there IS something WRONG with you

Disclaimer: yeah, it IS a guilt trip, and yeah it is probably a bit pathetic, but I AVOIDED it for my ENTIRE LIFE because my “family” would have responded with ‘shes looking for attention’ or ‘shes being manipulative’. Letting people evade important conversations is why my life became a mess. “They’ll realise the truth themselves” – well, no. That didn’t happen. People decided that I was an easy person to abuse and then convinced themselves I liked it and further fucked me over.

Being mistreated like that meant that I had a disability that got me raped and kept me out of school. ‘She’s FAKING’ – because I didn’t want to say “I HAVEN’T TAKEN A CRAP IN TWO WEEKS YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT”. I chose “i’m fine, thankyou! how are you?!” because I found personal strength in that.

To me complaining about what is actually-bothering-me is synonymous with crying after an argument, if I cry that person will ‘win’, that person will know they’ve hurt me. Until now: don’t be a crier.

I don’t know any other women who can be verbally bullied by twenty or so peers, standing around her bed while she’s lying down trying to hold in a shit and cope with feelings about Nazi-Germany (History is a thing I feel strongly about) and I never got a written apology for it. I never got flowers or a “we miss you and we’re sorry we ruined your already crap life that we knew way too much about and avoided talking to you about” or a teacher asking me to come back, offering me a scholarship for helping her school shit. I didn’t really get anything I deserved because I never thought it was acceptable to make people aware of what I was contributing to their lives. I chose insecurity and I chose any fucking delusion that could help me cope with the fucking hell my life was.

For me going out for a hot chocolate once in a year was a thing worth documenting. A habit of sorts that later had me labelled as a person pretending to be rich.

I found beauty in life through looking at a nice chair with something from a charity shoppe draped prettily on top of it. That is a difficult thing to learn to do when your “sister” was bought antiques, blankets worth hundreds of pounds and her wardrobe was filled with designer clothes that she insisted she had paid for herself when in fact I don’t think many people working at urban outfitters for a weekend a month or so would’ve been able to make sense of it.

I could forgive them both – my mother and sister – for everything they’d done if they apologised and told the truth but they chose to lie about me instead. They continue to do it. They ‘accidentally’ lurk me and think that I won’t accidentally find out. The thing about lying, and liars – and I know liars – is that they start small. Then it gets worse. And worse. And worse. And if it’s been done once, it will be done again. (So if you’re going to pick people, the same kinds of people to relive the same fucking hurts over and over, go for the hottest/most talented ones that you can find.) (you get a chance and then I get over you. I get what I need in five minutes – no it’s not love, no it’s not sex.)

They know my passwords but they don’t need them. If I didn’t need money, I’d disown both and I’d arrange for a restraining order but that wouldn’t really change what they’ve been getting up to my entire life.

And the NHS defended them. And believed they would do so without witnesses observing because you really do think you’re the only one, don’t you.

This country knows that I was dragged down a hallway and raped and that I was assigned to pervert doctors that knew I hadn’t been ‘cutting’ myself  – a doctor said “we got a report that you’ve been cutting your genitals” and I said “no I haven’t.” and he wanted to see. I looked after myself in that psychiatric ward which meant no one was looking after me – which meant I could’ve been living alone safely as opposed to being given sedatives they knew I didn’t need (I mean anyone in London can tell you I can fall asleep on a train like it’s nothing) – (I can literally decide to go to sleep.)

If someone told me “your mother/sister/father sold you to the NHS” – I’d believe it. My sister – that I met very few times in my life was asked to offer a statement about me to this psychiatrist. I told that psychiatrist that she was an abuser and was asked to leave the room. I could see through the glass panel door that they were flirting with one another, in front of my ‘parents’. A father that didn’t contribute towards raising me and had never really had conversations with me that weren’t about business-ideas (he once told me that the backstreet boys had broken up. I dont think we really tried to speak many times afterwards.) had apparently had some strange comments to contribute too. These people don’t know me. If you asked them to talk about me, they wouldn’t be able to.

and then accepting later in life, she knew that. She’s an abuser. Every woman in your family abused you in some way and got addicted to you and is deeply fucking envious of you when there is NOTHING to envy about me or my life

