Thursday, February 26, 2004

Well, I started writing a paper on immigration in my writing class and it became something like this:

Well, the whole immigration plan is pretty damned silly, given that it's tied to your job status, making you legally enslaved. But no, I can't write about politics, because I got that fucking letter about how "my only claim to fame was being an anonymous whore." A whore? A whore?! Well, er, I am a whore, but that's beside the point. I mean, I never sold out! I'm a whole person! I don't want to think that I'm stuck with sex blogging, because honestly, my sex life (with, er, myself) hasn't been very exciting lately.

Which is to say, it's all been those dumb Sonic fantasies. Yeah, they're awful and make me cringe, but it's made me come every time. It's like, Sonic's that important and that precious to me, that I find it that much more disturbing (and therefore a turn-on) when he becomes commoditized, rather than me. Kapeesh? Meanwhile, I'm stuck here, complaining about complaining and writing about how I can't write.

So if I don't wanna write about sex, I don't wanna write about sex. Read Belle du Jour. Deal.

(Beyond that, my best sexual fantasies--that is, not the ones I come the fastest to, but the ones I actually enjoy--ar the ones where I have a friend, somebody to hold my hand while I'm ground into raw meat or somesuch. And right now, I'm lacking in the friend department, and I care more about that than about sex. So I'm not going to stress about sex for the time being, which means I won't have any material for my blog. Again, deal.)

(Spider-Man. Let's talk about Spider-Man. He spins a web, any size, ya know? He also catches thieves, just like flies. That's badass, you know? It gets me hot. He can do whatever a spider can.)

(Who am I kidding, I'm going to stress about sex no matter how much I try to think about Spider-Man or whatever. I'm hopeless. You might as well run me through a meat grinder.)

(But aww man, the reason why I stopped posting turn-on stuff on my blog is because it took so much out of me, emotionally, and I'm emotionally fragile right now. I repeat: I am seventeen fucking years old. Why are you expecting me to turn you on, anyway? That's sick. I bet you're imagining me right now in a Gap tank-top and hip-hugger jeans, while you honk your horn at me and I throw a rock at you, which turns out to be a rock-bomb, which creates a temporal distortion sucking you into my dungeon dimension, which is filled with horny adult men that I punish by emerging in my dominatrix outfit and stripping and whipping and scalding them to death in my giant puddle of lava. Ohhh, yes.)

(Ohhh, fuck! Why did I have to go and do that?! Jesus, I'm hopeless. I'm'a go convert to Mormonism.)
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