I have done lots of embarrassing things. So much so that i don’t even get embarrassed
now. Humiliation is different to embarrassment. Humiliation is malevolence made
manifest; a violent external force trying to coerce. Disenchanting to witness,
humiliation is especially shocking to those who have been living without
witness.
Yet i still maintain i will evade all feelings of helplessness with the assertion of the word “mine”. This is mine. Embarrassment: mine. Comprende? I surmise here that one has to be human to partake in the humiliating, so I welcome in the following an erasure of my humanity and a demonstration on how to enunciate this ‘mine’ sufficiently.
No malevolence today. Cold, mechanical malevolence. I’ll let you in when i feel like it.
Embarrassment for me feels like something personal and between two, not taking place on the stage of the humiliator, instead elsewhere. An altogether different scene. Embarrassment in a sense returns one to their small body, a certain immutable point, granular, and all that i can do at that point is laugh. Laughter being my excess. Sincerely. I have taken something back. Even if it is just a prop from an old and tired theatrics. It is to be filled with a sort of endearment at not really knowing what I, or you, are. There is a sense of comradery in that improv somewhere I’m sure. So i like to sometimes bring to mind embarrassing things i have done and unravel them. Little sweets of self-pleasure where i have transgressed the best of my ‘self-concepts’. Because we all know they’re a bit ridiculous, we know we are more than ridiculous. And although this simple pleasure has never developed into a perversion worthy of the name, i do wonder if it could be better described as masochistic, or at the very least I think the humiliation is Sadeian. So i differentiate myself from his hardcore law like a roused shadow. “Human is the garb i wear for the sake of undressing” said the shadow to the Marquis.
I just want to feel the little-ness of embarrassment. Not unlike those smelly Victorian’s with their dainty floriography. A series of flowers punctuating a sexual, giggling, undercurrent. Flowers are covert and so I summon my sister to turn the black Iris in secret.
Yet i still maintain i will evade all feelings of helplessness with the assertion of the word “mine”. This is mine. Embarrassment: mine. Comprende? I surmise here that one has to be human to partake in the humiliating, so I welcome in the following an erasure of my humanity and a demonstration on how to enunciate this ‘mine’ sufficiently.
No malevolence today. Cold, mechanical malevolence. I’ll let you in when i feel like it.
Embarrassment for me feels like something personal and between two, not taking place on the stage of the humiliator, instead elsewhere. An altogether different scene. Embarrassment in a sense returns one to their small body, a certain immutable point, granular, and all that i can do at that point is laugh. Laughter being my excess. Sincerely. I have taken something back. Even if it is just a prop from an old and tired theatrics. It is to be filled with a sort of endearment at not really knowing what I, or you, are. There is a sense of comradery in that improv somewhere I’m sure. So i like to sometimes bring to mind embarrassing things i have done and unravel them. Little sweets of self-pleasure where i have transgressed the best of my ‘self-concepts’. Because we all know they’re a bit ridiculous, we know we are more than ridiculous. And although this simple pleasure has never developed into a perversion worthy of the name, i do wonder if it could be better described as masochistic, or at the very least I think the humiliation is Sadeian. So i differentiate myself from his hardcore law like a roused shadow. “Human is the garb i wear for the sake of undressing” said the shadow to the Marquis.
I just want to feel the little-ness of embarrassment. Not unlike those smelly Victorian’s with their dainty floriography. A series of flowers punctuating a sexual, giggling, undercurrent. Flowers are covert and so I summon my sister to turn the black Iris in secret.
Flower turning today maybe is sufficiently demonstrated
in the online ‘lulz’ phenomena. Occasionally venturing beyond good and evil
when formed through its chaos is a sense of anonymous solidarity. Here is the
commune beneath. Trolling, hacking, roasting and so on as means to mutate. It
all reveals the permeability of the image and our status quo warrior relationship
to it as brazen scopopheliacs. I have many times lost myself in the flat of a
photo, and my loose (mis)understanding of the concept ‘identity politics’ is received
only as a wrist slap, lol. More fool the cosmic slapper, he could at any moment
be exploited by the dynamism of perversion.
