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herelaymythoughts · 2 months
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Dearest beloved,
I love you today and every yesterday.
I love you tomorrow and every next year.
I love you now and before and ever after.
I love you then, there, everywhere.
All at once.
I love you day and night and dusk and dawn and twilight and just before daybreak.
I love you in the moments as I gain slumber.
I love you in the moments as I leave.
I love you in and out, past and through.
I love you head to toe, dread to heel.
I love you when I wake and when I lay.
I love you in my dreams, in the night and the day.
I love you through and out, through and through.
I love you with me and worlds apart.
I Iove you inside me
I love you on top of me.
I love you next to me.
I love you most in front of me.
I love your ers and ums, your darting eyes, uncertainty.
Your need for certainty.
I love the me who loves you.
I love you and it sinks deeper into me everyday.
I love you in my memories, minted and yet to be made.
I love you day and night, months and years, all my weeks.
I love you every hour, on the hour.
I love you every second I am me.
I love you fast and slow.
I love you as dew loves rain as rain loves sea as sea loves cloud.
Inevitably.
Inescapably.
Indefinitely.
I love you in all three panels of the diptych.
I love you in heaven.
I love you on earth.
I love you in hell.
I love you everywhere I am.
I love you everywhere I’m not.
Everywhere I've been.
Everywhere I will be.
Utters of I love you on my every passport stamp.
Train ticket.
Bus fare.
I love you on paper.
I love you in the air.
I love you thirty-four thousand feet in the sky.
Every time I'm thirty-four thousand feet in the sky, I love you.
Every time I'm not thirty-four thousand feet in the sky, I love you.
I love you through space.
I love you in song.
I love you in numbers and letters and characters I can't pronounce.
I love you in ballads before our time and poems from centuries past.
I love you in four character chengyus that explain entire phenomena, lifetimes of wisdom wrapped up in just four characters.
The domain is infinite and so is the range.
Every x is I love you.
Every y is I love you too.
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herelaymythoughts · 6 months
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His and mine and ours
Skin as dark as laid asphalt, so abundant with richness, with opacity. Head in chest in arms in neck in elbow in thighs in calf in toes in lips in tongue in vagina in cervix in curled toes in bedsheets soaked through with passion and hunger and lust. His penis in a condom in my vagina my tongue in his mouth his fingers through mine his scrotum in my mouth my tongue caressing his cock his marble gaze into mine my nipples in his tongue his hands on my ass my arms around his neck his hands on my hips his hands on my waist my teeth in his skin his sweat on his sheets my blood on his towel his semen in his condom my fluid on his mattress his sweat on his forehead his chest his back his torso my forehead my chest my back my torso. Our sweat everywhere. His groans in my ear my heaves in his walls my screams in his mattress his cock in my vagina his cock in my vagina his cock in my vagina his cock in my vagina our orgasms in each other. 
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herelaymythoughts · 6 months
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In lieu of “I love you”,
Safe travels.
Hope life’s been treating you well.
...
Have you read Proust?
Have you read Ulysses? 
Sweet dreams.
...
You go be serious, I’ll go be silly.
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herelaymythoughts · 1 year
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I was staring much too close as per museum guidelines at one of Pollock’s pieces when I welcomed into my consciousness the thought of how paintings represent distinct moments in time.
The exact moment of first contact between paint and canvas, the exact moment the last drop of paint dries, the exact moment the signing pen lifts off from the artist’s signature and renders the painting complete. 
It felt all too akin to the exact moment two pairs of lips meet for the first time, the exact moment one falls in love, the last text exchanged by a pair of lovers who only used to be. I’ve often wondered if falling in love happens instantaneously or little by little. It must be little by little at first, all surmounting to a moment when it becomes solidified, definite, yes, I absolutely, unequivocally, without an ounce of hesitation in mind, am in love with you. The moment the paint becomes OK to the touch; hardened, solidified, exiting its previous liquid state into a new way of being. Solid. And once solid, one could never take it back to its previous form. So too, could we ever tuck love back into the tube? 
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herelaymythoughts · 1 year
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Another Poem About You
A mid autumn child
where our similarities start
When you arrived 
the leaves were still a pulsating red 
endeavouring attachment 
still hanging, still hanging
By the time I graced this earth
they’ve lost their battle
branches barren and dry
leaves crisp, brittle.
