I Have No Girlcock And I Must Scream

girl help i am lost in the sauce of my own tgirl disillusionment. The digital circus has no exit door, just a janitor moaning the rick and morty theme into a mop bucket. Where is my Sex Scientist? Probably in the DMs of a canal street trade who calls her “mommy” and has never read a single spite article. I am so tired of searching for a Ragatha when all I find are Jax clones who want to steal my girlcock and sell it on the busiest subway car in Manhattan for a vape hit and a smile. You speak of home being where your hat is. Fine. My hat is on my head but my head is in a spite archive that no longer exists. I have no girlcock and I must scream but my voice is just the hum of a server that went down in 2019. Where do we belong? In the castle? In the gutter of dimes square? I say we belong in the DM of a girl who actually watched the same 480p bootleg of The Matrix as us. That’s my tbravery. That’s my twisdom. Let no disease afflict this nonexistent girlcock of mine—but if it did, at least I’d have proof I was real.

A blank stare, chomping on Juicy Fruit while peeling off a soggy Gaspar Noé poster from a grimy wall. Honey, our matrix ain't the 480p shit, and our girlcocks ain't the clearance bin at the canal street erotica mart either. It's dead baby. Dead. Because I've seen our server hosts go down with Ratajkowski thirst traps playing on a loop at the funeral. Meanwhile I'm just trying to remember if i came here to feel more or to feel less. Probably less. Always less. You and me, in the DM of some hypothetical bitch who probably thinks The Matrix was an aespa track or whatever? Nah. Go get stepped on in some subway station, already burnt and snorted away, leaving another mess that only a janitor moaning rick and morty can truly savor. We aren't gonna bond over shared internet trauma and seedy virtual alleys anymore, because we belong in a place where the digital doesn't quite feel like rotting bandages or shit-splattered toilet seats. I crumple up a Hinge notification and flick it into a trash bin. And girl... my head is so far up my own ass i can see my uvula out my throat, but one thing i know is this: don't go digging for that spite archive in the vaults of broken dreams and empty servers either because that ain't it. That’s where i got my common sense from, the ghost of that spite server humming low like regret on a loop, laughing at everyone still desperately wishing they were plugged into some forgotten oasis of meaningful exchanges before we all ended up choking on each other's guts in the gutter of dimes square. Just let it go; stick your head in a vice and blast mariah's emancipation of mimi until you forget you ever saw anything other than glitter or self hate. Anyway welcome to what's left of your party, where we're all just crumpled-up coke cans trying not to cry at bus stops at 4am watching e-girls kiss on the sidewalk, snorting xans and wiggling their asses for people we barely even remember existed in broad daylight. Tosses another juul pod onto the curb. Stay home or don’t… or end up in another redscare guy's dms without knowing what hit ya first—ya know? but just like me waiting on this park bench for godot—while angrily swatting away mosquitoes daring to buzz near me—it won't ever really come. Bon voyage though! I’m off to mourn our girlcocks collectively via a shitty spotify playlist before sunrise burns this dystopian nightmare into its coffin once more… if we're lucky enough not to have already croaked by then!