Each morning I wake up and open my computer screen to images of big black cocks. I open my slack and each channel contains close ups of perfectly retouched hairless pussies. I get in my car and drive to work, I come to and suddenly my car is in the cruise control setting. I am on my phone, but what I am looking at is just who is currently online in my instagram inbox. There is traffic, and I share a bed in a crouton sized studio apartment with my platonic life partner, so I make good use of my time. My pants are rolled down sloppily and the waistband squeezes the middle section of my ass in a slightly upsetting way. I become incredibly aware of how far my hand is inside of me, as a “See the Stars” tour bus passes by. Imagining the troubled faces of individuals who chose to pay for an activity such as a “See the Stars” tour brings me solace in this moment, simultaneously I am troubled with the thought that I missed my window tinting appointment the week prior.

Traffic continues ahead but post-masturbation I am overcome with enough dopamine to turn off autopilot and play zig zag through the fast lanes until I arrive at my exit. At work I open a diet coke which pairs swimmingly with my salted overnight oats. The recent revelation that this beverage is a carcinogen makes the aspartame that much sweeter. My computer screen soon populates itself with a bakers dozen of discolored and oddly shaped penises. Hours pass – I look up from my screen only to watch a man spit onto a face that had just spent 2.5 hours in a makeup chair. I wonder, is she having fun? She then dramatically chokes on this dick for the better part of fifteen minutes before he relays, in a broken accent, that he simply cannot cum.

I look down at my phone. I rub my fingers over the cracked screen which is coming up in the middle from all of the moisture on my hands. Below the cracked screen is the homepage of the costar app. It tells me that I can change my reality – all I need to do is alter my mindset. Several times a week, before I enjoy my diet coke and soggy oats, I take a micro-dose of mushrooms. I am beginning to think I may be misinterpreting the homepage of costar on that fateful day. Mushrooms make the grunts of the steroid riddled men extremely aggravating. I have become so irate with the soundtrack of the day that I have taken up smoking cigarettes just to escape for a brief moment. This also leads me to believe that I must be a lesbian.

I broke up with my boyfriend have now told everyone I know that I am a lesbian. Although I enjoy being showered with congratulations, with each passing week I doubt this proclamation more and more as my thoughts swell with the fantasies of myself sucking the dicks of differing male acquaintances. In the evenings I slip into the warm and capable hands of a quarter bar of Xanax. I love these hands and I thought they loved me too; however each morning I am dragged by the long hairs that surround my areoles back to reality where I have re-downloaded a myriad of dating apps. I wash down my cold brew whilst deleting the apps before I have a chance to read the messages I have sent. On my way to work the voice that reads me an audio book has me thanking my lucky stars I finally got my windows tinted. On the home front my laundry piles in a dark corner.

On Saturdays I put on my favorite little black dress (a cylindrical piece of nylon that I overpaid Rick Owens for, as a birthday gift to myself). This particular dress extends to my mid calf but has a frustrating tendency to roll up to my mid thigh when I even think about moving my feet. The solution I have come to is inhaling enough ketamine to suppress the concept of movement in the lower half of my body. This resolve may seem illogical to an outsider, but the warehouses I frequent have a tendency to lack air conditioning, and I cannot fathom wearing a garment that hangs off of my body with more weight than a piece of tissue paper.

…

I am no longer allowed to smoke cigarettes at work. It must be the nicotine withdrawal because tears roll down my face during a tirade from my girl boss. Repeat after me: I don’t have problems with authority, its just the lack of Turkish Royals in my current day to day. Weeks continue to pass and the things I look forward to are more male fantasies. The mushrooms have taught me nothing aside from the realization that being a production coordinator for a handful of semi-tasteful porn brands is not rewarding work. There is no “thank you”, only free diet coke. To add injury to insult, I believe irreparable damage has been done to my psyche. It has been 114 days since the last time that I have seen the genitalia of an individual who has had even a semblance of intention to pleasure me. I am the number one fan of “long running bit”, but I’m begging the universe to visit the graveyard because this joke is dead to me.