You leave the sweetest,
most complex aftertaste
still bringing tears to my eyes
upon so simple a thought
A muse years after 
I last had your taste 
It’s so sweet
Knowing that you love me 
Though we don’t need to 
Say it to each other, sweet
If my memory hasn’t betrayed me
you taste of an uncertain turmoil
kind, tortured, velvety turmoil 
The complexity of an expertly blended scent
slightly psychedelic 
Unsavoured
Unfavoured by the unversed
Tis not an obsession
I wish it were
how much more poetry I’d write
how many more pages of prose would grace these leather bound pages 
my Tumblr drafts.
But obsession it is not
Attachment it is not. 
not a fervent battle against the reaper
but dying peacefully 
smiling six feet under
alas one that lives is more than all that has passed
So I sit glancing out into the first week of October
Wondering how many more poems 
How many more years 
How many more Octobers 
shall be spent 
yearning a lost you.
you introduced me to a side of myself 
I’ve only the pleasure of meeting
Through your acquaintance.
Patience, kindness, 
Though I sometimes wonder 
If I am simply good at 
imitating those I admire. 
They say people are like passengers on a train
going only one way
sharing segments of your journey with many
Some will stay many stops
Few til you rise
But what are the rules
for stepping off the train 
with them?
As Celine did
for Jesse
for Vienna. 
“Everyone has a Josh...”
I was once told. 
But I’m certain
that’s reserved 
only for those in the positives 
with Miss Karma.
Have you ever loved so hard 
It was equal parts gratitude?
For the love
Too for everything else 
It is a feeling rivalled
only by being by their side 
I love thee not for thine
Decorations 
for what thy does for me
for how thy makes me feel
I love you
For all that you are 
And all that you are not
I love thee for thine totality
for All that you’ve ever been 
All that you are
All that you’ll ever be
All that you could ever be.
Every single iteration,
in every single timeline.
But what good is such great love
When you are not here?
Poetry fodder. 
I am certain I will love others 
I am certain I will love more
of what I am most certain
I will remain loving you. 
-
Food, company, time, memories. Wishing you only best; I shall have nothing less for you, for you whom I love. Happy birthday. 
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herelaymythoughts · 1 year
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I like old things
Clothing that’s hung in closets other than mine
Tarnished jewellery
Lovers who know what I’d order off a menu
Friends with whom to remember the past. 
I like leather
I like oud 
I like top notes that read of an oriental spice rack.
I like high thread count cotton
and silk
and linen and wool
I like ordering San Pellegrino
with a splash of lime and leaves of spearmint
In restaurants on the San Pellegrino
house plants 
lofts 
and high ceilings
I like Vietnamese noodle soups
bun rieu and bun bo hue
tea flavoured desserts 
hojicha and jasmine and rose
I like hydrangea 
always carrying the most weight 
like that one person
in a first year group project
too, ranunculus, lavender
I like flying many hours to hold a lover
I like being held. 
I like the colour green. 
Mint green, forest green, pistachio. 
My grandmother also likes the colour green.
I like wild salmon and halibut and purple rice and a simple salad of olive oil and lemon juice.
I like the plant and veggie balls from IKEA. 
I like fall, 
walking through its chilliness by myself in new cities of residence. 
I like buying unique objects.
hand made ceramics.
Painting nude self portraits
singing in contralto.
dancing to sultry R&B  
shaking my booty
a booty I’ve had to learn to shake,
Learn to love
I like powder days and blue bird days
I really really like Lululemon.
I like perfume, sophisticatedly blended
I like the one named after me, Lucedar Wood.
I like he who blended it. 
I love him too. 
I think I’ll like New York. 
I think I’ll like Paris.
Even though I liked neither all the times I’ve been.
I really like Norway. 
I really miss D.C.
Something draws me back to Hong Kong.
a gorgeous Norwegian lover,
A Rusty bit of heartache.
I like nude beaches
and jumping off masts 
skinny dipping in the ocean
and making grown men tap.
I like men who pick up the phone when I call.
I don’t like men who do not respond to my texts.
I like men who give thoughtful gifts.
I like men with long hair and glasses.
I like men whose minds eclipse mine
though I’ve only found one so far. 
I like women with short hair 
who don’t wear any make up
though a little mascara doesn’t hurt,
you know who you are. 
I like volumes and volumes of filled out journals and sketch books 
medium nib Kaweco fountain pens
Ink wells
and wax seals. 
