The Broken Ones

“By the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” – The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

I have a weird fondness for things that are scruffy around the edges. It’s why I like amateur theatre productions. I’d rather spend my time laughing at Richard’s impossibly scrawny legs, which the wardrobe people always find a way to show off, than see Judy Dench do something Oscar-worthy. It takes a lot to get me out in the rain, and Richard’s skinny legs are it. I like fluffed lines and streaks of unexpected genius in my kink and men, too.

I’ve dated a few people who weren’t worn and frayed, but I’ve always fallen in love with the tattered ones. Your impeccable smile and even more flawless personality might get me infatuated, but if you’re too perfect, you will never feel like home to me. I don’t understand men who grew up happy and then matured to become even more evolved. What planet are they from? I barely believe a life like that is possible, even though the evidence is all around me.


When the weather is cold, I grab the scruffiest blanket instead of the exquisite quilt. When I’m alone, I wear the hoody with the holes. I drink from the chipped cup and eat from the scratched plate. When I’m with people, I try to be more polished, but when I want comfort, it must be from something I can sink into without worrying that I will crease or discolour it.

I sink into ragged people just as easily. I find their depth warmer and their love more triumphant.

“He loved him so hard that he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded. He even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit anymore, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about.”

The Art of Receiving a Blowjob

There is as much of an art to receiving a blowjob as there is to tuning a piano: if the keys don’t make a sound, it’s a crap instrument. If you’re a fake groaner, your ‘keys’ are out of tune, which is even worse than silence. If I don’t know what kind of music I’m making, my blowjobs (and piano playing) are going to suck balls. Figuratively, not literally.

Okay, literally as well.

Come to think of it, my piano playing will also suck balls regardless of how well the instrument is tuned, but we’re talking about blowjobs, not Mozart. If you’re the blowjobber rather than the blowjobbee, all the sizzle comes straight from the mind, which is my favourite sex organ.

Organ. Mozart. <Snicker>

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I’m a fan of the slow burn—sex that starts long before all the lace comes off. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I’m a blowjob fan. It’s the hottest thing you can do with your clothes on, so it creates exactly the kind of simmer I like–the type that originates in the mind. It’s only hot if the person receiving the blowjob lets his authentic feelings sneak through, though.

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Depression is Not Sadness

Because depression is mood-related, able people think that it’s only a mood, but sadness and grief teach you as much about mood disorders as putting your hands into a basin teaches you about drowning. Mourning is a normal response to loss. Everyone must experience it. Getting beyond it doesn’t teach you how to cope with depression any more than lying in a hot tub teaches you how to tread water in the ocean. Grief and sadness are signs of psychological health. Depression is an illness. Short-term struggles are child’s play in comparison.

Difficulties are not depression. Sadness is not depression. A million awful problems that hit you all at once are not depression. They are normal. They pass in time.

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If I had to spend an hour paralysed, knowing full well that it was temporary, I’d lie back and enjoy an episode of Daredevil while resenting the fact that I couldn’t eat chocolate. It would be a hell of a lot easier than living in a wheelchair for a year. Time is corrosive. That’s one of the reasons depression erodes your endurance as much as it does.

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Dating for Dummies

I’m the most skittish dater who ever was. If you’re leaning in for a first kiss, you might as well be wearing a Jason Mask for all the terror I’ll throw your way. I’m just as pathetic about first dates—they make me shiver all week. Second dates are better. Third dates are worse because that’s when we’re supposed to shag, innit? I can’t say for sure. I don’t know the earthly customs because I am Ugh from the Planet Epsilon. I missed Dating 1. 01. I only ever learned how to be awkward.

I missed the class on how to have a calm and underwhelming crush on a man, too. My mother used to tell me I cared too much about people too soon. She was right. It gets me hurt, but I still prefer it that way. I’m a drama queen, so I like intensity. This is me, and I’m stuck with her.

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I also missed the class on dating several men at once. I tried it when I was 22, and all it did was teach me the importance of not fucking up your schedule lest Steven shows up at the door while you’re in bed with Chris. The best way to get that right is to date one person at a time like we citizens of Epsilon do.

I watch romcoms, so I know you’re only meant to become exclusive after you’ve gotten your new relationship energy out of the way, but dating more than one man at a time just confuses me. I’d rather put all my romantic energy into one person right from the start. Apparently, that isn’t the correct human convention. You’re supposed to spread your interests widely until you choose to be serious, but I’m always serious. I prefer putting all my ovaries into one ball bag. That is how the cliché goes, right?

Some people lack artistic talent. Some can’t do math. Citizens of Epsilon are crap at dating. Give me any other personal problem to solve, and I’ll manage just fine. Give me a new man, though, and my psyche will go as apeshit as a deflating balloon.

Complaint Letter for My Freemium Wet-and-Wild Vagina

To whom it may concern

A few decades back, I installed your Freemium Vagina, Model 5067 Wet-and-Wild. Your website said it would work just fine so I didn’t have to buy the paid option. That was false advertising. My vagina breaks every month without fail. It becomes completely unwilling to let me ride horses, play tennis, or wear shorts. Then it forces me to curl up in a blanket fort and eat five kilograms of chocolate while watching Walking Dead marathons. Can you say “muffin tops?” I can


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Look, I’m not angry. Really. Okay, I am. I had a date last night and my jeans wouldn’t go over my feet. I had to wear a maxi-dress, which is directly responsible for my not getting laid. I’m suing your company for reckless endangerment because I tripped on my rabbit charger on the way to the bath, which would not have happened if I had been able to wear those jeans.

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Respect is the Fuel My Lust Runs On

One of my friends is a personal trainer, but his waistline got lost in an alternate dimension next to his forgotten biceps. He’s the least fit fitness expert in the city. I’m hardly into muscle men, but if mastering bodies is your career choice you should prolly demonstrate your command over your own. The same is true of dominance. If you’re a hedonist, I’m good with your average maturity and greying principles. If you’re a dominant, though, I’ll be looking for a little more self-mastery because I don’t submit to a man’s sexual preferences, but his character. If you can’t master yourself, you’ve no hope of mastering me.

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Character and principles sound as boring as missionary sex in the dark, but in practice, they’re sexy as hell. Without them, your dominance will be as successful as my friend’s personal training racquet (read: not a fuck). If you’re evolved enough to make me feel safe, please hold back my simmering libido before it drowns you. We’re going to have some seriously hot sex, and all it’ll take is a little accountability and compassion.

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A decade ago, I thought I didn’t deserve the space I took up in the world. My sense of worthlessness has followed me like a stray dog all my life. I’ve improved, but when the ground gets uneven, it still jumps up and assaults me. Tear into me with enough cruelty and I will shred just as easily as I did when I was 25.

At the end of every street, there is self-doubt. Around every corner, there’s a sense of insignificance. At the top of every hill, there’s self-hatred. I recover from assaults on my value far faster than I once did, but when I fall, it’s as catastrophically as ever.

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A healthy self-esteem is engendered in you as a child, and my mother only learned how to relate to my sister and I healthily after we’d left home. Both of us have struggled with the same self-esteem issues our entire adult lives.

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