Now we are in the window between late night and early morning when the air takes on an eerie quality, which to my sleep-deprived mind feels meaningful. On the bathroom floor next to a roll of toilet paper and a book about writing are the stems of those grapes from earlier. I peek into Lin’s shower, which holds five thick bars of Dr. Bronner’s soap and nothing else.
Lin has twisted a blanket like a snake and wrapped it around his head. He is telling me about a time he and his girlfriend took too much heroin and then lost each other in public. “I saw her randomly, outside of like CVS or Duane Reade. She had bought shampoo and seemed confused, throwing the shampoo as she walked away.” Lin talks about other times on the drug, being in line at the post office and ‘”nodding out,” vomiting in trash cans, going to restaurants then asking for the meal to be boxed up instead, throwing it away outside, puking. A moment later, talking about Adderall, Lin tells me he doesn’t view himself as addicted because he has no measurable definition for “addicted.”
The light in Lin’s room is pinkish; outside birds begin to chirp but the curtains are still drawn. Lin says he used to believe that nothing happens when you die, but now thinks there might be other possibilities, like you could be isolated somewhere. (A line from Taipei: “Death would seal them into their own private afterlives.”) When my alarm goes off — 8 a.m. — it scares us.
Excerpt from my profile on Tao Lin. Read at NYMag.com
“I’m shocked that it’s all like, sorority girls in the audience,” she shouts over the music.
I look at the candlelit women with long brown hair, and am surprised at the number of bachelorette parties. One table have fairy penis wands, they wave and bop one and other on the head with them.
The show is impressive. There are women expertly hanging from aerial scarves, peeling out of rhinestone mesh, from behind opulent feathers. On stage, a performer grabs a pile of money and rubs it over her body, bills with their faces of old presidents and all-seeing eye pyramids, mouth open in ecstasy. She twirls a five dollar bill a into a rosebud, and with the kick of a heel, slips it in her g-string, it’s a beautiful image, really: Money raining all around her, money growing from her ass.
“When did this start happening, do you think?” Nichole asks.
“Neo-burlesque?” I say, sipping a Basil Haydens, neat.
“I mean,” she says, “Women objectifying other women…”
“I guess… porn wars. I think it happened when feminism split into pro- and anti-porn,” I say, evenly.
“From a feminist perspective, yeah it’s reclaiming,” says Nichole. “But I am curious, what about it from a Marxist perspective?”
“It’s…just another industry, I guess.”
Nichole nods, and we go tip the woman on stage.
I stuff bills into her lacey rosette bra, and let my hand slide along her torso, which is brown and oiled with glitter. I wonder, as I am doing it, if this is fucked up.
Excerpt from new Thought Catalog piece about having sex on omegle, porn, subversion and dominance. Read here.
I am at a sports bar waiting for “Skinny Mini Speed Dating” to start. I am here “undercover” as a journalist and should be mingling with the men who are here to meet “women under size 8 only,” but instead I am staring, sort of detachedly, at sports on TV; men are jumping together in a huddle which must create friction, I think, the spandex rubbing together.
I scan the crowd of speed daters but instinctively look down at my phone whenever one of them makes eye contact.
“Oh my god,” the woman running the event says to me — who, maybe it should be noted, is not a size small or whatever – “I almost forgot! I have to put your size on your nametags. What size do you wear?”
I tell her, nervously, that I am a four or sometimes a six and sometimes a two, although that’s in, like, really stretchy things.
She stops each of the women at the bar and does this, putting a number on their chests with red sharpie.
Read at Thought Catalog
i am a shit writer. i am maggots sucking at shit, my body trudging through shit, wet tile grout of a bar bathroom, a sprig of onion in my armpit, shitting back out the shit, only to just ingest it again. i am a shit writer.
As I age, an avoidance of it
I’m interested in transitioning to male, but to say so is flippant
You are not a real New Yorker until youve menstruated through your leggings.
You are not a Real Woman until youve washed the insides of a chicken.
Turns ons include: watching
you roll a cigarette,
tonguing the paper,
the drippy moss smell of the subway,
news stories about rape,
stories about child rape.
“come home, I miss you feel depressed and I am bored.”
What is the string along which everything is running?
I suffer from extreme mood swings; I was born in the sea.
not categorized to each other as daughter,wife, slut,
but bound by these.
withhold life; death.
“cell phone app to align your chakras”
Commune digitally with the earth dead
I felt a great moment of calm, alone in the bathroom.
my cat has ever-changing rules around touching his butt;
which are complicated
i want to lay in the street
and see who comes to fuck me
my husband mindlessly lectures me about our ‘bad’ cat.
How next time he will choose a
pet based on temperament not looks;
identified with cat
because im a slut just doesnt mean im easy
Just found an abandoned dreamlog I made in January with three entries. I like this one from 1.19.13:
Had a dream in which meteor, it was announced, was going to hit earth. My husband was a ‘non-believer,’ which seemed to an unpopular way to believe. I avoided picking sides, unsure of what I thought.
The day the meteor was to hit, I went to a spa for a facial. In the streets people were drinking and partying. Someone called me and told me that my ex-boyfriend who died a few years ago wasn’t dead anymore, and he was out drinking too.
I went inside a yellow house, the ‘spa’, and after talking with people went to the ‘spa area’ which was a pond in the backyard, surrounded by grass. I lay my face on the ground near the water and then it happened.
The sky rolled into a marbled black explosion that mirrored itself back in the pond. I felt it in my stomach, sucked into the explosion from my insides. And then a million black balloons rose up to the sky, and I felt at peace.
And then I was in the afterlife, which had receptionists to help you sort things out who also seemed to be the office workers from my highschool. I was trying to not cry, I kept saying “I didn’t think there was an afterlife.”
I sat at a computer trying to figure out what I needed to do. A faceless person, who it seems I went to highschool with, explained that if you pulled up my name in the afterlife database it said I was married to my ex-boyfriend, the one who had died before, not my husband. But I was trying to find my husband, and this confused me.
I walked through the crowd and then saw him, I realized I arrived before my husband had. We hugged, excited. I explained to him the things I’d already learned about the afterlife. Mainly that the point of being here was to exist for pleasure. That you could work here if you wanted to, but to do so is different. Your drive to do so is different.