Why is it freezing rain? I was thinking earlier this week that if spring came early, I’d be less of a fuck up. Because I rationalize my shitty behaviour by telling myself, “It’s cold outside.”

It looks like I’m so stable. People keep telling me how “stable” I am. How I “have everything figured out” (i.e. I have a Toronto apartment, I’m at a prestigious law school, I have a loving partner and a fucking cute chihuahua-pug mix named Dexter). 

But I’m so, so far from stable. My mental health is a total crapshoot. I can’t sleep. I’ve been doubling my meds. 

I’m miserable. I’m so miserable. Why the fuck am I so miserable?

Spring will fix this, right? Or maybe Etta James will. I’ll keep listening to Etta James.

„Wir sind für kurze Zeit hier eingefädelt…

Und dann verlieren wir unsere Faden wieder.“

Have a nice weekend!

Sorority Girls getting fucked up in molly @ hotel pt 1

i hate this shit called life

argumate:

transgenderer:

transgenderer:

its so weird that the vagina often tears during birth. like, i know our hips cant be much wider because it would mess up running but surely the fleshy part of the hole could be bigger

argumate said: you know about hyenas right

apparently the hyena girldick makes it harder for male hyenas to force themselves on female hyenas, so it makes evolutionary sense by giving female hyenas more control over reproduction, but its still kind of crazy, because like

Nearly all female spotted hyena’s first-born cubs are stillborn, as the placenta is not long enough for the extended penile birth canal. In addition, the first birthing process is time-consuming, as it requires the meatus of the pseudo-penis to tear, allowing the fetus to pass through; as a result, the first-born often die of anoxia.

what the fuck??? how did this trait stick around

sounds like some fucked up furry sex fiction bullshit but no, evolution is just like that.

Daily reminder that evolution is blind, stupid, and insane, that it has no concept of true purpose or proper function or rules or ethics, and that it accomplishes everything by sheer trial and error filtered through a dozen layers of indirection

Guys it’s not looking good for the Americans Rn

*doesn’t understand the American election system at all*

taking drugs to make me sleep after taking drugs to make me awake

health: …

broken-depressed-hearts:

Part 2

Reaction Junkie started in on my beaten and already beginning to bruise thigh. He brought his open hand down on the spot, slapping hard, and mixing in punches that made me groan and gasp. Then he began throwing elbows again, his weight slamming into me behind the elbow. With the rope now gone, I had to exert more control over my body to fight the urge to struggle. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to change what was happening, and the attempt to get away or stop him would only result in my situation getting worse. As he hit me deep and hard, I wanted to safeword, at least to say “yellow” to make the pain lessen or maybe move to a different part of my body. But at the same time, I was hesitant to test him. There was the chance that he would ignore my “yellow” again, or even ignore a “red.” To be completely honest, I can’t say which outcome would have upset me more – if he had ignored them, or if he hadn’t.

Before I could put that to the test, the pain from the impacts and the racing thoughts about safewords and not being able to stop him and the fear all became too much and I began crying. Reaction Junkie continued hurting me as the tears started to fall. I tried to stop being a little bitch, but wasn’t able to stop crying. Rather than risk breaking his favorite toy with too much intensity, Reaction Junkie decided to stop beating my thigh. He lay next to me, arms around me, and held me. This break from the physical abuse didn’t mean I was free to relax, however, and Reaction Junkie began to talk.

He told me he was going to take a melonballer to my eyes to blind me. Then he would put drops of molten lead in my ears. Not enough to damage my brain, mind. Just enough to destroy my eardrums, making me deaf. Next, my tongue would be cut out and all of my teeth pulled. After he removed my septum, he would burn every inch of my skin, except maybe my tits. When I went to say something about dying, he stopped me and informed me that he would do all this with me sedated and give me painkillers during all of it. The different mutilations would be performed over the course of a few years, giving me time to heal in between. Reaction Junkie promised that I wouldn’t die from shock, adding, “You can’t get away from me that easily.”

