🌞 𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘𝕠𝕕🌞

There’s a difference. For a majority of my life I’ve been running away from my body, running away from sex, from people. As a weird girl (personality wise) it never seems like people fancy me much, which makes sense, I can barely keep friends let alone get someone interested in me romantically or convince someone to be interested in my body. I like to call this chronic singleness, I might sound like some stupid incel but incels blame others for the fact they’re so disgusting that no woman could ever even have a conversation. Plus the sight of breasts in real life could actually send them to an early grave. Death by fear of women. I wouldn’t say I fear men or women the same way they do. And I certainly don’t blame others for the fact I’m lonely. But I think it’s the person I am, on the outside I’m this silly childish person, but deep down I’m very sensitive. Deeply emotional. The way I see the world doesn’t match up to other people’s view of the world. And every conversation is me anticipating an eventual collusion of misunderstanding. So I don’t bother shooting my shot, don’t bother dolling my self up. (I do shower! I just only like wearing makeup when I feel like it) I have such a low expectation of anyone ever chatting me up I don’t bother trying, don’t seek it out. When society tells chronically single people to just don’t seek it out, that it’ll come naturally, they seem to forget the 21st century dating scene is not natural at all and I could possibly be shutting myself away for not trying. But I’m afraid that if I do try, I could possibly get really hurt, not emotionally but physically. That my desperation to be loved and to be fucked might put me in danger and not see any red flags. It’s a catch 22, damned if you do, damned if you don’t, when others try to relate to me by telling me about a time of there lives where they were single for a year or two, they learnt to be on there own. But that’s the problem. They learn it. I have no choice, it’s not a lesson, it’s my life, for as long as I’ve been alive. It’s me. Alone. And that’s great advice for someone who is recovering from heartbreak, and maybe advice that’ll be useful for the future. But it’s lonely when people never really shoot there shot, never wanna get to know you, no one asking you on dates or asking for your number (other than sketchy men twice your age) and you do start to wonder if somethings insanely wrong with you. Why can’t you? That lack of love, lack of want kills you. Spending days fucking only yourself, while you lust for someone else in your bed, lust for someone to tell you what to do, to guide you and how to be (yes I am lowkey admitting I might be a submissive) but what do you do when it’s been a long day and there’s no one to cry to? It doesn’t help that I also basically have like one or two close friends and no family to run to. Because when life’s hard, I could run to them, but for very very obvious reasons they can’t fulfil the romantic sides. I see couples on the street and I wonder to myself… am I broken? Was I just destined to be alone? Destined to be with only myself.

I don’t bother anymore with men. Every man that tries it on dating apps just wants a picture of my arse to jerk off to before they eventually block me and shudder at the thought of ever fucking such a fat whale of a person. When I went to see florist in Liverpool (very underrated band) I was alone in a city I don’t live in, in a small venue where I was the only person on my own, sat on the floor with a can of hooch in my hand, sobbing. And when I watch everyone hugging each other, kissing one another. I sobbed harder, snot spewing out of my nose. And I hoped that maybe for once, someone could ask if I was okay. But no one did. No one even noticed I was there. I’d say that was one of the loneliest days of my life.

Also due to fact I’m an absolute mental case, I fear I am genuinely depraved. I want someone to do things that would make my sexually active friends grimace. And I think most of those things come from shame. I’m so filled with shame, I want to do things that make me feel more shame, humiliating, disgusting things. I wanna be at someone’s feet, begging them, to hurt me, to make me do disgusting shit, for them to treat me the way I feel on the inside. This hatred I have for myself is something that everyone around me thinks I’ve grown out of me, but it’s still there, destroying every ounce of me. And I don’t know what to do. “Love yourself” why should I have to love myself to be loved? We don’t ask kids to love themselves in order to deserve their parent’s affection. We don’t tell friends to like themselves in order to their friends (unless ur an arsehole) we sit at their sides, telling them why we love them, regardless of how they feel about themselves. So why do we say that to people who want romantic love? I understand it when it comes to sex because without self love, how can you be able to know what you like, be able to take off your clothes, to not betray your own boundaries or respect yourself and the people you sleep with? But to say you can only be loved if you love yourself is fucked up. It isn’t my fault I never really had the example in my life. Maybe my self hatred is why I’m a virgin, who knows? I’m desperate for someone to want me, to touch me. I want the passion, the fun, the universal experience of being in bed with another person. I’m in my twenties now. Please, god, deities, whatever the fuck, please don’t make me go through my twenties not experiencing love or sex. Please don’t make me go through my thirties as a virgin.

And all those sweaty incel men think a woman’s body god given right… ew. Why do some of those arseholes get a whole movement and sympathy? It’s not fair. They can hate and rape and it be ok, but I simply just want a space to speak about my experiences and I get attacked, shamed.

Leftist values and fun!

I call this a thought dump, some of it won’t make sense, but this is my online diary, take what resonates or move on.

I feel when you grow up in messy households, you carry that messiness into your life, into the person you become. My older sister became clean, she has her own place now and it looks so clean and tidy…. I became like my mother. My rooms stacked in useless junk…. The house is full of random bits of tat, still not as bad as it used to be, you can walk. It’s liveable. But my room is the worst. It’s not dirty per say, it’s just stuffed. Papers, books, junk, everywhere. It seems while my sister tries to never recreate the messy childhood and activity works to look and seem like an organised person. It seems that I have doven head first into it.