Hand written letters, 
love or otherwise. 
Books, especially the ones with pencil marked prices on the top right corner
of the first page
Books that were a little slutty in their lifetimes, 
rummaged by many
opened by more. 
Philosophy.
Of Seneca and Aurelius and others I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know enough of.
Ruby Woo 
Caberanet francs and spicy mezcal margaritas.
Especially the one made by Crybaby on Dundas,
A Pina Colada by Mother on Queen.
I like Toronto a lot
Somewhat begrudgingly.
I like being superstitious
Believing that every time I see a Harvard sweater or someone with locs it in fact means that you’ve been thinking of me.
I like celibacy
And sobriety
And being fiercely independent
Assembling IKEA furniture by myself even when the instructions have that X over the cute little figure assembling furniture by itself. 
Being soft 
when the occasion calls for it.
I like spider guard into lasso
It reminds me of pulling in a lover close with my leg
and jumping guillotines.
Too similar to excited embraces after a long period of apartedness.
I like spending hours in a museum
pondering scenes in paintings
I’m certain I’ve seen in a dream of mine. 
Yves Tanguy 
and Matisse
and Seurat
and Degas
and Kandinsky
and Monet. 
I like mid century modern
And chairs from the Qing dynasty. 
The lines of T.S. Elliot and Lu Xun and Ezra Pound
Vivaldi’s four seasons.
I like Peter Cat Recording Co.
and Khruangbin
and Polo and Pan,
the way I discovered them with my good friend Johanne at a Steve Jobs themed party
her dancing to their hypnotic beats in burgundy velvet
in a remodelled row home 
in Columbia Heights,
pre-pandemic. 
I still like all the friends I’ve lost
Love, even
Lovers still.
I like the way French sounds
And the way I sound in it.
I like frequenting restaurants owned by friends
And knowing that I’ve got at least 6 more loves left in me.
I like Chinatown produce
Sometimes it goes bad right after I buy it
But there’s something real about buying produce slightly past the peak of ripeness
And something wholly unnatural about buying green bananas already in body bags. 
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herelaymythoughts · 1 year
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My love is slutty
OPEN in neon red and neon blue
My love is easy 
Liking 101, Infatuation 114 
Prerequisites not required 
No caviar, champagne bars, Michelin stars
    Spend a day laying on the grass with her
 let her rest her head on your thigh
     She likes being horizontal
My love is naive
Or perhaps just forgetful
Perhaps intentionally disregards the consequences
Perhaps has a positivity bias
Throwing herself
At everyone, for anyone
As if she weren’t the most prized possession
Available to only the highest bidder.
No, she is like tissues,
Kleenex
A mundane offering to anyone and everyone who may need it
For you and you and you and you too.
Because I have plenty
and you have none. 
I once loved a man who guarded his love 
who doesn’t tell his friends he loves them.
But in my house I love yous dress my every windowsill
Adorn my every granite countertop 
Line my every mantlepiece 
Is free and abundant and profuse
like oxygen
like fallen leaves in autumn
like sun 
in a desert 
water
in the sea
Scarcity breeds value
and my love is worthless
is cheap
is branded green and yellow and Dollarama
is the stuff on the clearance rack of a suburban outlet Ross
is a Walmart love
A Great Value love
A made in China love
Give a little
Get a lot
Great Value, cheap, inferior, generic
[Oxy]moronoic
Great value for money
Give a little 
Get a lot
Maybe love is like company 
More the merrier
or perhaps diamonds
precious not because she is rare 
but because she’s a controlled substance
Maybe people wouldn’t value love the way they do
if everyone’s love were like mine
Or perhaps simply I am a slut
Easy
Naive
Cheap
so my love had not in its destiny to be anything but 
But I’d gladly be easy naive and cheap 
To live a life filled with love
To rarely not be in love
To see love everywhere 
in every corner of everyone 
and everything
To love
To be love
To embrace love and be embraced by love
To live in a rose tinted world for most of one’s life
Maybe there’s nothing wrong with made in China
Maybe there are others like me
Who too do not guard their love
Who too offer it like Kleenex.
Maybe.
And maybe when I meet them 
We will throw so much Kleenex at each other we become mummies
and never run out 
despite all the crying for having found kin.
And we will live in a cushiony white embrace forever
Infinite Kleenex 
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herelaymythoughts · 1 year
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He who loved me most in a past life reincarnated himself as flowers so I could fall in love over and over and over again.