He continued, saying that after he’d done all that, mutilated me and destroyed my body, after that was all done, one day he would gently lead me to the car. He would drive me out to the woods, carefully take me out of the car, and then just drive away. I wouldn’t have any idea where I was or what had happened. He might even do it somewhere where if I got lucky and went in the right direction, I could have a chance to wander into civilization. If I did, someone would find me and take me to the hospital. People will try to figure out some way to communicate with me, but it’s going to be difficult, what with me being blind, deaf, mute, and without fingers. Because of course, he’ll remove my fingers before he lets me go. Scientists will want to study me, trying to figure out how I could have survived the trauma. They’ll assume I was in some kind of horrible car wreck. Who could even begin to fathom that someone might inflict such damage on another person?

I was done crying well before he was finished speaking. At the beginning of the story, I’d been amused by the seemingly over-the-top threats, but as he continued describing the mutilation that would be coming my way, amusement turned to some kind of fucked up enjoyment. It wasn’t arousal, exactly, but I got into the narrative and felt strangely comforted. The level of dedication that it would require to keep me like that made me feel wanted and valuable. A favorite toy. A well used, beaten up, and almost entirely broken toy. But a favorite nonetheless.

Reaction Junkie saw that I had recovered from the beating. He asked me, “Do you know what’s going to happen now?” “No,” I responded with some trepidation. Leaning in closer, Reaction Junkie said, “I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to hurt you until you yellow. And then I’m going to keep hurting you. You’ll probably try to say red, but I’m not going to stop. I’m not going to stop until I feel like it.” As he spoke, I thought about how it felt when he was slamming his elbow into me, about taking more of that, about it not stopping until he decided it should end. Ignoring my “yellow” earlier in the scene had made it clear that I was in a position of powerlessness. It drove home my utter lack of control of my situation. “Red” wouldn’t work, “safeword” wouldn’t work. Nothing would work. I curled into myself and started sobbing uncontrollably.

After making me cry with his words, Reaction Junkie cuddled me close again. He whispered into my ear that there was a DM standing right over us. I don’t like the idea of someone getting the impression that I’m not okay with what’s being done to me (I know, I know. Maybe not the most rational thing in these circumstances, just from crying after being beaten.), so I turned my head and kissed Reaction Junkie. I later found out that the DM had been there for a while and had heard Reaction Junkie talk to me about ignoring my safewords. Thinking about that fact makes me shudder. Of course no one would interfere. He’s my owner and I’m his property. What he does with me is no one else’s business.

Reaction Junkie comforted me and then began beating me again. I begged him not to hit that thigh any more, and he kindly agreed. Just as he was starting to hit me in the tits, a DM came over to us and let us know that time was up. Reaction Junkie had been abusing me for too long. Or, from my perspective, not long enough.

womynrespecter:

littlefeministbitch:

I now have a fantasy that is all but guaranteed to give me a strong, high quality orgasm. Of course, it’s fucked up, and I’m a dumb cunt for wanting it to come true.

The idea of a man or, preferably, men, beating me, tossing me around, raping me, and then cumming in me while I beg them not to has been getting me off like crazy. I want them to fuck my cunt, no condom, not caring that I’m not on birth control. To slap me around and choke me. To tell me they don’t care about my begging, that what I want doesn’t matter. That they know my preferences, listened to me talk about them, understand them, and are now just fucking ignoring them.

I want them to laugh at my tears, my attempts to bargain, and especially at my shouts of “Red!”, as if they give a fuck about my little safeword. I want to hear them talk to me about filling my cunt with their cum, about how they’re going to use me over the next 48 hours, and tell me that if I’m good, maybe they’ll let me have EC. Maybe.

I want to be forced to cum as they pound my unprotected hole, to hear them laugh and tell me how pathetic I am for getting off on being violated so intimately, on being marked like this, on having every part of me taken away from my control and used for their pleasure. I want them to force me to look into their eyes as they empty themselves into me.

