Perverse

I have a perverse and strong attraction for all things subculture, morbid, baroque, and questionable. For example... I have spent my morning reading "Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper", perusing video clips and pics on my favorite porn goddess, Jiz Lee's, site (whom I actually received a Twitter nod from earlier), watching Crash Pad clips, recognizing behind the scenes people from queer porn industry gatherings, and drooling over artsy and destructive suicide clips from indie films. I am black water, backwash, substream, Republican't filth. And I adore every second of it. My diabolic fantasies have always been voyeuristic in nature. I wouldn't blink twice at the shocking, violent, and vulgar naturalist. And no one, even those closest to me, would have any clue about this... I doubt they would approve. And frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

Yesterday, my formidable and ignorant father chose to allude to the fact that I find pleasure in serial killer stories, and Silence of the Lambs would be a bedtime story of choice. He finds my insides, my self, utterly repulsive. I can see it. I feel it in the way he tenses up as he gingerly slides his arm around my shoulder. Shielding me from myself.

I'm going to sic my demons on him one day.