At every street corner
Abundantly, preciously
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herelaymythoughts · 1 year
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In life there are people you wish you would’ve met when you were older, more mature. And people you wish you could’ve met when you were younger, more reckless, more naive. You wish you could take the lessons from the latter to the former, but it’s always the other way around.
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herelaymythoughts · 1 year
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And then one day you find yourself scrolling through Tumblr, playing the first ever Spotify playlist you ever made when you were sixteen, trying to catch a glimpse of what it felt like to be a teen. And then you realize how deeply, deeply ok you are, how you have become the person you had always wanted to be, the person you wished could have been your big sister when you were longer. You look at yourself and your surroundings and realize that you are an emotionally stable, healthy, functioning person in your 20′s. You realized that you turned out to be the person your teenage self subconsciously wanted to be. That despite all of the terrible things that have happened to you, despite all of the parental neglect and childhood trauma and abusive relationships, and unrequited love, you, as its written in your name, rose from the mud the most magnificent flower there ever was. 
It never felt like abuse while I lived in it because I didn’t understand what abuse was and I was in denial about it. 
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herelaymythoughts · 1 year
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To All The Men I Thought I’d Loved/Maybe loved/maybe still love. And you.
Let’s begin with the first one. 
Jacob. Jake. “Jacket”. “Jac”. John Sabel IV. 
French and Chinese, adopted by German and Chinese parents. Hawaiian. Tall, athletic, gorgeous. Perfect teeth, lips full like the bolster pillows stacked in my yoga studio, my yoga studio where I took him once and he scoffed at the middle aged men being nice to him asking if he enjoyed the class. Jacob, the name of the original biblical snake. And a snake he was indeed. I fell in love with him one summer in Vancouver when he was going into his fifth year at the University of British Columbia and mine, third. I told him I loved him one night when he was sleeping over and for one reason or another threatened to leave. I hadn’t even loved him yet but I thought that I had to say it to make him stay. He said it back and I think he meant it. Broken, damaged love that it was, I think that he meant it. Actually falling in love with him took place over the course of several months and a lot of manipulation. Emotional manipulation to attach me to him, to make me feel like I needed him, to make me feel like I would be nothing without him. But I didn’t know that at the time and even two years after the break up I still uncover things he did in the relationship that deeply, unconsciously affect me to this day. I thought I loved him. I thought I loved him as recently as a week ago when I made him call me so that I could tell him that I want to be there for him because I “could only ever love him”. Maybe I do love him. Two years after the break up I’ve still not escaped his emotional manipulation. I want to say that I loved him, that I really did, but I really did not. And he didn’t love me. If I can just admit that, which I just have, if I could just admit that to myself but I couldn’t because that would have meant that I wasted all this time emotion and energy and that it wasn’t even love in the first place that caused the  suffering. Little did I know that love doesn’t cause suffering at all. But continuing to lie to myself and to delude myself has only continued hurting me much past the point it should. I didn’t love him and he didn’t love me. I can’t stop deluding myself and others. It’s abundantly clear to others and I have simply been lying to myself. Of course we had good times. And times when we were both deluded into thinking that we were in love but gosh, that’s not what love is. Gosh, we were not in love. I did not love him and he did not love me. Perhaps in the lacklustre way we had conceived love to be at 19 and 22 but god, we were not in love. Just lust.
Rob. Robert. Bobbert. Robert Arthur Rust. 
I told Rob that I loved him over Wechat messages five months since the last time we’d seen each other when I was in Vietnam on one of those cliche Southeast Asia trips. He is Norwegian and American and 6′4 and built like Poseidon. I met him one summer in Shanghai at a hole in the wall sake bar. My job then was to take care of a bunch of British interns and one week I told him that all the interns had the shits because of the food in Shanghai and we both had a good laugh about it. I asked him to go to Hong Kong with me and we kissed on top of Victoria Peak and god did I ever romanticize the shit out of that kiss. He was beautiful. Is beautiful. All the men I love or thought I’d loved are beautiful. All he gave me was uncertainty and that’s what made me so attracted to him because I’d equated uncertainty with love because of the way my mother was with me when I was young. After I told him that I loved him he said, “Why would you say that?”, and promptly rescinded the message over Wechat. I don’t remember what he sent in place of it. I bought him a Vietnamese Hawaiian shirt because I thought I might see him because he too was coming to Vietnam at some point. This was right before the pandemic hit. We just missed each other. He has good taste in memes. I don’t love him. I don’t even like him. I think I simply tolerate him because of how attractive I find him. And how good the dick was. It was goddamned good dick. Some of the best I’ve ever had. 
