i think i should be more afraid of the strange men who watch me. most of them tend to be middle aged. when i am out buying a coffee, or walking to the library, i will often catch their gaze: a dad on vacation with his family. a man in an ironed suit. in these few seconds, i feel as though i’ve been handed a very intimate secret no one else knows. his wife could be standing right next to him, tugging on a sleeve, saying “there, there, let’s go there” and he’d still have his eyes fixed on me. vacant. bare. predator hunting prey.i should be more afraid of the strange men who watch me because i know what it means to be a young woman on the streets. even i sometimes dream about my own body being gut open, sliced cleanly into twos. how would it feel to have my organs spooned out of hollow of my stomach? for my blood to be drained, pooling in a bowl by the edge of someone’s sink. i just know that it would be rotten, and i wish i could write an apology. about how terribly inconvenient the mess afterwards would be.but then again, i go through a lot of days where i am only half-awake. this afternoon, i tried measuring the space in front of me and i could barely make it. i tilt my head towards the sky and the blue seemed so close, it felt like the world could just collapse on me - - now, and i wouldn’t even bat an eye because at this point, that seems like the trajectory of things: to know the start but never the end. existing at an eternal intersection. which way, eve? which way?today the glance from a strange man might be the first thing that made me feel alive. there is nothing like fear to make you want to live again. if you ever feel too removed from the basis of life, you should just try this:bring a nail to your throat, how deep are you willing to slice it?SEPT 14, 2025
6:09 PM
diary entry 005i had another vivid dream last night. i didn't get to write it down before i could remember what it was, but luckily the universe granted me the luck of having another one, uncomfortable and eerie, that i just woke up from.it was about me and my family. we are out in the middle of somewhere hot and arid, something like a dessert, during the evening. my mom came in a car with my siblings and me, to meet dad for something. he came in his work truck. somewhere in between, i end up peeling $20 from the sand (money people forgotten), and then i witness my mom taking my siblings and driving off. i think nothing to it because my dad can drive me. except a few moments after the sun sets, he also gets into his truck, and starts to drive off. i think he might drive towards me, but when he doesn't, i am screaming and then i realize he can't hear me. i am standing alone and i wake up in sweat and panic.i used to have these reoccuring dreams as a teenager about me and my family. ordinary events would happen but something always felt uncomfortably off. as if my entire life was happening in a large, glass bowl, where reality is stretched so thin it feels like it can break anytime. i would talk to them and they would consistently not answer me, or i would just watch them from afar and they would exist without me.nothing else is changed. our address is still the same. their faces. the voice. but it just feels like there is so much distance between them and i. and when i wake up, this ugly, ugly, depersonalization would always take over me. i would have to find my real family and i would sit next to them for a long, long time just to be pulled back into reality again.earlier today, i was trying hard to walk and i couldn't really make out the space in front of me. it's a really nice day. the sky is blue and everything is so vivid and pretty but it feels like i'm floating through a video game with high-quality graphics . . . i just kept tilting my head towards the sky waiting for it to reveal itself to me as being fake.and then i went home and the tiredness repossessed me. i'm really trying hard to stay awake because i'm afraid of going to sleep and being forced to live these distorted dreams again. i still have so much work to finish. i'm tryng to make this a better week. it's only sunday.SEPT 13, 2025
2:10 PM
diary entry 004
this morning i had a dream (more of a nightmare, really) about apologizing yet again to not responding to someone for far too long. the message i was responding to read something like this "if you're too busy to talk to me, just let me know . . . i don't expect to hear from you every hour, but i feel as though you're getting tired of me"and then i woke up, checked my phone, and sighed in relief when i realized that this situation has not manifested itself in reality -- though it will, soon, since i often fail to contribute responsibly to my end of the social contracts people form with me.this week has been horrible and i've been stuck in a bad mental stupor where the days are blending like soup and i sleep at irrelevant hours. i want the world to collapse already so the universe can split open like fresh fruit sliced in twos and i find myself in a timeline that ammends all the mistakes i have in this one.i am no longer in terrible need in always needing to be alone. my relationships with people do not go rotten like expired food. i am not tacked down by insomnia or the pervasive instance of emptiness that boils inside me. my nights are no longer scary. i can trust myself when i'm alone.
