A Tainted Tale of Hyperconscious Fallacy

To anyone who happens upon this entry: I’m going to be writing some gratuitous thoughts of mine that I would never share with anyone face to face. This is your warning. If you don’t know what hentai is, then you probably shouldn’t read this. This blog is rated R anyway. Can’t handle it? Get out.

As I was taking out the garbage this evening, I was feeling extremely vulnerable. This is not normal for me. I had been slightly daydreaming about the short-lived months that I lived about 90% alone and didn’t have to deal with anyone else’s presence or mouth but my own. However, as I saw a man on the other side of the street through the clouded dusk of the impending night, I began to feel uneasy. I knew nothing would happen to me and that he had no dealings with me, but I wanted to get back inside the apartment as soon as possible. Maybe this uneasiness spawned from feeling particularly attractive tonight, though I knew I looked like a mess all day long, working from my hole in the wall at home. Either way, I quickened my pace and went back inside.

With the weather cooling quickly, I decided to put away my fan that takes up space in my already cramped walkway. As I carried it down into the basement, my thoughts began to wander yet again. I was in the apartment alone, heading into a basement I had used for over a decade, but I wanted something to happen. Something out of the ordinary. Something that would tell me who I was and affirm that notion repeatedly. I wasn’t afraid; I have had these thoughts before.

These thoughts of wanting to be molested.



And then left alive to think on the trauma that I had encountered with a monster whose existence was a mistake. That figment of my own jaded, corrupted mind caused by my own action to believe. To desire. To lust. To be shown that I could be…simply pleasured just because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I know this is no joke. I know there are those who have never been able to love again because they have been stripped of their sanctity. Is it right to want to be fucked so much that you can’t move for hours by a sex fiend? To be reaffirmed of your sexuality and tastes and fetishes all in one foul swoop?

It can’t be right…but I hate being torn like this. I die to myself, only to be reminded by something that doesn’t even exist, nor ever will. Is it right? According to my beliefs, no. Not in the slightest. I just want to know who I was meant to be. I can write stories, make pretty pictures, be witty, and be brash. Still…that doesn’t cement my being. If it did, I wouldn’t have this circular conversation with myself every few months when I kill the question.

…I want to ask my mother if I am what she wanted.


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