Zhaoqi. No nicknames with this one. Or maybe ZQ. 
I didn’t love Zhaoqi. I don’t know why I had to tell it to him to confuse him. Well, because I really believed that I did at some point. But again, there were parts of him I didn’t like, didn’t fully accept, and for some reason I thought that non acceptance and love could coexist. It doesn’t. I texted him that I love him and he asked, “in what way?”. Which I thought was an odd question to ask but actually totally valid. Actually another man I told I loved asked the same thing. I don’t know how to answer it. Like, I like you as a friend but I also want to fuck you? I don’t know why I put a question mark that’s really all it is. I guess it’s easy to see how I confused that with love. I have a lot of love for him dearly as a friend but I don’t love him. 
Robbe Pappen. 
Robbe and I met at a jazz bar in Chiang Mai. I got way too drunk and asked him to choke me on the side walk and to fuck me right then and there. Like the Belgian farm boy he is he refused and took me home like a gentleman and fucked me there. I didn’t remember much of it, just the bottles of beer that I spilled, the stupid joke about fish going “blu blu blu” as the reason for why the ocean is blue, but in terrible French. 
Pourquoi la mer est bleu?
Parce que les poissons comme “blue bleu bleu” 
He found it funny and congratulated me in telling a joke in French. He was so kind, so pure, so unscathed by the “blight of the world”, was how I put it in a longer piece I wrote about him. I thought I loved him and he’s definitely more grey area than any of the other guys. He was like a child to me, and I guess it’s hard to not love a child. 
Kabir Virji.
The one I traumatized the most. The one who talks to his therapist about me. The one I claimed to have, “power bottom energy”, when in fact he only likes girls. You couldn’t blame me, I went to his dorm and drew wings on his eyes in black and gold. The one who asked me if I was his girlfriend and I said no. The one who thought we would hook up again. The one whom I thought I loved the most. The one whom I’d hurt the most. The one I’m most sorry about ever telling him that I loved him too. The one who came home with me one night and told me that he loved me five times in one day and who slept on the floor with me during that weird floor sleeping phase of mine and the one who is my twin flame. And the one that I told to look up what borderline personality disorder was because I had it. The one I have the hardest time facing. 
Ben
Everything about you was everything bad for me.  
But I know better than to speak in superlatives. So many things about you were so bad for me. Your insecurity. Your indecisiveness. Your infidelity. Your wisdom. Your singular ability to help me understand myself. Your lust for me. My lust for you. But your insecurity, mostly. 
Santiago Perez
Santi and I had sex one night and the next day he told me that he wanted to be friends. I went home and asked him if he was attracted to me and he said, “as a friend” even though he was wiping the pre cum off his cock and ejaculated sub ten strokes. I saw who he truly was and then took molly the next day and was convinced that he was the first last and only person I’ll ever love. I wanted to help him even though I could barely help myself at that point. I know not to do molly alone again because of that. He told me not to tell anyone but I told everyone. You are part of my story and I need to use my friends’ emotional labour to help me unpack this. He’s definitely traumatized because of me but like Tingting suggested, I’ll just think of it as reparations for all the trauma women as a whole collectively endure from men. She called me “Lady Karma” that night and I’ve never loved a nickname more. He made me realize that I don’t actually hook up with my guy friends and then lose the guy friend, that I am the problem, that I am the one that abandons the friendship after hooking up and it’s bad, after hooking up and it doesn’t lead to more hooking up, after hooking up and it doesn’t lead to a relationship. But also that these men weren’t really my friends at all, that all the friends I thought I had were merely experiments I probed for the possibility of a partner. That I was, unequivocally, the fuckest of boys. 
And you. 