SEP 12, 2025
6:03 PM
diary entry 003one of these days i'm going to run away and i really mean it. i will take a few things with me -- one of those being a nice, pleasant husband -- the kind that animals naturally gravitate towards they warm up to me. the kind you catch boiling jasmine tea in the morning.in the last 3 days, i've been buried in my mental pits again. i'm living in my personal ring of dante’s hell, and it involves devouring at least 15,000 excess calories and feeling like a fat ass in bed, bloated to absurdity. i don't even like pizza and i will know it will make me fat and ugly . . . which means the internet will stop being nice to me. but maybe that might be for the better. sometimes it's really fucking hard to not be normal and witnessed constantly. people will be nice and sympathetic towards me (because there is always an endless supply of patience if you are pretty), but they don't ever “get it.”the truth is if i get another paragraph of “you got this!” i will literally pack another 5 lbs out of spite. when has this new age gay positivity ever worked on any addict? i mean, do you know one real alcoholic that was moved by some faggot telling him he “can do it?” of course he fucking can. addicts aren't so mentally stunted that they don’t know how to put down a drink, or snub a cigarette. but it’s essentially the same thing as pressing “i'm 18” when you're thirteen and just starting to jerk it. sometimes you just need to cum even when it means rotting your brain to do it.that isn't saying that some amount of optimism and self-imposed discipline won't fix me. i admit that a large fraction of my problems, if not all of my problems, can be erased if i just learned how to accept “no” with a good measure of maturity BUT the fact is that it's feels reviving, fun even, to keep entertaining my own mental ailments.life is so boring and no matter how much i commit to all these testaments about living balanced and zen, i just keep coming back to fapping it. frying my neuro-transmitters until i'm checked out on a friday night like an idiot. people are so mentally well-adjusted that sometimes maybe there is something that went wrong about me. i don't think i endured anything truly traumatic or hard, but i mean, there are moments of my life under close inspections that i guess, could have left some wound . but if i stall on that for too long, then i'll just become another kind of idiot, the more insufferable kind: the one that needs everyone to know about their "suffrage" so they can get a pass to acting like a narcissist.anyways, my question is -- how the fuck is everyone so mentally well adjusted anyways? i am stunned by my peers, who can have healthy lives and don't walk around entertaining any new bullshit. trust me, i've tried wearing my own version of a social chastity belt but i can't help that i always have a raging hard-on that likes to keep itself exposed to the public. look at me everyone i'm retarded. Har har har.last year my therapist suggested that i become an inhouse patient. what they mean is that i should admit myself into a mental institution. of course i refuse because even i dislike coming to my own awareness that i'm not normal. if i just keep referring to it with humor and irony, it becomes ever the more permissible. but now that i'm thinking about it, it might not be such a bad thing. at least in the ward, i can sit in a circle with a similar group of open faggots, twiddle my thumbs all stuttery and gay -- and then stand in the hall, tapping my feet to invisible music like a bafoon.i’ll even become a real sex addict, slipping into another patient’s bed midday to have audible sex on a squeaky twin-size bed mounted on wheels. close enough to a dorm if i'm unconscious already. it will be great and feral. after all, the best sex always happens when you're jobless anyways, and not afraid of looking violent and deranged.
SEP 12, 2025
diary entry 002i have a roommate who lavishes herself in expensive creams, soaps, and products. every few days, i come back to our apartment unit, and i see her wrestling with a new package, as tall as her body, unwrapping another shelf of the best luxurious goods, with all the words that would make a vegan explode with orgasmic bliss: “cruelty-free”, “organic.” this isn’t to shame her. after all, i share a similar excitement in watching her unwrap her gifts - - but it has made me think, about how unlike the two of us are.compared to her, i’ve always frugal, painfully so, to the extent that i’ve peddled between two grocery stores several times just to compare their pricing on broccoli. it took me five years to upgrade my skincare, and i am excruciatingly precise about my grocery orders, timing them perfectly to ensure that there is no excess. in fact, i even commit a bit of passive stealing sometimes: i’ll save a meal by grabbing fruit from the pantry at the queer center, or pretend to be a christian at easter dinner.e-girling though, has given me a new experience of being spoiled. last week, my amazon wishlist was cleared twice by a generous donor, who signed himself off as “simp” when my gifts delivered. for the first time, i stopped agonizing about whether it was the right time to buy new boots or concealer, even if both were rotting away, and instead, saved myself the mental agony by ordering both.it's a very liberating feeling, to regain this sense of girlishness - - where i am lavished with gifts sent from the kindness of men. it felt like christmas every day : when i arrived back to my suite, i’d comb through the pile of packages by the door, and scurry back to my room with at least one or two in my hands. granted, they were all of a similar kind (skirts, necklaces, and cute shoes) because men were far less concerned with eye-sensitive mascara than they were with how cute my ass might look in a short skirt. it’s whatever - money is money, and if it were me, it would have taken at least another year of mental battles for me to place the same item in my cart.though i have no complaints about living