Self Sacrifice

When I applied for University, my photography was mostly candids of the beauty in minutiae I find in daily life. For example: a mug. I took photos of girls being boring and pretty. For example: a photo of a not nice girl in my clothes. That was a thing I would have happily done as a job, editorials of girls in nice clothes, being boring. Pornography was actually my dream job but I am still sad about how all of that went.

It is an illusory art, photography. That is a pretentious way of saying that you have the freedom to make not-so-magical things very beautiful and inviting when you photograph them.

I am an introvert. I have spent most of my life at home or inside. There are many people in 2020 that can probably relate to that, muslim women (being raped at three – gives you zero chance of being a muslim, although I could’ve been raised as one) spend most of their lives at home. Gamers would prefer to spend most of their lives at home. Everything, for me, is about my living space. Even when I “went out”, I spent the majority of my money on my living space.

When I applied for University to study film, for me that had been the point of it, I wanted to create an illusory reality at home so that I was always in a position to pick up a camera and take a photo that captured a mood I was grateful for. Sometimes a photograph of a fold of fabric is very boring and sometimes a photograph of a messy bed is very lonely but if you keep diaries as I always have, you give it context. If you think about it, this is the first century that we’ve been able to document our lives with both writing and photography. I think it has been a bigger concept to come to terms with psychologically than we could’ve imagined because people don’t necessarily see what you are showing them, but what they feel to see. Sometimes your story for a photograph is better and sometimes their story is much better and that subjectivity is so much fun. But often, its still a photo of a mug. (Trust me though: even that creates issues.)

The art of writing is the same and when you post something on the internet, how it is understood depends on the reader.

When I post something like “I am not happy” a kind, loving, sensitive person might feel concern but I prefer not to know people like that and a particular kind of friend might respond with “thats unusual” but an enemy might also reply with “thats unusual” and I think that when you look at a photograph I’ve taken, it’s still an interaction whether I know you or whether I don’t.

I’ll explain. I look very moody in these photographs but it’s just a look.

A mug of hot chocolate is very pretty to me, I liked to post pictures of pretty foods online and apparently in doing so I was pretending to be riche.

Which was strange; because people had been pretending that they couldn’t see my entire life through my eyes. And then what is stranger yet is that they really did think so, wealth is what you make of it. I actually really enjoy the mundane aspects of life. I haven’t gone out in six years and this is all that I have to show for it.

Choices of caption, pick a hat

CHEFS HAT // distilled bottled water, courtesy of my mother’s kindly generosity; you can only resent a woman that buys you hot chocolate and groceries so much, with an excess of powdered milk (I’ve never heard of THAT brand before), nestle milkshake powder that perhaps should also be dubious to me: but I am beyond any capacity to invest more care than it is worth towards something I enjoy so infrequently, expired coffee from the reduced aisle that I purchased atleast a year ago, cadbury’s hot chocolate and maple syrup

embellished, no: lavished with a fancy straw from the £1 shoppe. But be not taken by my sardonic tone, this is sort of luxury to me because I’ve seen wealth and it bored me.

Riche me is details and details and details and details but you lay the foundations for the future in the immediate present, apparently, so here I am documenting a many hours old mug of hot chocolate residue. Ignore the anal plug I haven’t used that in about a month or two now and I haven’t cleaned it and – oh wait – no, I used that one in my vagina. The feathers are excess waiting to be disposed of but intended for stuffing a quilt.

SPIRITUAL HAT // When you have a very humble collection (but not so humble as to disregard that gratitude is called for when there are still people living in and out of cardboard boxes and that I am not amongst them) of possessions to boast, you become grateful for the particular details that make of something routine an event.

