natural-and-just

[natural-and-just]

@academia-lucifer

[natural-and-just]

People have carved their names on it.

They all complain about having to fuck with the lights off so they don’t have to look at our mature faces so they can actually cum, thinking about an 18 year old cheerleader with no pubes and a cherubic, round, pump face with zero lines. A face that doesn’t sag like their fucking nutsack is starting to.

I hate porn. I hate that I read porn about very young girls calling men twice their age daddy and wishing they actually meant it as a relation, not just as a role. I hate that I wake up in the morning and masturbate. I hate that feeling of when I’ve come and now I’m just a sad body, languishing in its own stale sweat, musty sheets sticking to it legs and a small puddle of slick sitting in its ass crack. Taking the covers off and the fresh air making everything clammy. Walking around my room, all soggy between my legs, my eyes unable to focus on things more than a few inches in front of me cuz that’s where phone’s been for the last two hours while I rolled around in my own filth.

I’m addicted to the internet. I really am. I scroll through Youtube shorts for fucking hours everyday, and I haven’t absorbed one useful thing into my head. It’s all fucking pure unadulterated toxic waste, and I don’t enjoy one fucking second. The purest form of waste. I mean, there is hardly another activity on this planet that has precisely zero nutrition value, mentally speaking. Picking my nose and staring at my wall would be more productive. At least I wouldn’t feel so much like my brain is actively dribbling out my nose.

The shame of not being able to focus on distant things hurts. In those moments I feel like I am the embodiment of those future flics, where you can’t move for advertisements, where when it rains the puddles are always rainbow with oil, the shops are all cosmetic, the restaurants all sad processed burgers and gallon milkshakes. Porn takes place in public, and 12 year olds don’t bat an eye. There isn’t a green thing for miles. No breeze because the buildings are packed so tight.

I snapped a rubber band on my wrist a couple times and the skin there is pink and raised. I like it. I don’t want it to fade.

Fuck math. Fuck my professors. Fuck this fucking university. Fuck this useless fucking major. I’m tired of always taking responsibility for my actions. Yeah yeah I haven’t been trying, I haven’t been absorbing what dad’s writing down, I just copy it and turn it in. Why the fuck should I feel bad for that? Math has beaten me to a pulp. Done nothing but suck the joy out of shit. There’s no break. No ebb and flow to the week. It’s a cycle with no valleys, no rest. I turn in one homework after struggling all week, and then the next one comes, and I can’t rest because I need every day of the week to think about every problem. Nothing comes easy. There are no freebies. There’s never a fucking freebie. Why do I have to work so hard? Why do I have to suffer [REDACTED]’s surprised look when the professor said the last test took five hours for some people? What does the dude sitting in front of me think he’s contributing by saying that he didn’t feel like the last test was that hard, when I just said I found it quite difficult? Does he think he’s going to convince me of something? Does he think I’ll go, ‘Oh my gosh you are so right, I didn’t actually need to spend 5 hours on the last test, I realize now I could have done it in 2 like you, you smarty pants, you little genius in the making, you. Gosh I have been enlightened, thanks so much.’

That kind of person is fucking insufferable.

WHY IS THERE ALWAYS FUCKING HAIR EVERYWHERE?? FUCK

I resent having to be here. I resent the fact that I still have to take this test. I resent the expectation that I’ll buck up and buckle down. I resent the fact that I’ll be expected to act contrite, like I mournful puppy who looks guilty over his shredded toilet paper roll. I resent that the fact that this part of me thinks I should feel sorry, that I should repent, simper and bow down like I’m less than her. Fuck her for feeling ashamed that I rebelled. Fuck her for feeling ashamed of me. Fuck her for telling me I’m being a child. Fuck her for looking down on me like what I have to say is only the incoherent, resentful, entitled wailings of a 6 year old in time out, not someone worth listening to. Not someone whose feelings are valid. Not someone who should be heard and respected. Not someone in genuine pain, only the kind that stems from being unbalanced, spoiled. Who cares what a child is feeling if it’s for the wrong reasons?

Fuck sage advice. Fuck sanity. Fuck being responsible. Fuck being an adult. Fuck temperance. Fuck patience. Fuck maturity. Fuck endurance. Fuck nobility in suffering.

I want to hurt someone.

