Your one-stop abomination station.
“Welcome to New York.” Roaches, pigeons, and rats. Note the dog shit in the lower left foreground.
Chelsea, 14 Apr ‘13.
One of those sad neurotic insecure evenings wherein I’m convinced that every last man who is attracted to women—even the morbid creepy intellectual sort of man I’m most drawn to—ultimately just wants a girl with slim hips, a perfectly flat stomach, and thighs that don’t touch on the inside, who is noticeably shorter and younger than he is and also far less intelligent, less talented, less weird, less kinky, less sexually experienced, less interesting than himself, and who has no psychological issues of any kind, no real inner life or interests/hobbies beyond conventionally feminine things and the idea of being subserviently in love with him, and is emotionally in a state of blithe contentment at all times and never ever gets upset about anything he says or does (… or doesn’t say, or doesn’t do). Preferably blonde with perfectly-clear skin and a button nose. And THIS is the real reason why every man I’ve ever been romantically interested in has never reciprocated and has often treated me in a shitty fashion as a result.
God, I’m too old for this shit.
todf:
clock dva: tortured heroine.