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saffron powder (I dont know for sure if that's a real thing but it was a gift from Syria, 
which could be either a good thing or a bad thing iunno) + 
organic chilli from the local hippie-food place 
(I almost started crying happy-tears when I heard a mum and her 
daughter talk to the shopkeeper about living in a caravan because 
I DREAMT of that kind of life - now I want a real squatters-castle 
because I had friends go on my dream caravan holiday with a dwarf 
that insisted on pretending to be me - as girls do) 
+ yummy KOKA noodles 
+ a spring onion cooked in kettle water
cucumber
raw mushroom and ham in soy sauce - it tastes better than you think

and food loses a lot of it's nutrients when you cook it. Duh.

So. Here’s a thing about me – I like to give everything I own some kind of narrative. I like being able to look at anything, anywhere, and give it a story. I like to be able to say “I own this because XYZ”, “I like this because of XYZ”.

I’m buying one of these ridiculous squidgy things. It is very expensive for me right now but I won’t turn this down.

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because of this:

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I spent weeks not using the internet, not watching anything – just listening to music and meditating and watering my plants. Please do read the posts below if you haven’t already.

The result of that meditation with Jane of Seth Speaks (and I was sharing energy with many people, and I await their moment to tell their truths of their contribution towards that – this is not something I achieved alone and I know that.) (But I made it happen)

was the above, and many fly specimens besides that make no sense. I feel like if I had Japanese parents somewhere they would’ve done this as a ‘well done for using meditation to affect evolution”.

I could not cope with Japanese parents because I would be an embarrassment. I know that and I’m sure every Japanese person would agree. I don’t even recycle properly or wear my slippers and that is considered quite disrespectful to Japanese homes. As in, I know they would be much too polite to say “you are disrespecting my furniture and my items by walking around with dirty feet.” and I’d live in guilt over it because I KNOW OKAY. I KNOW. And you don’t speak to Japanese people like that. Ever. I don’t have the manners I’d be expected to have in Japan. (So I don’t know how all of my youtube stalkers managed to sum up the audacity to visit – because your manners are far worse.)

It’s important for me to verbalise this, sort of, cos’ I sent photographs to my ‘mother’ and she didn’t manage to reply to the emails. I also once sent her a video of me doing a vertical split and she didn’t reply to that either. I’m really hurt that my mother didn’t even say “you did that with meditation?”. Until now, I don’t know what I can possibly fucking say to her to inspire some kind of conversation that doesn’t make me walk away absolutely fucking despising of her.

Defend a person like that from ME? and you’ll probably end up learning how she made me feel. Probably end up learning what she really did to me. Probably walk away from that feeling, for years: fucking stupid.

I bought the sexiest trainers ever. I saw a youtube video featuring some martial artists wearing these. They are bouncy and comfortable. I have size sevens because it means I can wear them with chunky socks. Which is important.

They were actually Tibetan Monks and I bought these because of them specifically. They were doing things with their bodies that don’t make any kind of physics-sense and they wore these shoes to do them.

I imagine that some of them must have some secret money stowed away and that they invested in these shoes and that they were inspired by the above meme.

The above might not be true, but I am attempting here, to teach you how to converse about your surroundings without being a weirdo.

#feiyuemonks

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People who need to use their feet in “sports” need to be flexible and need shoes that are flexible. Or no shoes. I am not going to ever be a person that doesn’t wear shoes because I have a balance-related condition that means my feet went weird. It’s not genetic, it’s because I probably shared a body with a lot of dwarves and dancers. Martial arts are not sports because generally if you are competing with someone it is because they are an equal and there is an honourable exchange. It is a whole cultural thing that azns have, honour, de disiprin (translated from Japanese that is ‘discipline’) and self control.

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I was affected by watching a video of a martial arts student beating up his elderly teacher – like really beating the shit out of him. I don’t think that would’ve happened if we didn’t have athletes that encouraged that kind of disgusting behaviour. Footballers amongst them. No honour. Honour is a virtue that shapes your life. You can experience any and many losses in your life but if you pick a few virtues, you might come out with some kind of dignity about the whole thing.

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Good manners are a virtue – so, generosity for example is a virtue. I love to buy people gifts. It makes me happy to see something that I love that I know someone else might love. I know that some people associate that with “if I give you this – you owe me this” and I actually never treated my generosity with any kind of expectation for something in return, other than that I might’ve liked being bought something back.

