Long Prose

Well, you guys get to suffer because I wrote my short prose about all of this yesterday. Mostly, so it could turn visual and be adapted into the collaborative zine I am currently working on with Becca. Oh Becca, fuck, why? Why didn't I join in on the emerging therapeutic process at fourteen as well. Lord knows, I could of benefited from talking to someone vs. not talking to anyone and then being given a handful trick o' treating at the psychiatrist's office at nineteen.

I miss Andy. I knew this was going to happen when the firework of Nick fizzled out indefinitely. Everyone has their way with me eventually. I don't regret fucking him. In fact, I fucking miss fucking him and if it meant just fucking him and nothing else. I would do it. But my brain doesn't function that way for very long with new sexual partners. I told Nick to fuck off this weekend. Cutesy and giggly. But earnest, because I don't know how to be any other way with people. If I did, Andy would email me back. Andy would cum in his pants still at the thought of receiving an email from thee Kathleen. But I'm earnest. So he doesn't anymore. 

So far, Nick has kept the boundary. I don't think it was very difficult for him. I can torture myself and pretend the options were endless for him now that he made it like the Jefferson's finally. It's so stupid how I thought I was really going to be a fixture inside that apartment. Just a temporary slut pile of clothes to take back home. Can't you see how good I'm doing at not regretting it? Demisexaulity truly will be the death of me.  It's the  only label in this new flashy world that really sits with me. Mostly, because I found it on my own. I think that helps when labeling your neuroses inside a bomb shelter. Truly. It's why I have to get good real quick at masturbating.

The last label Andy ever gave me was BPD. That stung.