I hoped that I would love you before I did and I knew that I would. I loved you when I didn’t even love myself. “I love you” flowed out of my tongue like water out of a container too small to hold it. I will never forget your reaction when you heard me say it for the first time. Pure bewilderment, “Is this actually happening right now? Is this real life?”. I wish I had that moment recorded but all I’ve got is my foggy memory. We were both high as fuck and completely enamoured by what had just unfolded. “I love you TOO”. I can’t believe I found it this young. I know what love truly is because of you. And I don’t want to love anyone else and I don’t want to even have or be with anyone else I only want you. I’m sorry that I had to go around and fuck up all of these other people’s lives and my own before I truly knew that you are all that I would ever want but that’s the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth. You’re the only person that I want. It has been you. It has always been you. Perhaps because I saw you through the lens of somebody who also loved you that it had such a big imprint on me, but as soon as I saw you in that video of Claira’s I knew that you were going to be mine. I remember sitting in the water station in the trail behind my house grilling you about wanting to talk to me then never talking to me and you later saying that that’s when you knew that you had fucked up. I remember the first selfie you ever sent me, in your purple headphones with you chubby cheeks, god I love you so much and I have never felt this much love for anyone without being under the influence of drugs this is all just pure love for you baby. You’re the first man I’ve ever sent love letters to. My friend told me that a good measurement of love is whether or not you can spend a week in a cabin with them and from the start I’ve thought that my dream scenario would be just you and me in an apartment barely talking. And god, that tongue of yours. I love you so much. I only know love because of you. This isn’t chemically induced, it’s not hormonally induced, it’s not anything induced. It’s not divine, it’s vastly, vastly human, and it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. It’s so earthly and it’s not anything grand or intense or dramatic, it simply is. I could go on and on about how much I love you but you would want me to go to sleep. Sometime I doubt whether or not I love you because it’s not the love I know, because it’s not intense or passionate or paraded, but I know that you love me because you are so patient with me and you care about all the bullshit going on in my life when it serves no benefit to you. You give me so much of your time even though it’s the most valuable thing to you. I’ve been so blinded by “imposters, pretending to be, pretending to know”. That poem I wrote really is art, it came from the heart and it came from love. Maybe I do know a thing or two about love. Maybe I was right when I said that I don’t know much but I know that I love you. Maybe I do know that I love you. 
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herelaymythoughts · 1 year
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Artemis: What’s on ya mind b
The Fowl: I would like my thoughts masturbated.
Artemis: Jesus Christ
The Fowl: But it’s just you and me, Artie. We only got each other to help each other out.
Artemis: Fine, I’ll give you a thought job.
The Fowl: ehehehehe
Artemis: Hit me
The Fowl: What is the meaning of being alone? 
Artemis: The opposite of codependency. Being ok on your own. Being ok with getting yourself off, physically, mentally, emotionally, sexually.
The Fowl: I don’t like it
Artemis: Well get used to it. You know that you’re the only one you’ve got right? Well, you’ve got me too but we’re one and the same.
The Fowl: But I can just go find another Really Good Looking Boy I’d Like to Fuck to be my sounding board and they’d be happy and I’d be happy and it’ll be a win-win situation.
Artemis: *Glares at the Fowl*
The Fowl: What?!
Artemis: *Continue glaring*
The Fowl: 
Artemis:
The Fowl: Alright alright fine. That sounds.... unwise. But what’s the alternative? I need my mind fucked and licked and penetrated.
Artemis: Jesus what’s it to you?
The Fowl: No one’s given me an orgasm in eight months.
Artemis: Sigh. Me neither.
The Fowl: :( 
Artemis: :(
Maybe it’s time to just get yourself a dildo bro.
The Fowl: You’re probably right.
*left chat to search to dildos*
*The Fowl returns*
Artemis: How was it?
The Fowl: There were a few prospects but none of them had balls :( 
Artemis: That’s ok we’ll go dildo shopping with Lorilei when we see her.
The Fowl: :) Indeed!
Artemis: Are you still mentally horny?
The Fowl: :/ yeah.
Artemis: You need to get back to reading.
The Fowl: Yeah I should.
Artemis: 
The Fowl:
Artemis: Alright fine hit me. What other parts of your brain do you want jerked?
The Fowl: When will we be ready for commitment?
Artemis: When you’ve committed to yourself.
The Fowl: I think I’ve done that already
Artemis: I’m unconvinced. Maybe in a year.
The Fowl: In a year, if I’ve shown that I’ve committed to myself for a year then I can look outwards?
Artemis: Let’s see where we are in a year first.
The Fowl: Is that a yes?
Artemis: It most definitely isn’t. I think you need at least two years. 
The Fowl: In two years I will be 24 in human years. That’s when I thought we’d be ready to date again back when I was 20 in human years.