I want it all recorded on video. I want them to use my hole again while they make me watch my face as I stop fighting back physically within the first few minutes, realizing how futile that is. Then to see myself just give up, see the fight go out of my eyes. To see where I accept that this is going to happen and simply sob quietly as I’m used like the cumrag I am.

And then, maybe not the first time, maybe not the second time, but eventually, I’ll stop resisting. I’ll even stop accepting. I’ll start craving it, start asking for it. I’ll beg them to fill me, leave me with cum dripping down my leg. I’ll fuck them back, moaning as I think about the risk and imagine the shame of getting pregnant from this, shuddering as I think about how I’m just a cumdump, a set of holes for them to use. They don’t give a fuck what I want. I couldn’t stop them, even if I tried. This was going to happen from the moment they decided they wanted to do it.

When they finally decide they’re done with me, I imagine them buying EC and taunting me with it. Making me humiliate and degrade myself further, desperately trying to earn it from them. When they finally give me the pills, it will be far too late to be anywhere near as effective as I need them to be. Then, to drive home the extreme violation and the ownership that they, not I, have over my body, when I find myself pregnant, they’ll force me to get an abortion.

Maybe they’ll accompany me to the clinic, and whisper in my ear in the waiting room. Other people will think they’re being reassuring, but they’ll actually be telling me how I asked for this, how I’m a stupid cunt for being in this situation. They’ll be describing what they did to me, making me relive it. And they’ll know how wet I’m getting, imagining what happened that led me to be sitting there, waiting to be called in.

Or maybe they’ll be even more cruel. Organize a protest on the day of my appointment, forcing me to walk past angry, shouting people who call me a murderer and a whore. I’ll have to sit in the clinic with other upset women, and I’ll know it’s my fault that those protesters are out there.

Of course, they aren’t monsters. They’ll be there to take me home afterwards. And then they’ll do it all over again.

Personally, I like the idea of giving her fake EC. That way she figures it’s not an issue any more, and then a few weeks later discovers her period’s late.

That’s horrific, sadistic, cruel, and incredibly fucked up. I love it!

 Part 1

Reaction Junkie leaned in close, his mouth against my ear, and started speaking in a low voice. He told me that over time, he will make me increasingly dependent on him. He will become the person I rely on for support. My social life will go through him. Our finances will be entangled, with him as the only one able to access the money. I’ll be living in his house. As he painted this picture, I realized how close this was to our actual situation. I spend a lot of time with him, the group of friends I have now mostly grew out of knowing him, and we’re planning to move in together once he buys a house. The future he was describing sounded extreme, perhaps, but not entirely unrealistic. It also wasn’t all that upsetting.

Then he continued. He told me that, after making me entirely dependent on him, emotionally, socially, physically, and financially, he will slowly withdraw from me. At first, he will just seem more distracted than usual when we’re together or having a conversation. Then he’ll start focusing more of his time and attention on other people, other partners. He’ll make time for them, but not for me. Initially, I’ll try to write it off, tell myself that I’m being irrational. I’ll think, “I must be imagining things. He wouldn’t just do that.” I’ll tell myself that, but his fade out will continue. And I’ll continue trying to pretend that it isn’t.

First, a text I send won’t get a response. I’ll try to ignore it, to counter that negative self-talk about him drifting away. Then, a whole weekend will go by without response. Even though we planned to spend time together. With this I’ll be so hurt that I’ll finally say something to him about it. He’ll apologize so profusely and sincerely, so genuinely, that I’ll believe him. But it will keep happening. He’ll keep fading out, giving me less and less, and I’ll keep trying to write it off, calling him out, and buying his apologies.

As Reaction Junkie spoke, telling me about my future, I started settling into a headspace where I opened myself up to what he was saying. I was ready to believe it, to accept what he was telling me as a real prediction of the path our relationship might take. I drew on memories of how it felt when people from my past faded out. That cold and lonely feeling in my chest, the hopelessness, that weird numbness in my fingertips I get during a really emotional cry, the desperate attempts to reconnect, to figure out what I did wrong, to bring them back to me.