Not indebting someone when you have absolutely no idea of what you owe them. I find a lot of joy in sharing things with people, if I have money to go out for a meal I like to share and pay for other people to have meals too. I sometimes feel like a boy and I like to be able to pay for the other person because I believe thats what boys ought to do if they take people out. It’s what my culture taught me. It’s what my ‘family’ taught me. It is my understanding of hospitality, have something to offer to guests (if I don’t offer you something, I am being passive aggressive or I am destitute.)

Some Portuguese people I was stupid enough to allow into my home and share my food with decided it was a ‘slavery’ game. Actually my relatives – diplomats, remember – would’ve simply said “they are not known for being very intelligent, the Portuguese.”. They were wealthy kids that stole expensive items from me and ate my food when they could afford their own. They put me in difficult situations on purpose because they thought that they were doing a humanitarian thing or otherwise competing over something they were not raised to be involved in at all. They were the kind of people that shouted the word ‘nigger’ to one another, and I didn’t like it – because they meant it for a start. They were abusing me to time travel. If you’d kindly stop pretending not to know that, I’d appreciate it. You doing that changes the future but it doesn’t change my path. You can’t stop me from doing what I’m supposed to do – you can prolong it, you can run, you can do all sorts of things but the karma is worse for you.

If you know someone is going to be spending a holiday period alone it is kind to invite them over even if you don’t really want to and to share your food with them. You can get away with absolutely HATING someone if you are polite to them. Not fake – polite. You can be genuine, rude and polite at the same time. It’s just a matter of personal honour.

For example, if Bruce Lee in his element was pit against Jackie Chan in his element I imagine that Jackie Chan would’ve absolutely rejected the idea of fighting Bruce Lee because in every pursuit of life there are some people that paved the way for you, to do something. A veteran if you will. Jackie Chan, I am certain, would have won. If they had fought one another – Jackie Chan would have won. The idea of beating my heroes, whether they are on ‘my side’ or not – is revolting.

If I don’t like you – I’m not wrong to dislike you. But if I dislike you, you can endear yourself to me with as little as an interesting opinion. Thats probably not a good thing but that’s my nature.

You might struggle to see where I’m going with this post but it has a direction. I might spend a few days editing it so bear with me.

Jackie Chan would not be a household celebrity name if Bruce Lee had not gone through the racist rigmarole first, the token asian guy doing martial arts type casting, the abuse I’m sure he’d of been given by American directors – on top of the abuse he got for probably fetishising Japan when he isn’t Japanese.

My “mother” once told me that my grandfather once said to her “you do not compete with the Japanese”. For whatever reason – there are some people you should not compete with. When you encounter these situations, it is appropriate to emulate them and not to be caught bitching about them or outright copying them so that you can STEAL what they have worked towards. Do not steal people’s dreams, be inspired by the fact that they have worked for a dream and find beauty in the idea that you’ll soon find your own dreams if you keep your intentions pure and you enrich your life by enjoying – NOT COPYING – other people’s work.

As in: there are aspirations that I had, that I can go far back into my memories having had, that I worked towards – and that were stolen from me by people who had money, enough money to stop me from achieving what I wanted and to cover up doing so. Trust me, whether I have money or not I am social classes far above most people you see attending horse races on television. I am also the kind of person who has always been quite grossed out by that kind of pompousness and it is only now that I’m compelled to state the facts as they are.


Shoes, though

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This is a shoe for athletes. I am not an athlete but if I wanted to be an athlete, I could’ve been an athlete. I could’ve been a dancer. I wasn’t because I was not good enough, not dedicated enough – and I had a disability that I avoided thinking about. A disability that comes with a heavy stomach (I can shit and lose a stone.), back ache and serious fatigue.

I could do ballet in these shoes because they let me point my feet and jump around. If I ever go to a party where I am encouraged to dance because there is good music I will be wearing these. If you are a guy that likes to do fancy footwork dancies I encourage you to invest in these shoes because you can move around in them. It doesn’t matter who made them, or who designed them, they are decent shoes and they are flexible and they are pretty – to me – as a person who very rarely likes trainers. Did you design them? If you designed them you are a talented shoe designer. Good for you.

