Friday, 23 December 2016

That's me!

I write on here because no one reads it.  But it's a way of staying accountable in a strange way. Because as self-aware as I am, I'm terrible at doing anything about it. I lack accountability. This year I've tried to cut out so many people from my life.  And I've failed each time. These people don't bring me happiness for very long. They're life suckers. Creatures of connivence. They hold no love, no respect for me, but I'm loyal to them. I'm not sure why. History? Perhaps, it's the history that I have trouble letting go of. Another aspect is that I always doubt what I feel, I think the whole world has raped the "sensitive woman" to death. Am I being reasonable or hysterical? I can never tell. So I invite these hoe bags into my life over, and over again. I wish I'd stop. Wish I had the back bone in me to stand up to it. Wish they'd disappear on me. It fills me with glee, when I think one of them has dropped off the face of the planet. I never have to deal with them again. It's a relief. Then they crawl back in of course. Over and over again. I hope this block of text is hard to read, for whoever (loser) stumbles across this. Fuck off. 

Thursday, 22 December 2016


What does it mean that I want to be hurt? Desperately mangled, broken and consumed. Ravaged, pillaged, every bone broken…raped. I want the life in be to be sucked out and to be left hollowed and aching.

I want you to physically hurt me the way you emotionally destroyed me. Outside to match the insides.

I want it to be you who shoves your cock in me, with only my cries of approving-disapproval. Grip my hair, call me a useless whore until I believe you. Abuse every hole and the holes you’ve left in my mind. Hurt me.

Saturday, 15 October 2016

Gross Human: Remove Thyself

Greetings cunts,

Someone called me “worse than a Trump supporter” today. Why is that an insult? I guess I sort of wanted to write this because I have a problem. I suffer from political extremism. My janky ideas fuck up all my relationship and I’m indefinitely in the closet about my ideology. What are you supposed to do when you find out that you’re actually the “bad guy”?

Is it time to come out? Can I stop pretending to love the gays, pubic-hair faced mooslims, chinky-dinks, tards and putrid young white males?

I like racial segregation. I strongly support late term abortion (even up ‘til the second before crowning). I believe that men and women have their distinct social roles. If you’re fat, short, deformed or otherwise defective ABORT YOURSELF.

I don’t believe that an individual life is worth much, and that the collective is much more important. I don’t think personal freedoms are anything-particularly necessary. I don’t believe in preserving culture or religion. I don’t care about feminism, ROKers, NEETs, human vegetables, “mental health” support or breaking stereotypes. I like eugenics. There are people who cannot be allowed to have kids (tards, gays and smack monkeys). Above all, I love being an asshole.

I don’t know why it’s okay for something like Tinder to exist. If you want to prostitute yourself, at least ask for a fucking dowry. What degeneracy is this? I can’t comprehend why people who take liberal arts degrees are considered useful to society. I can paint, I think I’m well trained. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stop curing cancer to purse le passion. Hell, why are people surprised when I say I don’t like them or actively dislike them?

Why is it wrong to say Jews are grubby and that Caucasians wrinkle like cotton linen on a hot afternoon? Cunt should be a socially appropriate term for prissy twats that walk around their thongs wedged a little too far up their white-girl bland lib ass.

I’m truly lucky to live in the land of Nazis and cowboys. People often protest at my university about the gays and muslims. It fills me with glee. I don’t know what you people who live in liberal cities do….

Some poz’d Polish guy called me a little curry muncher at a bar, you bet your balls I let him grind it. No I didn’t. Desperation is an unfortunate colour on most average looking white guys; it’s a bigger deterrent than a ripe case of pubic lice.


Honesty would get us a lot further. Stop humoring the moronic and vacuous mental cases. They’re not people. You’re welcome xoxo


Saturday, 8 October 2016

Sales Pitch: Life Insurance for Hookers

I’m a big proponent of treating whores like people. Why? I don’t know. I just have a soft spot for lot lizards, streetwalkers, trick turners, bawds, nymphos, backsliders, croquets, knob-polishers and whathaveyous. I guess the sympathy stems from the fact that I genuinely see myself being in their shoes hooker heels, I love sex and I love money. I’d want Uncle Kraker to be my pimp. He’d sing you won’t find nobody like meas he proceeded to bitch slap me for spending my loonies on a sniff of glue. In the end I can’t get wet for betas with whiskey dick, no matter how hard I try; I guess being a doctor/doctor of philosophy will just have to suffice.
Putting all jokes aside, human trafficking is one of my pet projects. I find the concept interesting. The idea of modern-day slavery is sad to me, I want be the only one allowed to own people :(
I can be surrounded by the most brilliant men and women every day, curing everything from ass cancer to making machines move literally with their minds (ie. brain impulses), yet girls in my city are being sold for $50-80 a night at the age of 13. That’s gross. It doesn’t sit right with me.
So, I was watching Pussycat Dolls music videos while painting my friend’s portrait and this idea came to me. If the government won’t fully legalize prostitution I think we should have a comprehensive insurance to protect said whores from their johns and clientele. Regulating prostitution is the best way to prevent from young women and men from being abused for werkin’ dem dicks.

