Today marks the seventh day of Lent. Recently I have moved away from the Catholic faith, choosing instead to snort ketamine and have group sex (usually at the same time). Still, each year come Lent, my mother insists on calling me to check that I’ve given something up. Here’s how this year’s conversation went.
I originally planned to spend Valentine’s day weekend at home alone, jerking off to a gay emo porno I recently purchased. What actually happened turned out to be a lot less dreadful (and a lot more naked) than I had expected.
Do you ever feel like a spectator? Like life is just this stupid performance going on around you, and the more you try and make sense of things the weirder and more alien they become? Sometimes I feel like I’ve wandered into a dream, too vague and exotic to be interpreted.
“On the way home Kerri suggests we raid the bins behind Subway for food. Now, I’m not going to lie and say I’ve never bin raided – I have, many times over – but the thought of doing it at 5 PM, sober and in clear view of flocks of judgmental strangers sends shivers down my spine.”
Lately my attempts to refrain from casual sex have caused me to fall in love with every moderately attractive boy I meet (especially ones who regularly bleed from the face).
"Everytime I watch a film with my boyfriend he makes comments about how fit the girls in it are. Then after the film talks explicitly about their boobs. Am I over reacting, or is there a way to stop him doing it? I don't want 'Schindlers List' to be the only film we can watch together. Fuck it, we can't even watch that - the shower scenes."
Tell him you've decided to experiment with lesbianism and to call you if he wants to talk about hot knockers, because he damn sure won't be seeing yours anytime soon. Alternatively, start watching gay porn.