I feel like the water spirit in Spirited Away. I need my plug pulled. And it won’t come out. It won’t fucking come out. Why won’t it fucking come out?

#venting #journal entry #journal #journaling #my writing #anger #school #university #college #porn #addiction #porn addiction

[natural-and-just]

Scene

“You’re a spitting, hissing cat, Anne, and I keep—” his voice caught, “—and I keep holding out my hand, palm up, hoping you might settle for just a moment and come to inspect it. Come let me stroke you,” he finished, barely a whisper.

Anne stared at him, feeling faint. She felt blindly for the footstool and sank down, the rustle of her skirts sounding like a thunderstorm to her ears.

I shouldn’t have sat on the footstool.

He overwhelmed her from down there, and she couldn’t bare him gazing at her in that way—Anne felt naked under Kelsey’s personal sun, her most private needs displayed for him while he looked, and looked, and looked some more, savoring them tenderly, mercilessly.

Bowing her head and pressing the heals of her palms to her eyes, Anne made an involuntary, gasping sort of noise. Kelsey knelt down, crowding her, bracketing Anne’s ankles with his thighs, gripping her soft upper arms, ducking his face to try to see hers as she shuddered and sobbed.

“Anne,” He said urgently, but she only shook her head, shoulders bunching up to her ears.

“Anne, I want— please, trust me. I’m unarmed.” Near pleading, he tugged with some of his old petulance gently at her wrists, pressed his forehead to her temple, breathing her in desperately and moving to grasp fistfuls of her skirts in both hands.

“If you won’t look at me then listen to these words,” he said, and now there was that hint of iron in his voice that made Anne feel as though something in her stomach were unraveling. Brushing his lips to the shell of her ear, he said,

“I will keep you, Anne. And I think you know in what manner I aim to keep you. We understand each other well enough for that. You’re a smart girl—a girl with needs I want to fulfill, if you’ll let me,”

A pause, during which the only things in Anne’s world were the warm cotton smell of him, the scent of the rain married lovingly with the scent of his skin, so indecently precious to her. He stroked the hair at her nape with his fingertips,

“Or does it even make sense for a girl like you to let a man like me do anything, hmm?”

Anne twisted the front of his shirt in her small fists, weeping silently into his shoulder while he took her apart.

“A bit like a lamb laying down the law for the lion. That prideful animal might humor it, let her play between his paws, swat at his ears. But they both know, don’t they, Anne? They both know who’s in charge.”

She shuddered.

“And it’s perfectly natural, that the lamb should lay down at his feet.”

At that, she felt that feeling of just having stepped off a swing, her legs feeling like a newborn foal’s and the ground refusing to stay put. She clung to Kelsey’s lapel like a lifeline.

Kelsey gripped her arms suddenly and lifted her, turning them both, and settled down once more, with him now sitting on the footstool and Anne kneeling, nestled in between his thighs and gazing up at him dazedly, tears clumping her eyelashes. The instinctive longing to nestle her face into his raised crotch was almost overwhelming.

#journal #writing #romance #unconventional romance #my writing

[natural-and-just]

Late at night

You know, I don't. I'm in limbo. Given up. Drifting in a sort of listless fog. I'd like to be done with school now. I'd like to be in London, or Ireland, or even Portland. I want change. I want to be discharged from duty, honorably or not. I want to fall in love, but at the same time that sounds profoundly exhausting. I want to go back in time to The Road Trip TM. I want to discover JE for the first time. I want sit next to Matthew while we get extra help from Ms. Gendron.

I'm tired of the story. That's something I can be grateful for. The fact that this experience has made me so tired of the non-stop stories that go on for as long as I'm awake. There is something for me, beyond the story. I can sense that.

It's funny. Take a tennis ball, and picture it bouncing off the floor and ceiling (this one is particularly bouncy). Now gradually lower the ceiling. The ball bounces more frequently, until the ceiling gets to no more than five inches off the ground and the ball is a blur. It stops when it's clamped completely.

That's the process of enlightenment through hardship. When the ceiling is up high, I'm bouncing along contentedly, only coming up against difficult thoughts once in a while, and there's plenty of space to move that isn't the floor or ceiling. The thoughts come more often as more difficulty arises, but I bounce off them and put my thoughts on another track. The lower the ceiling becomes, the more frequently I'm bouncing off scary thoughts, beginning to feel like those are the only kind to exist, becoming restless, frantic. Only when the problems are so intense, so immediate, when they have my mind clamped so that there is no where to turn, do I stop bouncing and become peaceful. I have been mated. I tip my king.