Your goods and services are valuable so make sure you have the right coverage that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Government of Canada has allowed the selling of sexual services but prevented the purchase of them, this is a good baby-step but we need more, and more comprehensive protection for people in all labour fields. If porn is legal, then prostitution should be as well. Come on people this is common sense. One little issue that would disappear if someone, just once, would fucking LISTEN TO ME.
I want to be clear… if you’re a man who rents hookers I definitely think you’re a loser. But I care about you, whores, and so does Bill Clinton <3

Wednesday, 21 September 2016

The Art of Saying NO.

First, let me say I am a strong, independent black woman. I’m just extremely squeamish about the N-word. AKA “no”. Relax, I’m only racist against whites. I would never say nigger it’s so low-class. One of the characteristics of the modern feminist women is strength, and if I’m being honest I’ve lost my understanding of that word. “No” supposedly means strength. I’ve always viewed selflessness as a sign of strength, but the modern western world has been plagued by a sense of individualism ever since that cunt Adam Smith laissez-faired his way up to the 1%.

Second, we are born alone then we stand alone and eventually, die alone. Yet, we all try to pretend for a brief moment in our punchy little lives that we can live happy and fruitful lives with one other person for the rest of our lives. Cue “dating”. Which is really a battle royal of the sexes drawing blood and seamen. All relationships have this power dynamic, there’s always the one who’s picked out the carpet colour of the love shack. I’d like to think I, naturally, have the higher ground because to be really honest with you I have a perfect face and a supple young bod, I’m just F to the A to the B.

After some prodding, I hilariously went out with a guy who was 9 years older than me, which in hindsight might have been A FUCKING HUGE FUCKING RED FUCKING FLAG. I was not interested from the beginning, one because I’m incapable of finding humans attractive and two some other sappy reasons that I’m too embarrassed to admit. The guy however, is the epitome of “dense white male” so of course I had to give it a shot if only for the good of the blog.

Long story short, I might have a new stalker.

I was pretty clear, I think, from the beginning. But I assume it must be all that white male ego, that get's in the way of basic comprehension skills. And, yes, I'm fully aware I will die alone. 

Now, leave me alone before it gets ugly.

I’m not particular proud, it was only funny in the moment…okay it’s still pretty funny. My bluntness (**see psychopathy) is only funny to me because I have no sense of social decorum or consequence. I mean sure, this guy could easily come and murder me but whatever #yoloswagyyaaaasssssssslaybeybey.

Will I say the N-word more in the future? Probably not, but I hadn’t posted anything that made sense in a long time so I thought I’d give sober blogging a shot. If you want my two-cents, though I hate dating, you as a normie should not give up. You can’t make meaningful connections over coffee or playing billiards; if it doesn’t click right away you’re probably just settling. And if you get married in 2016 onwards, I think it's rational to expect a divorce. But there's a reason we all keep trying, I just don't have the answer. On that note, have a fun rest of your life because I sure won’t.


Sunday, 18 September 2016


I still dream about him. Bad dreams, they were never good dreams before either. I’d like to think they were warnings…something my brain knew but couldn’t digest. When I have these dreams, they push me into the gravitational field of the black hole that’s at the center of my mind, the area that I’m well adept at avoiding during conscious hours. Nothing left to do—except wait for retrograde amnesia or Alzheimer’s to set in I suppose.

Saturday, 10 September 2016


The mornings are the toughest, wake up to immense silence and muffled noises that makes it seem like you’re still dreaming so you have time to change your reality one last time. But you don’t, while your senses haven’t solidified the world around you already has. It’s immoveable and hurtling forward through time and space.
I feel dumb because I’m still caught up with whatever happened two seconds ago, two days ago or even (sometimes) two years ago. The magpie cawing outside the window, already flew away so why am I still thinking about how I want to strangle it?
I’m the type of person that’s never lived in the present. My existence is motivated through a promising future and I’m kept on the straight and narrow by the occasional gut-wrenching look back into the past. I haven’t had a particularly bad past, for some reason the past connotatively means pain for me. The good times are indeed, killing me.
The future is worse. In the last year my idea of the future has changed so many hundreds of times I wouldn’t have been able to recall them, unless I didn’t obsessively write down every thought in a journal. Journaling is a good technique if you want to peal the scabs off old wounds and douse yourself with vinegar. My friend is super into “retrospective” thinking, they say something about how only the best minds in the world can think backwards and forwards at the same time.
I don’t give a shit about that. I just write everything down so I don’t forget it. I guess the good thing about not living in the present is I never developed nasty addictions for long. I can turn off my sexual and physical needs at the drop of a dime (hats are for old people and I like dimes more). I can go days without eating while also easily turning off my ability to feel physical pain (ie. toe stubbings are a walk in the park). I think from a young age I began to resent pleasure because of how fleeting it is, and I’m a huge control freak. Misery on the other hand can last a lifetime if you let it, yay.
There are pros and cons to being a person like me, just like anyone else I suppose. And one day I’ll look at my silly little journals and cringe at how petty I was, and how a dumb magpie ruined my late August, hazy mornings.

***note magpies are definitely a metaphor for order to be in accordance with the rules of this site.