emerging from a pearl

Calling men who literally think about immanence and transgression ‘trade’

Deleuzian triadic tryst with beautiful girl I respect and adore and a guy who has the words ‘Phenomenology of Spirit’ permanently on his body and other words too. I mean I guess time and place had to do it but that wine was cursed

Maybe I dream of a partner with whom I can create vast orchestrations of risk and reward with only subliminal and unconscious calculations on both of our parts. Preferably part of the theatre-game is hurting no one in the process

Not swimming in the Marne, an hour outside of central Paris, I think about my boobs which are a huge burden to myself and others. Their cyclical nature, deflating and inflating and inevitably changing shape, causes me an unending grief that somehow also emerges when I’m caffeinated, lonely, or — most commonly — am running out of money. As they deflate and reinflate they always get smaller anyways. Hoping that there will be a nice and very painless way to reinstate their initial post-pubescent properties in about 7 years is my only hope. Alongside these thoughts I think about my mother, who still doesn’t know I quit my job; the weird and continuously mounting success of a book I wrote 3 years ago as a bachelors dissertation, on things that I feel I far exceed; the extortionately round eyes of S, whose stupid eyeless religion I feel aged me 4 or 5 years in a matter of months; the craving for my crammed, overheated, hackery laptop; the false and stupid advertisement for congruence found in the statement ‘finding your people’, which never really happens in finality. I’m also re-realizing that people only seem to hate what they are in love with (being in love as the acute awareness that someone has the potential to change you forever); hate is a rejection of being in love (as a refusal to be changed) rather than impenetrability or incompatibility; hate as a turning away or as a self-refusal more than anything actually opposite. true opposites don’t think about each other at all. Of course gossip is just a self-fouling, then; gossip is just the attempted exorcism of something that someone perceives as someone else’s problem but is really their own . In London I think I will start exercising more; if the boobs are small anyways they might as well decrease some more and not bother me at all and have my legs appear engorged and devotional like I want them to

What did I do.. make him food. Tell him all of my secrets. Have it fed back to me that I wasn’t a serious person… I’m a serious person

I need a new intrigue… or!?

It gets to a point where I don’t even have the time or energy to be mad at anyone 😭 like. I have to write and make stuff I’m sorry

When/if I get married it’ll be in the woods in a large old structure and the windows will all be open and there will be no music so you can just hear the wind and the trees and the birds and maybe the sun itself

I think I wrote about this last time I was here but I want to experience Ammy with a bunch of decadent medieval fuckers. Like a bunch of sweaty Bataille Bros or whatever Kraus called them who kind of just want to toss me back and forth like a hula hoop and be deranged and feel no bodily imperative to curtail derangement at midnight. Get fucked etc