[natural-and-just]

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I met a person in the kitchenette.

Ha. Rhyming.

I'm attempting to make my situation in dorms a bit more livable. So far, I'm given back my old blue laundry basket and purchased a sturdy, tall, white basket which doesn't hurt to carry up and down the stairs with a shit ton of laundry in it. The other one kept cutting into my hands and wasn't quite big enough. (Not entirely sure if this white one has more volume, but if it's filled to the top, the surface area of laundry open to the skies and therefore likely to fall out will be lessened.

I've also purchased myself a mug from the UW bookstore with the intent to make tea. I have made tea. Mission successful. I also met a person in the kitchenette. A boy I shall name M. M said Hi, noted that he'd seen me around, and introduced himself. He's cute. I liked his voice. I feel like I embarrassed myself. Not with anything in particular, I just felt that I was awkward and he was very much not awkward, and that maybe he was thinking I was awkward not consciously but just a subconscious murmur. Like, maybe he extended the conversation beyond Hello because he thought you were attractive but then skeddadled because you were awkward. Jesussss I'm overthinking. Anyway, he's cute, and he's "seen me around." It's good that I exist for other people.

Turns out I love taking pictures with the intent to put them on my blog, so I think I'll keep that up.

That microwave is weak. I feel like a minute, thirty would be more than enough to heat up my water enough to reach fresh-cup-of-tea-standards for warmth/heat. I shall do two minutes next time.

I just came back from heating up my tea and it's now back to acceptable levels of scalding.

Although I have now just noticed that there are a couple small fissures in the glaze near where the handle meets the cup, and I'm nervous that the handle is going to break off. I hope it doesn't. I'm now done thinking about whether or not the handle will break off.

I'm slowly but surely working through all the questions I had regarding my philosophy midterm and I've turned in the weekly phil quiz. 97%. I may or may not take it again. Depends on my energy level. It's not a priority right now, since I've got other things on my mind.

I'm still a little lonely, and I'm still a little sad, but my instinct is telling me to not write about those things because ruminating will only make them worse. Maybe at a later date.

I think the next picture I will take it of that colorful tree I posted earlier. It's all bare branches now, and not nearly so cheerful. I think it will be a neat contrast. I don't want to repost/reblog any aesthetically pleasing posts to this blog because I want it to be all mine, even if that means excluding things I think are pretty because they weren't created by me. Oh, that reminds me. JBP was saying how "everyone is creative" is actually not true, and that the actual distribution of people who are actively creative follows the Pareto distribution. A very few of the people are creating most of the populations creations. In other words, when I feel like I don't actually do much, that I don't really stretch any creative muscles, or when I even feel like I wasn't born with creative muscles to stretch, that I'm not alone. That in fact most of the population isn't that creative. That it's not an unnatural thing to not be creative. He said that it actually takes an extraordinary amount of intelligence to do that sort of thing, and that people aren't that smart on average. Now, I'm not sure if I'm straying from what he actually said, but that was the general vibe I got from what he was saying.

Thank God. I'm not gimp.

Actually, from what he's been saying, I'm learning to adopt other labels. I'm conscientious. And that's a good trait even if it's not highly lauded by society. I'm kind, and I'm earnest. I'm a good student. That's what my mom said. I'm a good student of life. I want to know and understand. Those are admirable.

I feel a bit fake right now. Maybe it's the topic.

I want to get back into memorizing poems. I like memorizing poems.

I'm nervous for my ASL quiz.

-Dot

#journal #journal entry #writing #diary #diary entry #university

[natural-and-just]

Another photo I took a few weeks ago.

[natural-and-just]

11/11/21

Was my last dated post on 10/10/21? Coz that's kinda funny.

I was just reading a post on r/journaling, and here I am. I'm listening to one of my preferred youtube "soothing sounds" -- a darker version of Merry Go 'Round of Life, with a rain sounds backdrop.

