self-expression my damn self. it’s an ongoing debate within myself, often expressed publicly, and i support everyone’s right to say and do what they want. i have very strong feelings regarding, say, Marie Calloway— but by no means do i believe she can’t express herself, nor should she care about the opinions of others.
that’s all i want to say.
i love marie calloway. you go girl.
mensah, don’t be so cruel/hard on yourself, bro. i love you. gabby, i concur. also, you rule. marie, you know how i feel about you. ain’t no bone in my body believes that you wrote “adrien brody” with the intention of fame.
now, all y’all slut-shamers can stuff it.
back to my original program …
i have never really been too consistent
i am learning the value of consistency.
apparently my books have been moved today too. toke to that, amen.
my big butt mattress on turkey’s (read: tara’s carro) head. seems that my grandparents provided mis amigas con refrescos tambien. excuse my faux-spanish. doors open, mang.
my friends are g’s. tara and caitlin are gatos (cats in spanish, because they meow all the god dang time) and i am gatas (milk in tagalog, because my name is milcah), so together we are a triangle of g’s. so, my friends are pretty much g’s for being such strong, manly faeries, and i’m a g ‘cause i’m sitting here scheming and developing and plotting away in my bedroom at my client’s abode like the bad mama i am. i don’t like to make much sense but i like when things sound silly or pretty.
i’m afraid all of this is going to my head.
shout outs to caitlin and tara for being my slaves and doing all the actual work of cleaning and moving for me. oh, and for whipping me. and for documenting all your cray cray adventures of all your moving because you know how emotional and sentimental i am. i am buying an ounce of marijuana soon and splitting provisions amongst ourselves, or, like, a nice glass dildo, maybe a nine tails. fuck, i’ll take us to the candy shop, let you lick the lollipop, alladat jazz, cuz, grrlz, you deserve it. we are kind of three little boys together and i like that.
and to antonia crane for letting me love her and for being so sweet and kind to me. she is one of the most beautiful women my eyes have ever been graced by. god bless you, antonia. you are wonder.
my friend’s purple ass
that my other friend whipped
at my new crib.
i guess you could say
we christened it.
my new room,
i mean
—not my friend’s ass.
although i guess you could say
we christened
that shit
too.
Transitions
So, I’m moving. This means I am going to be digitally catalogging miscellaneous items in order to down-size my material and metaphorical load. Don’t expect much else on my tumblr for the next few weeks. Oh, and a lot of crying. There will be a lot of that too.
I’ll fill my blog with pretty things
to keep me remembering
what is to come
and what’s to pass.