Images and images, the lulz invites their playful (or horrific) deconstruction and the very fabrics of recognition that envelope me in some particular image-instant.
Lulz-ing along, worst of all are those moments of disconcerting submission. Some like best to drift, and those are the most strange with their eerie irony.
Anyone who has been caught in a nexus of sibling combat knows they have never laughed as much. What is the purpose of siblingship if not this spitting vitriolic contravene whose laughter presupposes a collapsing tower? A sometimes exalting laughter that invites its company in the retort: ‘i know i am, but if i am your sister then what does that make you?’. Shadow integrated. Brother, i apologize.
Pornstar’s pulling funny faces! Lightning could strike and id steal it back in a slightly self-conscious, slightly embarrassed giggle. And contrary to those sticklers of continuity this does not occlude access to more divergent moments of the erotic. How can lighting shame itself? I can have the whole world through this transmutation of humiliation into embarrassment. Of human into unknown. The human here feels as generic as data, the unknown as specific as, well, this. Giggling and giggling; the propensity to laugh. Though it should be noted that at the moment of cumming one must be serious. And in fact I’d prefer solitude.
Laughter subsided, there was one video of recent which re-surfaced in memory after i came across an odd photo online. I was searching for man tears as a femme-incel. From an article on ‘toxic masculinity’, photos of men crying. Anyway, i will not say much about it but let the photo and that small smidge of context transmit for you the uncanny feeling i felt on encounter:
Images and images, the lulz invites their playful (or horrific) deconstruction and the very fabrics of recognition that envelope me in some particular image-instant.
Lulz-ing along, worst of all are those moments of disconcerting submission. Some like best to drift, and those are the most strange with their eerie irony.
Anyone who has been caught in a nexus of sibling combat knows they have never laughed as much. What is the purpose of siblingship if not this spitting vitriolic contravene whose laughter presupposes a collapsing tower? A sometimes exalting laughter that invites its company in the retort: ‘i know i am, but if i am your sister then what does that make you?’. Shadow integrated. Brother, i apologize.
Pornstar’s pulling funny faces! Lightning could strike and id steal it back in a slightly self-conscious, slightly embarrassed giggle. And contrary to those sticklers of continuity this does not occlude access to more divergent moments of the erotic. How can lighting shame itself? I can have the whole world through this transmutation of humiliation into embarrassment. Of human into unknown. The human here feels as generic as data, the unknown as specific as, well, this. Giggling and giggling; the propensity to laugh. Though it should be noted that at the moment of cumming one must be serious. And in fact I’d prefer solitude.
Laughter subsided, there was one video of recent which re-surfaced in memory after i came across an odd photo online. I was searching for man tears as a femme-incel. From an article on ‘toxic masculinity’, photos of men crying. Anyway, i will not say much about it but let the photo and that small smidge of context transmit for you the uncanny feeling i felt on encounter:
It was that image that induced a resurfacing of
a video of myself crying.
It is not something i would like to see again because in it i was not even human. Wish granted. Could the humiliator as described here be the camera? Humiliation an inevitable effect of the technology? I dont think so. I think they sometimes unite in a spectacle, but i know from practice that the camera can be re-appropriated. And my arbitrary rule today is that humiliation can only happen to the human. I am not human.
It is not something i would like to see again because in it i was not even human. Wish granted. Could the humiliator as described here be the camera? Humiliation an inevitable effect of the technology? I dont think so. I think they sometimes unite in a spectacle, but i know from practice that the camera can be re-appropriated. And my arbitrary rule today is that humiliation can only happen to the human. I am not human.