Moving on. Sort of but not really – changing subject.

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none of this stuff was 'expensive' or was otherwise a gift from one of the weirdos that owe me a lot of money. i am not pretending to be rich, please do not look at this stuff and think that it is indicative of wealth. I personally feel wealthy to have such good taste in stuff but I am not wealthy, I am not performing wealth. I spend all of my time at home and you'll find people with my disability generally do.

Today I made to order a mockup of an interiors magazine. It was unsuccessful. It is weird to me that a photo-book printing company (most people really aren’t printing books with text in them.) would struggle with high resolution images and I think that someone is investing in making my life a bit more difficult.

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Everything is relative – you do this to me and worse will be done to you. I know it is law and I know you will hide the suffering you’re putting yourself through because you’ll see it as ‘me winning’ and that perhaps you will take out your issues on me. You probably aren’t significant enough to me for me to really want to get revenge, but this is annoying. It’s weird and annoying.

In any case I’ve found a few beautiful independent shops from book shops to hardware retailers to specialist interiors around Brighton that sell items that I’d be very honoured to have a couple of copies of my magazine sitting beside; and I am excited about it for whenever it materialises. It is ultimately a long term project, especially if someone has stalked me/hacked me and invested in the company/software specifically to make things difficult for me. 

I promise you I have much, much meaner stalkers than you who I enjoy in a way I will never enjoy you or your company because you’ve fucked up that much.

My magazine has reached a hundred plus pages of photographs documenting the years of bedrooms I’ve had, trying to work out where I might find a place to call home.
It offers some homage to the details of home keeping that I picked up from the Paraguayan women I met growing up, many of whom either went to finishing school or failing that: their mothers most certainly did.

Women in Paraguay – not the Guarani Indians, (the indigenous people, that is) but the Europeans that would’ve emigrated over the last a hundred years. Paraguay is a multicultural country that, like the United Kingdom, boasts offering a place for people from Europe to Japan to reside in. 

The economy allows women not to work and many of them don’t particularly want to, which means a lot of those women become artists, musicians and hobbyists who live very comfortably on little money and socialise – having tea parties every night and going swimming at country clubs during the day because it is a hot country and if you don’t swim what are you doing there. Granma had a humble house with a pool and a select circle of friends that she had carefully picked.

When I lived in Dubai, I would watch our housekeeper – a Sri Lankan woman named Mala – make my ‘parent’s’ bed some mornings on the weekends. I recall on one of those occasions I thought she must have studied a photograph to be able to arrange the decorative cushions so perfectly. I asked her who had taught her how to make beds and I think she said that my mother had, which means granma taught her how to make a bed.

I learned how to fold clothes from a woman called Sylvia, my “mother’s” best friend.
Her father was the president of that country before her family were reviled and mistreated and that was, I think, how she was introduced to my mother. My mother’s other best friend is a latina woman called Cecilia who spent her childhood as a slave. She works for an elderly aristocrat as a housekeeper and lives comfortably in a beautiful flat in Acton – that I stayed in when we ran from the secret police in Dubai. I still remember playing with little ceramic mice when Lady Diana’s death was announced on TV – I ignored the TV because the night before I’d taken a huge shit (I was about five) and my mother had made fun of me in Spanish, and when I confronted her she lied. Spanish was my first language but I forgot it mostly, and learned English instead. My sister and my mother would speak about me in Spanish while I was growing up – and I knew they were doing it. They’d lie.

They thought I was mute because I didn’t speak much – people who don’t speak much are very good listeners and observers. You don’t often value people who can listen and observe keenly until you need a friend who can take a good photograph of you or who can listen to you when you’re hurting. I was playing with the little mice but I was listening to that televised funeral at the same time as obsessing over how to get the hell away from my sister and my mother.

I believe that night I screamed at her “I am going to make your life HELL”. That is not a very characteristic thing for a five year old to say so I must’ve been absolutely distraught.

Being lied to triggers me. It triggers a life of being lied to by abusive women and men and every friend I ever had. Harmless lies are not harmless to me, the chances of you needing to lie to me are minimal. There is very little that I won’t be understanding about.

It doesn’t matter even slightly what you lie about. Even if it is a cute lie. You trigger serious PTSD in me when you lie to me.