I'm a bit overwhelmed lately. It's midterm season again (when is it not?) and I've got a bunch of major items on consecutive days. Yesterday was my ASL group chat recording, tomorrow is my ASL midterm, Saturday is the due date for my weekly philosophy quiz + lab as well as the philosophy midterm + labs. Sunday I take this weeks psych quiz and Monday is my psych midterm. 10/16 I register for classes. Dad wanted me to call up the math department and show my face a little -- ask what classes to take to make me an appealing candidate for being accepted into the math major. But I haven't managed it yet and right now I really don't want to. I'm tired, and I don't know what I would say, and I don't really feel comfortable going to the advising zoom hours just to say "can I speak to the manager" basically. I mean, their the people who host "advising." It's not like they're fucking mcdonald's front men.

I bought a snap-back today at the UW bookstore an I fucking love it. I'm going to wear it always. It's like another superhero cape. I like to think about myself in the cap and a hoodie with the hood pulled up and baggie pants like those creepy dudes you avoid late at night. Like, why the fuck are you just wandering around, my dude? You dealing drugs? That's the vibe I'm going for. Make me feel protected. I can slump in my seat and pull the bill down low over my face like when hot dudes come into some group meeting with a hangover. Anyway, I love my snap-back. Except I can't take it off in public because then everyone will see the red line going across my forehead. And I don't want people to see that. I'm tired. I bought a mug as well and it's a pretty shape. I have teabags and now I'm going to be all cozy with my tea in my mug with my snap-back and hoodie and notebook and nails. yeaaa.

I want to find true love, but at the same time I'm like ewwww no that's too tiring.

Okay Merry Go Round of Life is really irritating me now.

#journal #journal entry #diary #diary entry #personal #notebooks #university #school #student life #college life #be yourself #emotions #warning #superhero capes

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Photo I took my first few days on campus.

#photography #sunset #aesthetic #college #college life #university #pretty #beautiful

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She doesn’t get it right every time. I don’t like several of her books, and have DNFed a couple more, but when she writes one that I like I always reread it. Even if the characterization was perfect, if the dialogue was snappy and quick and the plot was engaging, I still might come away feeling a bit flat. I could still just give it three stars. With Penny’s books it feels like she's riffled through my heart and detected some bruised spot, inspected it, gazed at it, gently probed and pressed at it, and then concocts her antidote in the form of some one or other of her books.

In Kissing Galileo she discusses body issues, body-related imposter syndrome, and the paradox inherent in a refusal to conform to society's expectations. The whole books is a balm, but there is one of several wonderful moments that were particularly satisfying, which I would like to mention: Victor is working with his mate and catching him up on his feelings for Emily. He expresses some reluctance to fully indulge these feelings because Emily is very beautiful in a classical way. He rants about how people shouldn't be choosing their partners based on their looks, how physical beauty is utterly unimportant, etc, etc. He goes so far as to say that physically unattractive people, on average, have more going for them, and here his friend calls him on his bullshit. You can just tell he’s gone over this argument a hundred times in his head, you can feel the endless struggle to rationalize his way into what he feels is objectively on morally steadier ground. You can see that he's trying so hard to reach that higher ground because that's what's been protecting him from the more deeply cutting remarks his father dished out to him his whole childhood and early adulthood.

It felt like he was speaking for me in those moments, and I felt so fucking naked. God, I fucking adore him. Then his friend starts interrogating him, asking about his feelings for Emily, and generally trying to knock some sense into Victor. At one point Victor sort of gives up and (I always picture him closing his eyes and slumping *ever so slightly*) says on a long exhale, “She’s so fucking hot.”

Now, there is nothing remotely novel about that sentence or the sentiment. I’ve read countless, *countless* iterations that range from flowery and sentimental to way-fucking debased. And yet, those words coming from Victor Hanover’s mouth do something new to my insides. He’s so resistant to his feelings because they’re “superficial”, “shallow”, so utterly irrelevant he feels ashamed that they could exert this much power over him. On top of that, in acknowledging his baser feelings, he’s contradicting his own self defense mechanism--a lifetime of convincing himself that looks don't matter so he could protect himself from his abusive father. He can't help it though, and the fact that he finds her so attractive inside, but also (and, in this case I think more importantly) outside, that has to give up the game in his head, give up the battle to be so pure and Mother Teresa-esque, give up the preferred beliefs which have buoyed him his whole life, just to admit he finds her incredibly physically attractive is just sooo.....ugh.