Artemis: That’s right.
The Fowl: Wow, that’s exciting! I wonder who if will be!
Artemis: I think you already know.
The Fowl: Shiva?
Artemis: Yeah. Probably. Most likely. Who else would you commit to lol?
The Fowl: Well you never know....
Artemis: I think we both know that I do. 
The Fowl: *Blushes*
I’ll be turning 25 by then. That’s scary.
Artemis: Lol you still think “ages” are “old”
The Fowl: 
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herelaymythoughts · 1 year
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The first year was definitely the hardest. We couldn’t see each other because of the pandemic, and not being in his presence gave me a lot of insecurities that dissolved as soon as I saw him for the second time on his first visit to Vancouver. I always doubted his love, and he really gave me every reason to, but also every reason not to. I doubted it because he had major communication issues; he would take hours to reply to my texts, would rarely pick up my calls, and when he was busy would go days without having time to call me. But in retrospect he gave me a lot of his time, which was his most valuable resource, and spent hours listening to me ramble about issues I was having with the other men in my life without an ounce of jealousy, blame, or annoyance. 
Many things were different from the second time I saw him compared to the first. The sex was probably the most noticeable. He hadn’t seen anyone since we’d last seen each other a year ago, which I only found out when he came to visit. He claimed that it wasn’t because he was holding out for me but because of practical reasons of living with his parents during the pandemic and having low testosterone due to his unhealthy living habits. The sex we had in L.A. changed sex for me forever. He introduced to me a completely new way to orgasm. We fucked for what felt like hours in the August heat of Southern California to the hum of an ancient air conditioner, to old school Kanye, to jazz, to the contrived homeliness of an airbnb. His dick split me in half and my pussy felt tender, stretched and raw. He just kept going. If my parents were even an ounce more loving than they were I would’ve told him to stop or at least to slow down but the person who gave birth to me’s narcissism bred in me a relentless desire and spirit to please and to never give up pleasing. 
He wasn’t very good at dirty talking, but the way he spoke to me in L.A. demonstrated familiarity with the craft, and although he didn’t have in him the depravity I was so familiar with, he still let it be known, with words, that he was indeed enjoying what I was doing to his cock. 
The sex we had in Vancouver was very different. On my end, it held more love. It was love-making. For him, it seemed more goal-oriented. He didn’t fuck me for as long, so my pussy didn’t suffer the way it did a year before. But he isn’t one to go for multiple rounds so it left me rather unsatisfied. Last year, at least, there was no way my pussy could’ve taken more. Vancouver sex felt more intimate, but because we had recorded a large portion of it, it also felt less intimate, like a third party was watching. I guess in a way there is, our future selves. The frequency at which he looked at the camera was displeasing to me. I wonder why he peeked at it so often. I myself like to pretend that the camera isn’t there. I don’t like having eye contact with myself. 
There’s never enough foreplay with him. It’s hard when I am so voracious for him and am generally O.K. with getting to the point. 
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herelaymythoughts · 1 year
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I had found myself in an American diner in the middle of Oslo peeling crawfish with a man from the north of Norway who lives on an island, population 400. Not only was I merely peeling them, I had too, without provocation, peeled a few for him.
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herelaymythoughts · 1 year
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It’s summer. You know what that means? It means that my favourite season is just around the corner. My favourite season of reflection. Things are happening for me to look back on as we speak. I’m excited. I will reap what I sow soon. 
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herelaymythoughts · 1 year
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I’d run through nearly a thousand dollars worth of RMTs, chiropractors, physiotherapists, and all they kept telling me was that there’s nothing wrong with me. 
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herelaymythoughts · 2 years
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Las Vegas is everything I despise about this world. Ostentatious displays of wealth, replicas of objects of actual substance, manufactured culture on the bastardization of actual culture. Instead of building on the land, with the land, the magnificent desert it’s in, it decided to replicate Venetian canals and Parisian architecture... To what end? How devoid of soul must a place be to completely reject all that is, to invite all that isn’t, foreign objects, all to please people, to make a profit? The metaphor extends too literally to the people there, filled with botox and silicone. The natural beauty of the desert is jaw dropping, but most who visit Vegas revel on the strip, amidst cigarette smoke and in front of digital screens, playing a rigged game to earn fake survival tokens. My father always told me that you only cannot accept in others what you cannot accept in yourself. I always held that I despise ingenuity because I value authenticity, but because of what he says I always check myself. Perhaps I hate Las Vegas because I too desperately try to be something that I am not. Perhaps if I accepted myself for all that I am, that I too would be able to accept Las Vegas for what it is, even if what it is a denial of itself. Perhaps Las Vegas had to do what it had to do to survive in the desert. Out in the middle of a barren desert, it created an international tourist destination that brings in revenue for its land and its people. So what if it’s all superficial? Perhaps my distaste for Las Vegas and “fake” people in general simply stems for a deeper distaste for myself, for the way I try to appear to come from money, be of upper class. 