Here are acceptable reasons for lying:

Life or Death situations, but you better not lie about your intentions. If you don’t really care about a person’s life or death please don’t pretend to. I’ll know.

Where the lives of truly vulnerable people are concerned – for example: children, the disabled or incapacitated, the elderly.

And you better tell me the truth after the lie is no longer necessary.


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This is a flattering photograph of myself in a mirror that fortunately hides (or it does at this size and screen light/colour calibration. If you are using a screen that detects the leg hair – good – it’s important that you accept that women have leg hair.) that I have hairy legs and that I felt like playing dress up with these terribly made shoes. They are slingback courts that you can’t see well, but I got some metal-based gold ink and made some imprints on top. I’m going to customise them with some ribbon, to hide the imperfections, because they are not well made. One of the Coppolas inspired me with the details and embellishments in Marie Antoinette.

But to the people that sold these awful shoes to me: have some fucking pride in yourself.

When I worked at Slug and Lettuce, I couldn’t even cope with placing a poorly presented plate in front of a customer. Even if I disliked the customer, even if the customer had been rude to me – I would feel awful if I had given them a plate of food that had no effort put into it. I actually really liked the look of the food there, but I was disappointed to know that their chefs had mostly been reduced to preparing microwaved and oven-cooked foods.

There were some pastries on a tray in a local shoppe and they were on display for anyone to serve themselves. It’s a home-made vibe the shoppe employs and it’s really quite nice that the shoppe keeper said “you can pick them up with your fingers!” (I might donate some tongs so I don’t feel bad again) and I got a loose hair on a pastry I couldn’t technically afford. I know the shoppe keeper would have pretended not to know that it happened and perhaps he’d of thrown it away but I felt terrible the second it happened and I purchased the pastry because I couldn’t cope with costing someone that much money. I don’t think this gentleman’s shoppe relies entirely on the sale of one of these pastries but it’s really the idea of choosing not to be a shit person. Not to affect the credibility of a company you’re working for. Not to be shit when you’re earning money doing a job.

If you run a company like ASOS and you comfortably send out faulty items, you shouldn’t have a job. Actually the fact that you think you’re getting away with stalking and bullying me is ludicrous – the fact that you think you’re not being observed by people who WANT to be friends with me (CEOs ETC.) so that when I have the money I’m owed (neither you nor I can comprehend the digits and figures right now) I return favours.

Do you know that post WW1, pre-holocaust, the Jews had a hard time shopping because they were mistreated by German shopkeepers.  The Germans were racist against the Jews. My Tescos pork steaks had maggot eggs in them. My shoes were poorly made and I know because I bought TWO pairs – one in a teacher’s size (she’s become the headmistress of a school) (she’s a size 5) and one in mine. The finish on the shoes they sent in my size is disgraceful and hers were perfect.

What might seem harmless and easily solved problems aren’t at all. O WE WUD GIV U A REFUND IF U ROTE 2 US OR VISIITTED THE POWST OFFISS 

WE CARNT BE BOVVERED TO EMAIL YOU BACK SO U HAV TO CALL US COS WE LIKE THE ATTENSHUNS etc

I appreciate that someone will rush to take offence to the above – I love cockney accents – its a classic accent that people spend years at RADA trying to master. But some women’s voices cut straight through me because they have nothing interesting to say. Those are the kinds of women I’d think should be working for the warehouses of sites like Asos. It’s a stupid woman job – put it in packaging, put a stamp on it. If I was doing it there would be an uproar because I’d be OCD about the packaging, about the placement of the stamp, about the graphic design of the sticker used for the address, about every detail that would go into making sure that someone received a package.

I go for days without talking to people and most people would go insane, but I did it my entire life. I had post men when I first moved in that would try to get attention from me and abuse me verbally or get me to do weird things outside of my front door. I had a just-eat delivery guy steal food from me because I wouldn’t respond to his request for my ‘full name’ when he knew I live at this address, and he knew that I was the only person living here. If a child had answered the door for the meal I ordered would he want their name so desperately too? Iunno. Not many people could emotionally cope with what feels like ‘harmless’ abuse that I experience on a day to day basis from people who want attention or who want to annoy me. I don’t think they really understand what I am going through all day long or they wouldn’t be so fucking stupid.

