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.