I’lll admit that I’m fake as fuck. Practicing ways to introduce myself to appear a certain way, putting on various amounts of makeup to appear certain ways to certain people, adjusting my behaviour to appear a certain way. But perhaps that I understand that I ought be fit for all occasions is my nobility. That I understand what different social situations call for and can differentiate between them and adjust my behaviour and appearance accordingly is not fake, it’s versatility. I’m not putting on a show or being deceptive when I first meet people, it is merely a showcase of the shinier parts of myself. That is still myself, full and raw, like seeing the side of a sphere where light hits. It’s not an act, it’s not superficial, it’s merely unnecessary to show everyone every side of one self upon first meeting them. 
I am authentic, for I deliberately try to show the less than shiny parts of myself, and that requires a lot of bravery and acceptance of oneself. All of life is but a contradiction. The same way there exists no right or wrong, there also exists no real or fake. 
“Everyone has a role to play in the theatre that is life.”
If I stopped asking myself, what would Blair Waldorf do? What would insert rich girl on instagram do, and simply asked myself, what would the best version of myself do? What would 8-year-old-me do? What would 80-year-old-me do? 80% of the time, the answer to all those questions would be: having a good time doing something else. 
I recently came back from a trip in Vegas to attend Electric Daisy Carnival, a three day electronic music festival, one of the biggest in the world. The trip was funded by a a brigade of Chinese gangsters. They put me and Lize up in the Bellagio, took us to the festival in a party bus that costed more money than my rent anywhere I’d lived, each way, for two days, bought tables at pool tables. 
The first party we went to was at Encore Beach club. Ironic, I thought, because Las Vegas is in a desert. The people there were so perfectly... middle class. They enjoyed generic club music that pumped out of loudspeakers, the illusion of wealth and power golden bottles of champagne and centre-stage tables exemplified. We started out at a table in the corner, but then moved to a table in the centre of the club. The head girl of the group later told us that she upgraded us because she was, “feeling a little poor”, at the corner table. I guess she needed to be in the middle to feel... herself. 
My conservative estimate is that 85% of the people at that club were NPCs. Walking to and from the bathroom, I was being eyed down by various men, who stared at me the way I too stare at men I want to fuck. Human being really evolved way too fast. How is it that we’ve deluded ourselves into thinking that we are intelligent when all we do is run around in circles to trying to maximize our mating potential? 
Cambridge was such a stark contrast to Las Vegas. People wore plaid wool coats and baggy denim and collegiate hoodies, clothing of actual substance, rather than cheaply made sparkly rayon that wouldn’t last ten minutes in a delicates cycle. 
What is this obsession of mine with ivy league colleges and final clubs and secret societies and country clubs and class? Truly, what is with my obsession with this? That isn’t me, why do I want to be it so badly? Insecurity, without a doubt, but why this brand? Why is it expressed through this? 
All this negative energy inside me, why? I ought occupy my time otherwise. Yesterday was my birthday and I am such a silly girl. 
I love Joshua Benjamin not because he is in a final club. I love him because he is the most considerate, intelligent, conscious individual I know. He is not great because he is in a final club, his greatness is independent of anything that he could ever be associated with– college, company, job title, degree. I would follow him to the end of the world without a single penny in our pockets. I really would. At the end of the day, finding a partner really boils down to whether or not they are nice to you. And Josh is so nice to me. 
My dad called me a few days before my birthday and asked how I would be celebrating and I said I that I hadn’t planned anything. He told me that I’m finally starting to, 活明白了, which roughly translates to understanding life. Josh called me on my birthday and asked me how I’m celebrating and I told him that I didn’t plan anything and he said that that’s the best way to do it. I told him what my father had said to me and he said that one more similarity and he would just become my father and we could only be emotionally intimate.
Late fall 2021
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