It unnerves me how many stalkers have access to my address – but not really. My teachers taught me afew things : treat all children as if they were your own (I’m not mature enough to do this – I make no pretence of it – there are reasons I don’t have children that aren’t fucked up) and be prepared to be of service. If I let them abuse me I can put it right and make sure they don’t make the same mistake again if I defend myself. I don’t presently have the financial capacity to exact the kind of revenge those people deserve for the inconvenience they actually caused me.

If people don’t learn respect in childhood, they won’t learn it in adulthood unless someone sacrifices their sense of self to say “you’re hurting me”. That is the hardest thing for me to fucking say and the idea that it gives men some kind of ego-boost is fucking terrible.

I have a disability – I hate that word but until I am certain I’ve healed myself from it, to call it anything else would be dishonest and worse – continuing to live in some kind of denial that I lived in my whole life. I know that the people working for companies like ASOS and Zara (not the CEOS, not the managers) that arrange this shit are fully aware I don’t have the energies to get a refund. I won’t push for it. I’m not lazy, I am living constantly in some kind of physical pain and physical exhaustion.

On the plus side, if I walk in heels for 20 minutes a day or so for a week – I can spend hours walking around in heels all day.

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This is my vagina. I once saw a woman on https://ifeelmyself.com, years ago, and she had unkempt pubic hair all over. She had hair around her asshole – which she was happy to show on camera. This actually affected my life – this woman who comfortably showed off her 80s bush. It took a long time, a lot of insecurity about growing stubble literally hours after shaving. I am Arabic and I have a body that has lots of hair on it. If you did not know I was Arabic it wouldn’t be as weird but the reality is that people associate my genes with their preconceived notions about my culture.

I ignore it because I don’t care. I grew up with a mother who resented that I am Arabic and who encouraged me to lie about it. I had friends that told me not to tell people where I’m from. I joked about marrying a friend of mine and he enjoyed the joke, and said “yes but you’d have to not-tell my family that you’re Arabic” and he also picked blondes over me. Many. I didn’t resent that he was attracted to blondes, because I defend your right to have a TYPE.

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One time I posted a nude – something I’ve been doing for ten years (with a year or two gap in between when I was at University and I didn’t want my colleagues seeing me naked because they didn’t have the maturity to accept that I’m a talented photographer – and that if you’ve ever heard anyone who works in that industry – you’ll know that no one wants to see models looking the way they do in ‘real life’.

I had a friend who is a photographer, who posted photographs of me with my tits flopping on either side of my torso. She posted series of really unflattering photographs of someone who was already insecure and who wanted to appear erotica, but they were beautiful photographs and she is a talented photographer. She could not have coped with me doing that to her – is the truth, but I coped with her doing it to me. In fact once a hijabi I studied at college with kindly and honestly told me that she’d seen the photographs and that it had made her feel confident about her body (she is very skinny, and very pretty and ridiculously academically talented) and I was flattered by the idea of having that affect on somebody. I don’t know if she was being sweet or not, but it was a sweet thing for me to hear – because it was reading girls blogs and observing women’s art that helped me cope with the functions of my stupid fucking body.

The idea of people selling themselves for their personalities came from the adult industry, women blogging their lives. ‘Vlogging’ was a result of sites like SuicideGirls and youtubers pretend otherwise when they insult women who had the guts to get naked on the internet but it’s a fucking slap in the face to the women that shared their lives with audiences beyond their imagining and they didn’t get paid for views. I shared the most terrible moments of my life in blogs that people were reading that I eventually deleted entirely and I didn’t get any compensation because no one really considered that as a possibility. I still do it but now people don’t really have the ability to read things and if they do, they’re continuing what they’ve always done. Anonymity as an audience. It’s fine, I don’t do things for an applause. I don’t like the sounds of people clapping for me, I don’t like the idea of people adoring me. I like the idea of being a normal person that can engage with society and maintain the potential in any stranger having the potential to be a genuine fucking friend. I will never not be that way inclined. I will never not expect people to grow the fuck up. I will never accept that I’m the one that’s naive – when you perpetuate those awkward, performed social acts, when you choose to be disingenuous – you will eventually learn that the truth always comes out. Especially the truth of people’s natures. Do I expect you to be perfect? Hell the fuck no. I expect you to not be a fucking liar – because you don’t want people to lie to you.