Part of the... the tang, the kick which makes his ordinary words so effective stems from the contrast between that moment and Victor's general prior demeanor. I hesitate to describe him as prudish, and yet for a substantial portion of the book he does seem sexless. He’s such an innocent. (God, I need to write about his being a virgin, because holy fucking shit it's hot, but I need to stay on topic for a minute more.) He is mostly uncaring for his outward appearance, wears his old clothes from when he was really overweight and which hang off him now. He’s got a fucking pocket protector! Protect this man at all fucking cost. I would willingly throw myself into a burning building for him I swear to God, Amen.

-Dot

[natural-and-just]

"I'm never quite sure if I'm doing anything right until I'm completely done doing it wrong."

- Danny Concannon, West Wing

#quotes #quote #mood #diary #journal #diary entry #journal entry #personal #thoughts

[natural-and-just]

10/10/21

Whenever I am left alone without any kind of external stimulation, I always become anxious and/or angry.

It's Sunday, October 10th. I moved into my dorm at the [REDACTED] on the 24th of September. The second week (first full week) has just passed. I'm in college. I know I was in college last year, too, but that felt more like weird regular school. Now I'm away from home and I constantly feel like I'm in the twilight zone or something. Especially in the evening. Like I've just gotten off a swing and my calf legs are all wobbly. My stomach feels sort of floaty, but that could just be the BBQ wrap and diet coke I had for supper. I've seen J twice now. I feel so weird.

I don't have specific things to talk about, it just felt like I should let my blog know that I've moved out, now.

#moving out #college #sophomore #covid school #covid #college life #thoughts

[natural-and-just]

It feels good to attend to myself.

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You please me and you master me.

[natural-and-just]

I've been reading Anthony Lane reviews and am now suffering from Extreme Inferiority Complex Cubed

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I might edit this later so it's more coherent, but for now I just need it out there for God to see. ETA: I didn't edit it lol

I'm damn near falling asleep right now but I can't help the feeling that I need to write for a bit. I've been staring at my notes app on my computer, browsing through all my "taking control" notes, in which I make lists, resolutions, trackers, fall-back plans, routines, schedules for every minute of the day. All so that I can be told what to do. So I don't have to decide. It's right there! It says blah blah blah and I do it. I want to follow orders.

I often wonder how I could love someone if they were never vulnerable with me, if I never witnessed some measure of their pain. I get admittedly confused when Abraham says something along the lines of "Instead of your marriage vows being, 'I'll love you till death do us part, no matter what,' it'd be better if they went something like, 'I like you pretty well, let's see how it goes.'" This would of course make either of the parties free to leave if they felt like it, because according to Abraham (the way I'm phrasing this sentence makes is seem like l categorically disagree with her, but it's more complicated than that), life shouldn't be...what, grave? Full of responsibility? Something other than a fucking bouncy-castle all the fucking time? I get so angry. Lemme start a new paragraph so I can move onto the point this point was the lead up to.

I get so angry, because I don't understand--like, in a major way, seriously cannot fucking begin to comprehend--how two people can really have that deep connection I want so bad, without being somehow vulnerable in each other's company. And I don't understand how you can be vulnerable without having some insecurity or some degree of pain or shyness or some struggle you face, internally or externally. But according to A, you're not meant to focus on your vulnerabilities, or at least that shouldn't be the end goal, the place that you stay and focus on forever. Once you've successfully raised your vibration out of whatever worse emotion you've been stewing in, you should then reach for some higher goal, like peace or something I don't fucking know I'm getting really pissed okay lemme start a new paragraph.

My heart feels all tangled and raw.

I don't understand why I only want to think about us baring our pain to each other while imagining being happy together is... well it's nice, and I like to think about it sometimes, but the scenes of us baring our pain to each other are always more visceral and real, and for some reason my subconscious brings me so many more small details that are so... I feel like they could fog glass with how... FUCK. I can't. I just need permission to roll around in those scenarios. Where he's fucked up about something, sobbing uncontrollably on my shoulder. I hate myself. I want desperately to be the person someone goes to for comfort--there is an indescribably bliss in that role--but in order to want to be someone's comfort, I have to simultaneously want their sadness and anxiety. Without it, they don't need me. And now I have to come to terms with the fact that I want someone else's misery just so I can feel needed, vital, important. Confided in.

Goodnight.

- Dot

#journal #journal entry #diary #diary entry #confession #confessions #confessional #my writing #am I wrong for wanting this?