I’ve grown up in a house full of shit and piss on the floor, dirty dishes everywhere, black mould and cobwebs. In the rubbish I resided, apart of the rubbish. Like a whole new ecosystem, that I was part of. You won’t get it if you’ve grown up clean, but there’s a comfort, that all the beetles I was so scared of, maggots and cockroaches. We all live in the same place together… so I didn’t feel so alone. Even when mum never came home on time, or dad was too drunk on the coach. The dirtiness invited me in. All I wanted to do was stay in it. As a child of neglect, I find home in shittiness. I don’t like nice things because I feel I’m too messy and would break it. So this film resonated to me. Since my dad dying in 2021, I feel a part of me has been lost, the dirtiness. The ugliness. He was not a good man but he understood the dynamic of our family. He might have been the domineering, abusive force at the top of it all. But he too died in mess. Lived in it.

I don’t like being dirty tho, so I stick to cluttered. A middle ground. Not disgusting but certainly not clean. I wash the best I can, whenever I can. But it’s second nature to me as the kid who grew up bathing weekly and having matted hair.

And I guess when people get to know me, it feels like I have to hide that dirty part of myself. My dirty secret. My dirty shame. My inner child is not just wonderful and full of glee, but she’s dirty. When I see clean houses, when I enter into clean houses, I feel I might have ruined it. By being there. Even though I wash, try to be clean. I feel because I bring my dirty baggage stored in bin bags, dumping it all over the place…. I’ve ruined the cleanliness of the landscape.

It’s nice to see a story similar to mine. A story about dirty people, being dirty. Being gross. Even if it’s wrong, a part of me, connects to it. Because I feel most at home in clutter.

Hopefully someone out there understands

Jarvis has such a soothing voice that I reckon if he was gen z, he would have an ASMR account.

I love to be introduced to all sorts of different music, from scott walker, to the wombles, to Spanish instrumentals.

The episode I listened to was not the first of Jarvis cockers Sunday service as I was listening to it on the internet archives, I’m unsure as to why bbc iPlayer no longer has it but I digress, it was January 2nd 2011. As much I was very alive in that period of time, I was way too young to be listening to Jarvis cockers Sunday service on the radio. I was probably on moshi monsters or something, or playing with my Christmas gifts. I was 5 almost turning 6 when he had recorded that episode.

Crazy to think I’m that young… only 5 in 2011, yet I feel like i remember that era of time more vividly than I remember things now. Things felt more real around 2010s. I dunno. But I’ve spent today laying on my bed reading magazines while the Sunday service plays.

I wish I still owned a radio, it’s always fun to randomly tune into a conversation or a song playing. Spotify doesn’t have the same effect, radio feels like you’re overhearing a conversation you shouldn’t be hearing. It’s sacred. Spotify podcasts seem too intentional to have that same effect. Maybe because it was live? Everyone hearing it as the same time as you, all huddle in the kitchen or living room hearing the same conversation. It felt holy.

The curtains wore my naked body like a cloak, like a morning cigarette and morning sex. But it was nighttime, when my eyes pierced upon the illuminating street light which flickers and shakes. The atmosphere of dilapidated houses and overflown bins vibrate like a continuous aftershock. Gasping and jittering under the touch of a domineering blush, the blush of the moonlight. Echoing across the road, two frisky figures emerge to stumble across the greenery. A perfect nest. The smoothness of each orchestrated touch inspired a hand to place itself on my breast. Rosey cheeks of the town’s shame never seemed to reach these shadowed deviants. Lips collide, hands brushed, hearts fluttered. Creating a musical passage. Cascading down, they lay, leaning closer, bringing the house to glorious silence. In one swift moment, a rhythm reverberated, syncing up to my heart beat. Back and forth, a tango of need made the branches fall one by one. In and out, an exchange of untold secrets lay upon the town. A defiance disguised in nothing but shrubbery, sweat and sleep. A protest to the robbery of pure unadulterated fucking. Lighting up every sense in the darkest corner of the street. Reeling in a makeshift show room, for the lucky few. For the lucky two. Delectably wrong. Unforgivably hedonistic. As the night drew thinner, participants of the ritual quickened their pace. Smearing their scent in sounds of ecstasy and glee, arching and shaking the view seemed to weaken. Blurring the shadows. And becoming one formless blot of ink in the painting. A wild fiery red on a sea of blue. A spillage of still life self portraits in an architectural floor print. An artistic fantasy playing out in real time. Present. Real. Raw.

Till these murmuring hooligans dulled to silence. Fading to background noise and wet moist pantie stains in the washer. Now a faded memory left to be forgotten in the sun. Dying out in the hustle and bustle of the day time. A long endulgent pause and they’ve parted ways. Leaving the scene of the crime. The night time cast, didn’t catch upon the direction of the street, instead directed somewhere entirely different. Aiming towards the glass.

The second hand shirt sleeves graze my skin

Slowly, softly, kindly. Imitating the woven prints on your fingers, to me my arms were the place where we’d share a secret lingered intention. Brushing back and forth to create warmth, to express warmth. Lingering and loving. Quietly and silently.

The shirt doesn’t move with the same rhythm. Stagnant. Still.

It does not weave. It doesn’t flow. Just stinks of a place holders musk. Reassuring only it’s self.

Clinging to the joints of each crease. Eventually, sticking forcefully and becoming apart of my memory.

I was young when I wore the cell framed jacket of my youth, unable to fit now, as it shed and teared away to dust and ash.

But I’ll miss the way wind blew in the same motion. I’ll miss my short sleeved, vitamin D filled proof. Tanned, you’d smear sunscreen to protect me. Now from shoulders to wrists covered in a long cuff, replicating what you used to do. Replicating, a stranger who died cold and alone, repurposed but destined to imitate a dead man’s soul. Oh how time has made us grown, for worse of course.

And I got noticed by the singer and the drummer!

The singer imitated me….

You wanna know who it is don’t you…. The lead singer of she wants revenge. Yeah! I am that bitch.

Then the drummer she came up to me ( at least I hope it was the drummer cos I didn’t have my glasses on)

She said she loved my dancing!

Proof you should be a main character! Live people live!