trying to kinkshame me is futile. like oh, great, you sure shamed the hell out of me–never getting off to THAT again. u just got like 39489348348 more kinks to shame now until i have nothing but pure, unproblematic vanilla fantasies. It’s like some sort of dark fetish hydra where every head you destroy just spawns ten new kinks, each viler than the last. Give it up, buddy, you can’t fucking win against such a bottomless well of perversion, I’m gross and unstoppable.
when i was 12 i babysat this girl for a few years and she would come to me and show me her art, drag me by my wrists and point at the pieces she’d made during the week. and she’d be like “do the voice” and i’d put on a sports-announcer olympics-style voice and be like “such form! this level of coloring! why i haven’t seen such perfection in crayola in a long time. and what is this? why jeff, now this is a true risk… it seems she’s made … a monochrome pink canvas…. i haven’t seen this attempted since winter 1932… and i gotta say, jeff, it’s absolutely splendid” and she’d fall back giggling. at the end of every night she’d check with me: “did you really like it?” and i’d say yes and talk about something i noticed and tucked her in.
she was just accepted into 3 major art schools. she wrote me a letter. inside was a picture from when she was younger. monochrome pink.
“thank you,” it said, “to somebody who saw the best in me.”
someday i will expunge myself of all problematic faves and finally achieve full ideological purity by replacing all of my media consumption with listening to static while staring at a blank wall
EY FATTY BOOM BOOM 