It was deeply important to me, to be able to see ‘girls next door’ naked because they often hadn’t had the surgeries that ‘mainstream’ pornstars had. They had real bodies with flaws and imperfections and what was important to me was that they were still beautiful to me. They were still objectively beautiful to me with their flaws.

My favourite model ever has a deviated septum and a bump in her nose. She is still the most beautiful woman I might ever have seen. I wouldn’t hang out with her because she makes no attempt at pretending to be a kind person and I value her real personality more than the idea of a friendship based on a performance. I don’t think she’d ever want to be friends with me: but were she to offer I’d know better than to take her up on the offer. She’s a bitch, but that was something that came out in photographs of her and that is the kind of thing that photographers and wannabe directors enjoy in performers.

I’m speaking conceptually. Trying to encourage you to take little thought journeys that force you to consider a perspective outside of your own.

A girl that I thought of as a friend – that I had always known was a bitch – had been stalking me: used my posting a nude photograph after years of not photographing myself very much at all (certainly not expending any effort to do so) as an opportunity to insult me, after years of my making her feel secure about herself. She had lied to me compulsively throughout our friendship and people defended her, when we were no longer friends. Because she’s blonde. Because they thought they’d be popular.

Psychics pit us against each other and I’m glad they did what they did: to get her out of my life. She was bitching about me to my friends because she had nothing else to talk about except for me, it was the same when we were friends and I’m sure it was the same when we were no longer friends. She was fucking my boyfriend – that is: he’d sneak out of my bed (I was paying for him to eat, paying for him to live, buying him things – not your ‘problem’, but know the facts) and sneak into hers, she was living rent-free in a room upstairs in a house that I’d arranged and paid for six months in advance (which means I was paying more than anyone else) because she had ruined any chances of making friends with the people she’d been moved in with at the University she applied to and attended specifically because she rang me up one time, crying, and said “I HAVE NO LIFE AND NO FRIENDS HERE”. I said “you can come here, you can have my friends and you’ll have a nice place to live”. She took my ‘friends’, for sure. Thanks. She used my laptop and accessed personal accounts and one time I opened my laptop to see her tumblr logged in, and that she had been bitching about me with complete strangers on the internet. I decorated her rent-free bedroom with objects I removed from my own bedroom.

If you are in my thoughts or my life, I can guarantee the following:

  • You will become more physically attractive because my negs are legit
  • You will attract lots of men and women
  • You will feel beautiful leaving the house in pyjamas and dresses (If you are enslaved by some insecurity that has you
  •  You will dress better than you’ve ever dressed in your life if you choose to

in an area a guy might’ve touched

 

When I first got discharge, I thought there was something wrong with me.

When I had my first period I thought there was something wrong with me.

I’d learned about both in school but when you first start getting the body changes you associate with puberty it is very easy to think there is something wrong with you.

I do not like pornography or erotica because it arouses me. The issue is that it really fucking doesn’t and that is not because I don’t find the human body or sex fun, it’s because it’s tacky. The lighting is bad. The story lines are bad. It’s a performance – and not one that required months of method acting and character analysis before hand.

Men think I’m bad in bed when they struggle to make missionary position fun. Men who had never before me made a woman orgasm told me I was vanilla. Girls who had been having sex for perhaps about two years of their lives tried telling me what to do in bed “oh when I’m doing ‘doggy’ i push back” (thats how I know you’ve never orgasmed, theres no way you’d bother if you had) and I realised it was because they could occupy me. Its painful that I was surrounded by liars that used me for sex my entire life and if you learn about ‘the game’ you’ll know that the chances of me meeting someone that won’t use me for sex (for whatever reasons they can imagine) are uh. not-not minimal.

I went to University to study how to make films and before that I studied fashion at the best fashion school in the World (McQueen would’ve chosen London College of Fashion but he DIDNT because he didnt think he was good enough. That is why he went to CSM, and don’t ever let anyone make you think otherwise.) because I hated the clothes I could afford and I hated the clothes that were being handed over to me. I was always insulted by fashion that was not designed by artists who were artists before they were fashion designers.

 

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