I dredged up those feelings and linked them with Reaction Junkie’s words. It wasn’t hard. His description of slowly withdrawing and distancing himself hit home, and hit home hard. That’s a very real fear of mine. It’s happened in my relationships before, and I’ve been on both sides of it, really. You second-guess yourself, wondering if you’re just imagining it, just being irrational. You try to counter that negative self-talk, even while knowing deep down that it isn’t just your imagination, that it really is happening. The worst part is, you want to point out to the person that it’s happening, want to ask them about it, but you’re afraid of pushing them away. So you just sit and worry and wait, trying to hold the hurt in and ignore it. But you can’t. And it eats you up.

So, I opened myself up to what Reaction Junkie was saying, letting his words sink in and feel real. He told me that the slow withdrawal of attention, time, and affection will continue,getting worse and worse until, one day, he’ll be gone. I’ll frantically call him, email him, text him, anything to try to contact him. Finally, he’ll respond that he’s gone. He caught a cheap flight to start his round the the world trip. I’ll be stunned that he didn’t even bother to say goodbye or let me know what was going on, but I’m so far in by this point that I’ll just write it off again.

Reaction Junkie told me that as he travels, he be in contact less and less often. He said that he won’t respond because he’ll be busy “fucking some Polynesian chick.” In fact, he won’t even be able to be in contact because he’ll be somewhere without Internet access. It won’t matter to him because he won’t be prioritizing talking to me. He told me that “[his] blog will be less and less about [him and me] and more and more about the fun [he’s] having with other people.” I’ll feel rejected and abandoned and ignored. I’ll be incredibly hurt. And there won’t be a thing I can do about it. Hearing Reaction Junkie talk about fading away from me during his travels hit another real fear, and I curled up against him as he spoke, shaking a little.

He continued talking. By this point, I’ll be entirely dependent on him, including financially dependent. I’ll focus in on this, trying to take solace in the fact that he’s still taking care of me. Then, one day, something will slip. Maybe a mortgage payment, maybe a car payment. Something serious. I’ll send him a bunch of increasingly panicked emails and texts. When he finally responds, he’ll say, “I’ll take care of it, babe. Why are you getting so upset? Don’t you trust me?” What will I even be able to say to that? I won’t have a choice but to trust him. I’ll go on this way for a while, part of me telling me that it isn’t right, that I should get out, but by then I won’t be able to. As Reaction Junkie told me, “I’ll be your entire support system.” He’ll have isolated me from my friends and family. There won’t be anyone to turn to. I won’t have anyone else except him.

Reaction Junkie predicted that as more payments get missed, as he contacts me less and less, I’ll start going down hill. My physical and mental health will deteriorate. I’ll constantly worry about becoming destitute. I’ll lose my job, not that it will matter, since all of my paychecks will be going straight to his account. Eventually, once I’m as low as I think I can get, he’ll prove me wrong. He’ll send me a two word message, “We’re done.”

I gasped in dismay when he told me that, and Reaction Junkie held me tighter and continued whispering my future into my ear. When I receive that message, I’ll finally lose myself to panic. I won’t have anyone to ask for help or any way to get money. Finally, it will all be too much and I’ll kill myself. But not before writing a long, raging suicide note, blaming him for everything, cursing his name. Not content to tell me that I’ll commit suicide, Reaction Junkie added insult to injury “I won’t read it. Someone will probably send it to me, but I’ll see who it’s from and throw it in the trash.” He just won’t care. He’ll go on with his life. As told me, “You’ll be dead and I’ll be happy.”

Let’s play a game. I wish I could reward all those that were correct. Without the reading there can anyone guess how many grams? . Just picked it up for me and this hot ass Latino guy

Not even my “boyfriend” talks to me. Hahahaha.

fuckinghatemyself

New Year

Happy New Year to all of those horny people out there. You should make a New Years resolution to love out your fantasies.

I’m intrigued as to how fucked up some of yours would be…