Forgive the Memoirs of a Geisha reference, it’s subtle but the neural pathways that I consider of the films that I obsessed over as a teenager affect me until now don’t escape my thoughts, this photograph represents some shallow aspect of a life I resent myself for almost-preferring the idea of and how I’d spend billions of pounds is what keeps my mind active. Don’t tell on me, that doesn’t sound especially spiritual (it isn’t), I’m a material girl, until I’m not: I worked on my personality and my taste long before I had money to spend on anything other than activities to entertain myself when I was in bed which is how I spent the earlier part of my life. I am still always in bed, but I know what films I like watching, I know what I like to do when there is nothing else and that is spiritual really, because some people cannot cope with solitude and I would be amongst them if I had not invested my earlier life in finding out what entertains me.

This stupid photograph represents a significant moment of tremendous beauty to me.
Oh and a painful period that I mostly survived unscathed. I am day two of an uncomfortable period.

ON SHOPPING // I would prefer not to own something that I did not love for it’s beauty, William Morris said not to own things that you did not believe to be both useful and beautiful and maybe it is my inner photographer or (I am reluctant to suggest) my inner film maker or maybe it is my inner tarot reader looking for narratives in my chaos, and my flat is chaotic. I don’t want to reflect upon anything that I don’t enjoy looking at because that is the extent of the pleasantries. Realistically that mug could be left on that surface for months before I pick it up and wash it, or more likely reuse it without washing it at all.

If you practice some patience though, by ignoring the convenience of that which is readily available in the shops, eventually you find, given time, items that merge with your personal landscape. And initially you wouldn’t believe it, but I do care for interiors and I do think that there is some subconscious activity that draws me towards collecting things that would not look out of place in a squat. But the squat of my dreams is very pretty.

I appreciate the colours that I surround myself with, my failing eyesight compares with some macro lens (if you struggle to see things at a distance without glasses on, you’ll understand what I mean, looking at details through a camera donning a macro lens is actually magical) and I insist that while you might not find happiness in physical, through communicative exchanges with other living beings, you might find happiness in owning stuff. I do. And perhaps sometime later if I ever make fake friends again, my stuff and my taste will set us apart and I won’t have some stupid boyfriend who confuses my inner being for my ‘friends’ inner beings. (When it comes to the physical body: some sharing is complimentary, some is occasionally necessary I guess, some sharing is an obvious insult that I would never consent to not even for a monetary bribe. I know you’d prefer in some cases to pick the path of least resistance but I promise you sometimes if you pick the struggle, you are a much stronger, much tougher person.)

FEMALE EXPERIENCE HAT // There’s this very particular warning drip that threatens your underwear moments before you start menstruating and it gives you time to run to the shoppe (I’m lazy, so I don’t, and if I’ve masturbated thinking about angels that month I think “nono I actually really want that miniature pink leopard, I could really look after that, and the angels insist its possible too) and yesterday, I filled up two hot water bottles, indelicately massaged vicks vaporub on my lower stomach (I have my own fishwifely remedy for short term period pain, it works for a second or two actually) and then dragged myself at some point to the kitchenette and made myself a hot chocolate.
I glared at the illustration of the angel Lucifer on my wall and thought “actually I wanted that and you said it wasn’t a period when I got that drip” and we decided together that we ought to communicate verbally in future and really he’s a very naughty angel trying to determine exactly how many people, how many generations of women are occupying my body and he’s very clever about it at my expense. I am upset that I am not having a miniature pink leopard to take selfies with and play dress up with and to civilise with walks to the beach and activities of that nature.

I was taught never to discuss my finances or lack therof with anyone. If I ever did discuss my finances, it was not me because I have none. I keep doing so because if I don’t, I worry for some future aspect self of mine that she will have to ruin good conversations with disclaimers that I wouldn’t want to offer but that i’d have to offer for my safety.

So: if you manage to make friends (and it wouldn’t be for long, if it didn’t ever work out for me) it is tacky to tell people that you are “poor”, whether you are or whether you are not.

It should be irrelevant if you are good company. It is good manners, I think, to be generous with company and to share what you have with guests.

