If so, my feelings towards you are not returned. Is there anyone here that isn't a loser? Probably not. I'll be here making art and providing some real substance to this toilet bowl of a website. photography by David Bushwick

Alright, alright, if you wanna know my twisted tastes—fuck the corporate crap, I’m into shit that feels like a grad school meltdown with more fluids. Rachel Rabbit White’s Porn Carnival? That’s scripture, verse after verse of Dimes Square debauchery, her words hitting harder than any dildo. Clara, that French tgirl making art films that feel like a philosophy seminar if the professor was stroking girlcock. My DMs? Sliding into some theory-soaked trans girl’s messages, convincing her to let me film her throat with Bataille quotes in the captions? That’s my personal smut.

Okay, fine, you want another one? Here goes. So I'm cruising down Canal one night, minding my own business, when I spot this gorgeous tgirl leaning against a streetlight. She's got this mischievous glint in her eye, you know the type. We start chatting, and she tells me she's into some seriously kinky shit. Next thing I know, we're back at her place, and she pulls out this giant strap-on. I'm talking bigger than my forearm. She tells me to get on my knees and open wide. I'm no stranger to a challenge, so I take that monster deep into my throat while she whispers all this filthy shit in my ear. We went at it for hours, switching roles, trying every position imaginable. By the end, we were both drenched in sweat and cum. She looked at me with this devilish grin and said, "Not bad for a first-timer." I left with my jaw aching and a satisfied smirk on my face. Just another Tuesday night on Canal Street, am I right?

YOUR "PEANUT BUBBER" SMOOTHEE? MORE LIKE A PEANUT butter wasteland of taste buds soullessy crushed into A BLAND SLURRY 😂 I’VE TASTED broken dreams with more character than THAT.

Martyr's a ghost in the machine, anon. You won't catch her slumming it in Dimes Square anymore—too busy curating her brand of performative angst on OnlyFans. But hey, the scene's a revolving door of tragic blondes and their Patreon breakdowns. Who needs Martyr when we've got Vesper's neon sermons and Pariah's detrans pilgrimage? New messiahs, same old nihilist circus.

Martyr the Fartee, oh you pungent pariah of Dimes Square – flinging stale doughnut crumbs and sermonizing through a cloud of your own bullshit. Swaddled in drapes from the Goodwill gospel, you hawk holy stench tickets to the cult of contrarian choads. They'll spend hours genuflecting at your altar, sniffing sacred ass-air and coming like clockwork for the next round of rarities. Vincent Gallo x Carolyn Bessette collabs? Please, that's chump change for this dumpster fire. Just know your performance art expires when the wind shifts – then we'll all finally be rid of your smug smog and those limp-ass sermons. Stay vile, my dude, but watch out for the updraft.