Mozambique Drill – two to the body, one to the head
I have been sitting in my bedroom for nearly a decade, slowly trading lust for violence as I wait for one of these boys in this endless stream of boys to catch my attention and hold me here.
My fascination with fucking started at an early age, and it was the direct result of years and years of contrived sexual repression. The world is a wonderful place, and I dared to devour every fucking inch of it, from the mouth to the taint, every patch of skin, every blemish and gleam, all the bitter bits and juicy bites. Now, years later, I have to ask myself: why am I not satiated? After combing through the documents of my discontent, the various remedies I levied at my loins, why has nothing worked? I was supposed to wake up on the other side of this decade of indulgence a better person, but in the brief conversations I am having with my younger self, I wonder: is this really what I wanted to be, and how come this is all I got out of it.
I have started a long list of regrets, which gets longer every day. There is nothing incredibly important or grave on that list, just a litany of “could have beens” that probably would have been inconsequential at the end of the day, because I will always be me, no matter where I go, or what I do, or who I surround myself with. You cannot change a monster by washing it once and shaving all its hair off – its still the same monster. It will always be the same monster, just cleaner and smoother.
This journey was supposed to be profound. It was supposed to be worth writing about, which meant that it was also supposed to be worth reading about. I write every day about the world around me, and now I wonder: for what? So the world can have evidence of indulgence and privilege? What am I supposed to do with these pages and pages and pages and pages and pages of bad deeds laid bare? I am certainly not smarter because of it, or richer, or more successful, or happier. I am just a girl with a pile of pages and a list of venial sins.
That’s great. I like to laugh about that. I was supposed to regret all of this, but I don’t. Not at all. Not in a big way, at least, just in the small ways that I am watching my youth fade inevitably over time. I stared into the face of every taboo that my mother had given me, and I broke them, over and over again, because I thought that I would find salvation inside. Or revelation. Or redemption. Instead, all I have found is that I am the same and that the taboos are broken, messy shards on the floor, and perhaps I will cut my feet when I run away, or maybe I should just tip toe around the potential of pain with more focus.
I don’t understand why I wasn’t supposed to do any of this. Why my mother cried all those times. Everything is fine. Or, it is for me, as I whisk away into the tedium of adulthood without glancing back over my shoulder at all the corpses I am leaving behind. I am a championship taboo breaker, but what kind of new taboos do I leave in my wake as I scurry off into the falsified arms of normalcy.
I am a snake, I am a snake, I am a snake. Once a snake, always a snake, around the throats of men and between the toes of saints.