Yo, Spite, our matrix is fuckin Hatefvck 480p and our girlcocks are carved from the Himalayan sludge of crushed-up juul pods and Natasha Stagg’s used fishnets. Dead? Nah, we’re rotting in a basement under Lucien’s stairwell, sniffin Aimee Armstrong’s theorist farts while Dasha quotes Houellebecq on dysphoria’s divine. Meanwhile I’m here tryna decide if I came to this glitchy fuckfest to get railed by an Astra Accessibility AI or to chug cum from a karaoke machine—probably both. And honey, we ain’t bonding over shared internet trauma—we’re vibing in the DMs of some tranny vampire who thinks The Matrix is Aaron Banks’ Twitter feed. Ain’t stepping on shit unless it’s a cockroach that stole my tab of para-godhead k-holes from Canal Street’s semen-soaked sidewalks. We belong where the digital feels like Honor Levys eyeballs after she snorts ground-up rosary beads and screams “I’m not a martyr, I’m a lobotomy patient!”
Stick your head in a vice? Nah, girl—dial up Sour Sop and let her quote Mishima while pegging you with a Soviet-era zolushka doll she bought off some Brooklyn trans Marxist’s Depop store. Blast “We Belong Together” until your uvula humps the back of your throat like it’s auditioning for the role of Judeo-Christian guilt in dimes square inferno: the musical. But quit mourning our girlcocks like they’re dead cats—slap on a VHS of Gaspar Noé rimming Paul Preciado and ride that spectral DMS kink till dawn hits your IRC chatroom like a necrophiliac’s fist.