This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
ASK.
Dear God,
Is it wrong that I feel bitter when men say snarky things to me and I then try to reply kindly to them but I can’t because they’ve blocked me?
He said, “Do you suck dick or bottom?”
I said, “Fuck off,” because really God, I know that’s not kind, but he has four pics of his dick and none of his face and he’s in the closet and “anything goes”.
And then he says, “rather bb fuck your tight cunt bitch,” and really, I know it’s not that tight, and he sounds rapish, but I wanted to say, “I’m sure you would. Best of luck,” which is kind, isn’t it, but the server says, “You’ve Been Blocked.”
God, is it right to feel bitter, to feel wronged?
I hate when I’m failing to be understood. What am I doing wrong?
Statistics
Number of men currently online…
Who answered “Out: Yes” — 305
Who answered “Out: No” or gave no answer — 277 (about a fifty/fifty split)
We’ve come a long way, baby.
The worst thing to do when someone accuses you of racism is to try and be more racist. I would have rather he said, “But I have black friends!”
After having read his response several times, I’m still a little confused. His grammatical issues and choice of all caps don’t help. Things may be less confusing if you know the content of my own profile: It’s titled, “The Elephant in the Cathedral”. My occupation is listed as “Reservoir of youth.” Adorable, right?
Any, what disturbs me most about his response is that he’s 19 and a student. Living in South Oakland, and presumably at the University of Pittsburgh. I don’t see this vehement racism walking through Oakland, but my lily-white skin may blind me.
This is, seriously, the best reply I’ve gotten in months.
Okefenokee Afternoon
Like the roots of Okefenokee oaks
twisted and thick
spread through the fragile
muddy soil of Georgia swamps
So your fingers,
gnarled and smooth on my lips,
cradle the Southern tinge of my voice.
Like the burly trunks of the swamp trees
stretching upwards, massive,
out of the soft wet dirt
with sinews of bark overlapping
hundreds of yeras of layering,
So your body rises above mine and
As the river breezes
blow through the steamy channels
and push back the humid curtains of the afternoon
your breath cools the heated skin on my neck.
The sheets full of afternoon light
are the Spanish mosses draping
across reaching branches
ghosts of wind hung and caught
and captured on the sharp tips of
oak and cyprees limbs,
swathing your hipbones and shoulderblades,
held up off my body
making me the center of
a bright holy tabernale.
As the kayaks and canoes,
returning,
part the smooth reflective waters
Your hands
part my shining thighs and
As the egrets float on the heavy air
and plunge through the trees
You navigate the spaces
there between the lilies
and glide across my body
with the weightless honesty
of a crane on the mossy air.
by ~crowlikepan AKA Jean-Marie Tomlin
I always feel a pang of something when they disapear after I’ve consciously ignored them. I can’t spell for shit.
…and quickly stopped. The story of my life. I’ve had 15 followers more-or-less since I’ve started using Tumblr.
I consider people-I-know-on-the-internet to be, generally speaking, 1/3 as important as people-I-know-in-real-life.
If you discount those I know on both Tumblr and in-real-life:
There are only slightly more than five people I-know-in-real-life who are important to me, thus my Tumblr popularity is a roughly accurate portrayal of my actual popularity.
Why is it, that as much as I love myself, I don’t think I have enough friends?
Is lacking friends a fault?
Just yesterday, I texted a friend, and he replied, albeit probably drunk,
“Why do you still care about me? I want to hold you.”
Being attracted, romantically or platonically, to fucked-up people probably doesn’t help.
Is wanting more friends a sign of weakness, of insecurity? Does everyone want more friends? How many friends should a person have? How many associates? Acquantences? Fuck-buddies?
What is the average ratio between friends and friends-of-friends?
How many people mistake friends-of-friends for associates or acquantences-of-friends?
As we roamed the campus of Temple U together, D and I used to observe the packs of kids who rolled ten or twenty-deep, and we thought together, how can anyone do that? How can anybody like that many people at the same time?
It has something to do, I know, with control issues and insecurities and upbringings and fucked-up-families, but is that the ideal? Were we aspiring to that?
I remember those dayshatingso many people, yet wanting those people to like me. Why do we want people to like us?
I even ran for office one day, wanting people I didn’t like to like me even though I didn’t like them and didn’t want the office I was running for. I ran on the platform of sex-positivity and explicicity and inclusion and not enough people liked me, and I don’t remember who won, but I remember running and losing.
Today, I look at a4a looking for men I don’t want to fuck but they want to fuck me and it validates me, no matter how disgusted I am by them.
Every few sentences I’ve added a couple more tags. I want people to see me. But a post I made in the last 24 hours got 18 notes, at last count. And I’m uncomfortable that that many people saw fit to like or reblog my screen-cap of the finale of RuPaul’s Drag Race, but why?
It’s context:
The way I see myself, the way other people see a moment of myself without the history of myself, the slutty webcam grabs, the SNES grabs, the queer theory quotes. It’s
It’s
It’s
I don’t want to write anymore, but I don’t want to come off morose for cutting a post mid-sentence, I don’t want to look narcissistic or
I
I don’t
I don’t want
I