I don’t personally care about how much money a person does or doesn’t have and I think discussing a person’s finances behind their back is heinous.

I became a person that discussed money later, when I became acquainted with women who worked in the online-adult-industry.
The pay wasn’t good enough and I chose to upload photographs to the internet for free, because atleast then, I could delete them later, if I wanted to. And I gathered very valuable contacts that way that most eighteen year olds could not have dreamed of boasting, but it was my secret, because I thought my affiliations with that industry were better kept a secret. I told my mother and some IRL friends, and that was it.

That was problematic because I still gained notoriety and anonymous observers, amongst those stalkers, and even if I had of been paid for the content that I uploaded: it would not have been enough to compensate me for the affect it had upon my life.

The woman I regarded as a friend knew that many people signed up to her site to read my private journal entries and I think thats on her conscience.

When it comes to “porn” or “art”, I do not look like my photos. At all.

I didn’t want to be a model, I wanted to be an actress. I don’t want that anymore. I then wanted to be a photographer. Then I wanted to direct porn where women orgasm/there are real emotional exchanges between the actors. I heard that Emily Blunt (a friend of my estranged sibling) used to fall in love with all of her co-stars and that she needed therapy for it and I found that very admirable because just imagine walking around falling in love with people that you are working with. It gives a lot of meaning to your work.
Actors are very very attractive people and I realised that I wasn’t attractive in the way my favourite actors are attractive and I gave that dream up entirely.

I wanted to photograph pornography, but in order to do that I needed a portfolio. People would not want me to photograph them for free (I was poorer at seventeen than I am now) unless they had seen my work. Your work develops as you photograph people. So I photographed myself, I’d have preferred to photograph other people but I was convenient. Which is why I photographed myself.

I am a reasonably good photographer, you can tell when I’ve taken a photograph, I can tell when you’ve looked at a photograph I’ve taken.
I leave it at that because I had to let that dream go, because a friend of mine (a blonde) wanted to be a photographer and in truth, she was very technically gifted, she is bright and has a good memory and it would be silly to compete with someone like that. I am not like that, I have a terrible memory and as a person raised by a psychotic dancer, I develop muscle memory very fast.

I can learn how to do things using muscle memory, that I could not learn by being taught verbally or visually. I forget all sorts of things if I don’t do them daily. Thats how my body works.

I learned how to play Abes Oddyssee because my brother took the memory card for the Playstation and I had to play over and over again. It just so happens that Abraham took my muscle memory of the game to mean that I was a robot. Nonono Abraham: I learned to play like that by playing again and again and again without a memory card with a saving point. It’s my favourite game. Final Fantasy is my second favourite. Harvest Moon is my third favourite. Pocahontas on sega mega drive is my fouth favourite. These are games that I love. Pokemon was also one of my favourites.

I learned how to do most of the things I vaguely know how to do because of those games. No one ever spoke to me.

I learned how to run from a very big guard dog from watching a game called Full Throttle where you throw a piece of meat to distract a dog while you run.

I cannot think to comprehend all of the disclaimers people need to read when they look at photographs of me

1. These are intended to be ‘honest’ photos of me, they are still technically VERY flattering photographs of me
2. I do not posture like this all the time
3. I am probably physically bigger than I look in these photographs
4. I haven’t showered in two years nearly
5. That is not dirt, it is fake tan but it might also be dirt because I am gross
6. Hot is solely a vibration as far as my physical body is concerned because most of the time in day to day life, I look damned awful terrible
7. I’m not being insincere, I’m being sincere

I have a vagina.
I have ovaries.
I menstruate.

Arab women/Latin women are very, very hairy.

I have actually trimmed my pubic hair or my pubic area would be a MESS.

I would not let a person put their face this close to my vagina on an attractive hair-free-reaking of-pretty-smells day, and I usually realise later there is a good reason for everything that I do and if I don’t do it you probably shouldn’t do it.

The bow illustration indicates body parts where I really, really grow body hair. Not peach-fuzz, but real hair.