half my life like a greek goddess, sometimes the gifts send me a particular kind of pain. this week, a man asked me when i was going to update my wishlist, and it took me three days to do it, after several kind reminders. this was free money, i’d think to myself, and yet, i wasn’t any more concerned with it than i would be with anything else mundane. i’ll look around my room and see the unopened skirts i got last week. i still need to try them on, i’ll think.i still need to try them on.growing up, my room was plain and white and the only real thing i bought were books. i would decorate my phone with beautiful pinterest boards of lovely clothing, adorned with ribbons and bows, and convinced myself that this was it - i was going to wear this. and to some extent, i did -- i make a bigger effort towards the way i dress now, as in, i'll occasionally saunter in a skirt if it's the right weather and place. but i resort to the same rotation of clothes each week: a pair of low-rise jeans and my mom's blue sweater.i still spend my time entertaining these men for their money. i swear it’s the stupid fucking dopamine. the hit of getting them to spend a little something on me. money is such a great fucking thing because people are always talking about how hard it is to make. i remember being eight and my dad saying to me “eve, once you start making money, you’ll know why i'm like this -- why i'm not easy.”and he’s right. even though the gifts are essentially free & so are the cashapp sends i get for being passingly pretty, there’s a panic that grows inside of me if i start to think about how temporary it feels to me. the people around me are planning to work on wall street, and i am lying inside my room, listening to a man talk about how he loves jerking it to me.i want to write because it’s the only thing that feels real to me. if i can’t write or do anything real, then the next best thing would be to do something sustainable, i guess, like law or banking. so that when i am 30 and the men that proclaim their undying love to me graduate onto the next young girl -- at least i’ll have something here. a home. a husband that loves me. a daughter to call mine.but most of all i just want to make something real. something happen here. i don’t have long in my short, short life. if i am lucky, i will have something like 75 years, and i’m almost 25% the way there. i believe that the best things in life are infinite - - like art, or love that keeps you swimming up to the surface again. i constantly feel like i’m trying to search for light, and the world keeps collapsing itself on me. i end each day, tired like an old dog from all my classes & thoughts about the future that i can only fade back into sleep. only to wake up the next day to do the repeat.my pencils are untouched & the notebook is blank & tonight the moon is large and round. it stares, longingly at me.i feel as though i’ve promised it something.
SEP 11, 2025
diary entry 001every night at 2:00 a.m. i watch a man run on the streets. it has become my favorite past-time activity : as the hour nears, i'll start feeling a hot kind of frenzy, the kind that sends me wiping the kitchen counters clean and dusting the sofas in preparation of his wake. then i will dim the lights until the entire room is a pale black, and i will climb onto the end of one sofa-arm, perching behind a wall of translucent blinds i bought just because of him. and right around the hour, he will appear, with a religious consistency, jogging aimlessly under the halo of the victorian street-lamps, his silhouette moving between shadow and solid before he turns to disappear around the corner. in those few seconds, i am always enchanted. it feels like something profound has happened.last week, i was crouched behind the curtains again, my eyes studying the clock. as soon as it struck two, i heard him, the slow pace of his foot, his labored breathing marching up the hill. i watched, with the familiar excitement that always possesses me. but as he reached the midpoint between the two ends of the street, he began to do something odd. pausing as if he had been suddenly struck by some mysterious gravity, he stops under the floating ring of light. and then he turns to stare, directly at me.this almost catches me off guard if not for the fact that i had been prepared exactly for this. i mechanically flicker a wave, and lift up the ceramic mug i keep, for these rare occasions where people notice me. but instead of a reciprocal nod or a shy wave, he just continues to stare - - vacant and bare - - as if he were a predator observing its prey. and then he started off again, one foot in front of the next, before submerging back into the dark .i have stopped watching him since.
my roommate has an internship this summer at goldman sachs and i hate her for it. every evening, she listens to a new podcast - between some ceo and a young male talkshow host, both of them seated on casual armchairs, as if they could be in our living room, right now, having this conversation about the fed.i tried it once during my second year of college. i folded myself neatly into power-suits and formal shoes, and i marched my way up to networking events where i spent my time twiddling with a toothpick stabbed in salami. it didn't make any fucking sense. none of it did. the way we would stand, in tribal circles worshipping some bank analyst. and then peck on expensive european cheese."and what was your favorite part about being on the team?"
"the people, truly."so i gave it up. the way i do with all things that even slightly irritates me. sure, i could have been like her - - my roommate, and sucked it up. attend all the meetings. grab coffee. talk about how much i love the company protocols i even use it to masturbate.but instead i didn't. because deep inside i really do believe that i'm an artist, which means that i would rather live pissed poor on the streets exercising my hobby, instead of being on wall-street and jerking the management team.
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