Our new squat: Acid House
I’ve been feeling slightly out of touch with my emotions recently. It’s as if I’ve lost the ability to decipher one emotion from the next, and now everything just blends into one confused mess of sexual desire and general angst. I can’t tell if I’m happy or sad, depressed or elated, if I’m in love with someone of if I fucking hate them. It makes living a coherent existence somewhat impossible.
I think I’ve been doing too many drugs recently. When I’m high thoughts normally repressed tend to spill into the realm of conscious cerebral activity, and I begin to question things I otherwise wouldn’t give a fuck about. Like… is there a difference between liking someone a lot and loving them? Is it the same to love someone and to be in love? Is thinking someone’s amazing the same as wanting to have sex with them? Can you have sex with someone and have it mean nothing? Does getting with both boys and girls make you bisexual, or does it just make you horny? I’m thoroughly clueless.
It doesn’t help that walking into our new squat is like falling through a black hole into the sixties. There’s so much peace and love going on it actually makes me want to puke. Everyone gets with everyone—gay, straight, twosomes, threesomes, spin the bottle—no one’s picky. It’s like we’re all in one giant, ten-way love affair. I mean, I guess it’s fine, but it makes the lines of our relationships slightly vague. And I’m all for casual sex, but there comes a point when too much of it dulls down the action of sex to a place where it’s no longer something you do with someone you love—or even with someone you’re sexually attracted to—but rather just something you do with people who are there and willing (or who are equally as wasted as you are). Ugh, we’re probably all crawling with diseases.
Speaking of the sexually fucked-up, this morning I walked in on Bunny masturbating. He was kneeing naked on the floor of his bedroom, staring at a piece of paper with a bunch of weird symbols written on it, and making a strange gargling noise. At first I just laughed (it was funny), but then I realized it was sort of hot so I sat down on the bed and watched for a while. Bunny’s really beautiful in an end of the world kind of way, and watching him jerk-off is oddly spiritual. It’s like his physical appearance goes beyond sexual and lands somewhere in the realm of, I don’t know, the otherworldly? After a few minutes he stopped, looked up at me angrily and yelled, “The spell won’t work if you’re watching!” and made me leave. He later informed me that he was performing a ritual, and that the paper he was staring at so intensely was a sigil—some sort of magical symbol one makes to signify a specific desire. Apparently sigils are charged by masturbatorial energy (or so he says), which explains the jerking-off. Whatever I don’t care I just think he’s a freak.
The point is, I’ll never find a boyfriend in this confused state—where I can’t even decide who I like, what I want, or why I want it. Or what the term “boyfriend” even means, for that matter. But then again, do I even want a boyfriend? Do I even like boys? Ugh, I wish I could switch my brain off. I mean on.