There are probably more body parts where I grow body hair that are not indicated by the crude pink bow illustrations, but I grow body hair in those places. I do not want to compete with anyone over who is hairier. Men/boys I have been attracted to have actually picked women over me specifically because I have this much body hair and I do not blame them, I agree, it is gross. You did the right thing.

Waxing is very expensive, painful business for me but shaving is more work. I admire women who shave. If you shave I can picture all of your little hairs going down the drain where our fecal matter/urine goes to be recycled for washing my dishes in. Not that I wash my dishes, I don’t. I should, but I don’t.

My shower is only hot for afew minutes sparingly, and if I offend a blonde in my thoughts my hot tap actually doesn’t work.

I love white people.

They gave me a man called ‘Ahmed Bashir’ with a fantastic life story to be my landlord and that is very special to me because I had an ex called Ahmed and because I watched a film called ‘Waltzing with Bashir’ and they (the white people) must’ve thought that Ahmed and Bashir were very common Indian names. I think he’s Indian. Punjabi. I can make those jokes because for the first few years of my life, my mother was a Sri-Lankan woman called Mala, a maid that lived with my family in our home in the desert in Dubai.

I don’t like bathing. Full stop. Taz no like water. It is an episode of a cartoon about a Tazmanian Devil, called ‘Taz’. My nickname became ‘Kaz’ because I hated showering since I was little.
I liked swimming, in swimming pools. And keep it a secret but I was so lazy that I liked to drink the pool water rather than get fresh bottled water. I would pee in the pool water and I’d still drink it.
Actually I’ll explain: when you go swimming it is initially very, very cold and then your body changes temperature to adjust to the water and if you jump out for a bottle of water and jump back in, the process repeats itself and you have to warm up again.

I do wash my genitals and asshole, I try to do it atleast once a day when I urinate in my kitchen sink and if I don’t do it when I defecate once/twice a month it’s because I feel like fainting.

On occasion I wash my feet, face and arm pits.

If I smell: it is either because I:

A.) Might be wearing fake tan, fake tan has a smell. I know that the product can time travel because sometimes I smell it two hours before I decide to wear it. Or someone else (naming no names) is putting fake tan because I am putting fake tan on, and they are using my eyes because they don’t want people to know that they are actually pale.
Either way: it is possible that either my tan is time travelling or I can smell someone else’s fake tan.

have not dried my groin area properly after washing myself
– or it is either of period blood (I like the smell of period blood but I know thats a grown up chat for another time), sometimes I smell of beo and when I do, I realise it is because someone has been put into my body that I am allergic to and thats my body’s way of expelling their essence. This leaving your body/exchanging bodies with people is risky/tricky business because you might be allergic to some people. Some people might eat things that you are allergic to. Some physical bodies do not take well to certain inner beings and it affects you internally and you can’t do anything about it. There’s someoen jumping around bodies that has a serious eating disorder and osteoporosis, and you can give other people osteoporosis even if their body is stronger than yours.

If I use the toilet to defecate, if I do not use dry shampoo and spray and scrub myself with a pomice stone and handsoap or body wash, I might smell of feces.
I once saw a girl from Saint James in a Hindu temple put incense smoke on her hair and I try to do that with my incense.
I saw a blonde woman use a match to get rid of the smell of fecal matter once, I try to do that too.

I have posted before: feces shouldn’t actually smell, if it smells, it has negative energy in it. Flatulence is rape, it is your body’s way of telling you that you are being observed, it is a trigger to the fight or flight response.

That’s a chat for another time, accept it in advance.
Vegetables might be crueller eating than meat is, if you have dark hair, accept it in advance. That’s a chat for another time, accept it in advance.

I had a tree in my bedroom called Angel and she almost died. I asked God to heal her and help her grow and she really grew days after the fact.