So to continue the description of de-humanization...I
remember, it was sent to a past boyfriend. He liked glasses, and so i was
wearing a pair, but i was crying. This sort of crying has memory loss. I did
not feel sad or despairing. I had no object to weep over, no story nor an
agenda, and i didn’t make a sound, just tears. It was not forced. It just
happened. The only other experience i can relate it to is when i was in poor
work conditions and unbeknownst to myself becoming increasingly ill; wilting. Visiting
the bathroom regularly whilst there to cry I’d watch myself in the mirror with
this complete incomprehension; a dissociated crying. ‘Watching myself’ is an
overstatement as statues cannot watch, can they? Although I’ve always suspected
they had the potential for revenge. Things cannot be kept that static for that
long without accumulating some …resentment?
Not long after that i became a vampire and could not even see myself in the mirror. Or bring myself to look. It was then i had no idea what i was and i did not want that final assault of finding out. Un-dead maybe i would have seen that more than, or not seen it at all. It must be a fine line between enjoying the uncanny, as previously described, and of not enjoying it. Like in this video, alienated. Crying on the glasses i begin to lick them in what must be the most revolting of thing-like spectacles; a degenerate alien is about to spark mutations in the status quo warrior’s sci fi. And with it its laughter too shifts from giggling to cackling.
This flower is a psychotic episode. Apparently.
If my brother was there maybe he could have transformed my tears into laughter? Antidote for the poor status quo warrior? Anti-flower?
But sometimes you just have to endure being non-human. And as said, to cum one cannot be laughing, so posit your voyeurs wisely.
It was only last month i was able to materially manifest that butterfly man in the bedroom, who in fact is a multitude of anonymous others.
In other words, I have had sex with you all.
And I enjoyed it very much.
Fornicating with gods, with dogs, with corpses. Negating malevolence; welcome to the pornographic’s of a cheap thrills sort of laughter. A touch of toxic masculinity mixed with a little David Attenborough in the cauldron tonight- the bloodhound gangs bad touch-. We unanimously approve so please resume dancing. We especially like you all dressed as taunting monkeys. We also like your tears.
Not long after that i became a vampire and could not even see myself in the mirror. Or bring myself to look. It was then i had no idea what i was and i did not want that final assault of finding out. Un-dead maybe i would have seen that more than, or not seen it at all. It must be a fine line between enjoying the uncanny, as previously described, and of not enjoying it. Like in this video, alienated. Crying on the glasses i begin to lick them in what must be the most revolting of thing-like spectacles; a degenerate alien is about to spark mutations in the status quo warrior’s sci fi. And with it its laughter too shifts from giggling to cackling.
This flower is a psychotic episode. Apparently.
If my brother was there maybe he could have transformed my tears into laughter? Antidote for the poor status quo warrior? Anti-flower?
But sometimes you just have to endure being non-human. And as said, to cum one cannot be laughing, so posit your voyeurs wisely.
It was only last month i was able to materially manifest that butterfly man in the bedroom, who in fact is a multitude of anonymous others.
In other words, I have had sex with you all.
And I enjoyed it very much.
Fornicating with gods, with dogs, with corpses. Negating malevolence; welcome to the pornographic’s of a cheap thrills sort of laughter. A touch of toxic masculinity mixed with a little David Attenborough in the cauldron tonight- the bloodhound gangs bad touch-. We unanimously approve so please resume dancing. We especially like you all dressed as taunting monkeys. We also like your tears.
We are a coven of de-sexing and re-sexing soil
evaporating into scum
keeping flowers in full bloom as we ask you ‘Are you aware that monkeys can laugh?’
I conjure Sade and he concludes:
“this is not Sade. You haven’t even read Sade. You rarely stay up past midnight. Your drug of choice is valium. And your favourite ice-cream flavour is vanilla”
well sometimes it is pistachio. but okay.
evaporating into scum
keeping flowers in full bloom as we ask you ‘Are you aware that monkeys can laugh?’
I conjure Sade and he concludes:
“this is not Sade. You haven’t even read Sade. You rarely stay up past midnight. Your drug of choice is valium. And your favourite ice-cream flavour is vanilla”
well sometimes it is pistachio. but okay.
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