She used her branches and leaves to choreograph dances for me. She competed with the angel Lucifer (and I took it in jest and found it sweet, but you don’t really know what the spirit contained within a body looks like and it affects the Universe when you let something win, I think Lucifer did let her win because he found it sweet but there are other beings in the Spirit World that might not have let her win and at some point in your many lives you have to learn not to be motivated by unsportsmanly competition.)

For example, you do not compete as a millionaire with a person who is very very poor. It isn’t sportsmanly, there’s no honour in that. It is something that comes back to bite you in some bodily place or inner place that you don’t want to be bitten in or on.

When you compete with someone “greater” than you are, you are saying “I do not need you, I can do this alone”.

Angel the Wisteria died sometime later. That said, Goku from Dragon Ball Z said “can I have her please?” and I was happy for him to take her to 2D cartoon adventures. So perhaps she left of her own accord. Perhaps she was very happy to have that fight with Lucifer and one Universe day in many years she’ll come back for a rematch.

These are areas that I grow visible dark hair. I have to constantly tweeze the hair from my face from these areas. Most dark haired women do it. It’s not my ‘hormones’ although it might be in part, it’s actually my genetics.

I struggle to believe that it is my hormones, personally, because I get pregnant if I think it’s pretty but lets pretend it could be because I might’ve had a penis, some body transfers ago, when I was born. My spiritual teacher Lisa would say it is because I am not human but it’s irrelevant to me.

This is a very flattering photo of me actually. This is my leg hair. It is thinner than it has been in the past because I’ve been trying to only wax. I didn’t wax for a couple of months. I am so lucky that I am not sleeping next to a boyfriend because he would cheat on me every time he saw my legs.

If I were my real skin colour (I am whiter than most British girls are, but I am Arabic and Latin, so I should have a suntan) this would look very, very bad and I would look much fatter.

I am trying not to look fat here. I do not lie down like this. I don’t look like this in bed. I look like a sad-beached-whale when I recline comfortably. If I look good in bed it probably isn’t me in my body.

These are spots. I know that they not an imbalance in me, which can be the explanation: but they are there because people keep putting people with acne (that they refuse to visit doctors to treat medically,) into my body. Don’t do that. It is an exchange. If you put me in the body of a person that is allergic to me, or my cheap ink tattoos, or my cheap jewellery, it might actually affect them physically.
If I am carrying a two week shit it might cause them physical pain, they might acquire my appetite and overeat and end up having to take a very big shit which might be very frightening and might also be painful.
Do not create physical dependencies on me, I am an introvert which means I give energy. Some extroverts might become very active when you pit them against me, and then when I pick another extrovert (I am attracted to ‘big personalities’) who makes better use of the energy that I transfer, that person might not be able to do 1% of the stuff they could do when I was thinking about them.

I’d prefer you wouldn’t put friends that sold me in my body, I’d prefer you wouldn’t put white, acne infested people into my body because you don’t know how to have a conversation. I like plenty of white people, or I would if my being friendly with them didn’t upset people that were convinced that they would get on with the people that I get on with. You probably wouldn’t like the kind of people that I like, if you are blonde it is difficult to realise that because people HAVE to be nice to you to not get defend-the-blonde-brigaded, which might be worse than pedobrigading.

I had acne when I was a teenager. I had terrible acne on my upper back and breasts, serious acne, not afew uncomfortable spots like the ones you can see on my bottom, it was so bad it looked like chicken pox and I couldn’t pop them to get rid of them, they were very attached to me emotionally. It was bad.

Like any normal person I went to a doctor. The doctor, Dr Liam Chapman, prescribed me zinc tablets and a zineryt roll on of liquid zinc. I also used St Ives Peach Scrub. You have to take the tablets continuously for six weeks, regularly. You have to have hot baths I think, to open your pores. Sudocreme also works, a ‘nurse’ recommended that to my sibling. It is a nappy rash cream, it works for me when I get huge hormonal blister spots.

Published by KARINITA

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