Roitex
I’ve worked in three companies, telling lies to people, mainly to men.
The most memorable ones are Samuel from England and Clive Titus from South Africa. The area code was +27 and I always fantasised about calling him and telling him that this was all a lie, begging him not to give any more of the money he didn’t even have. He was a man in his forties, I never managed to understand where he worked because of his South African accent, and I felt bad asking again for the tenth time because I didn’t want to come out looking like an idiot, even though he was totally with me and was never condescending like the British clients were. A British guy once called me a European cunt because of my accent when speaking English. At first they called me Stephanie, and then at the other two companies I changed it to Natalie Reed. I only worked with men at the sales desk. They constantly told me to use my femininity to make sales. I made more sales than all of the other employees there. I don’t know how I did it because every time I was on the phone with a client I was crazy-stressed and felt like I was choking. It was pure resistance against myself. My jaw was tense and I smoked weed every day at 13:40pm right after lunch and it always made me feel bad. I disconnected and my brain became mush and I couldn’t talk or sell or breathe, and every day at 14:00 o’clock I’d black-out as I returned from my break high as a kite and sit on the wheeled office chair, a screeching sound accompanying my weight as I’d plummet onto it.
I was in a room full of people, staring at the screen and trying to seem like I was occupied by very important things, scrolling over the mouse pad and clicking on things, I couldn’t bear to hear that horrid mouse’s click and the giant headphones were scorching hot and my head felt terrible I felt terrible. I’d stare at the computer screen whilst baked off three tokes. I tried to stop feeling this way, yet every day I smoked and knew I’d feel bad straight after but smoked nonetheless. Why did I smoke nonetheless. In any case, at 14:00pm I’d have to get back on the phone and sell to the British clients cuz that was their time of day, I always felt terrible and anxious. Poison, disconnection, resistance, inner death, and I tried to test my limits, each time extending them further and further, as I acted against my own intuitions, against my own principles. I wanted to feel that way. I wanted a big fat reason to hate myself, so that I could go out into the world feeling like I’m trash and like I deserve all the bad things happening to me because I’m a manipulative piece of trash, trash, trash. Manipulative bitch. Liar, fraud, trash. Samuel from England received National Insurance benefits, he was young, I once looked him up on Facebook and found him. Even before my resignation from the first company, I had kept his phone number in case I’d ever want to clear my conscience and tell him that it was all a scam and that I’m sorry. I still have his number, and a thousand of fraudulent commerce companies at the Ramat Gan stock market who claim to be calling from England probably have his number too. Oh man but it was so fun telling anyone who’d asked that I was working at the Moshe Aviv Towers. I walked around in high heels every day. I wore tailored suits and dressed like a real businesswoman. I felt like a bitch and it turned me on. We had a Hasidic Jew there who was a cokehead.
There was this forty-something-year-old family man who’d started out at the retention desk where anyone who really worked really lost their soul. It’s the point of no return. I don’t know how one can continue living after having charred someone’s life by taking away all of their savings, after persuading them to sell their house and their car and to take out a £50,000 loan from the bank in order to enter a trade whereby they’re meant to earn a hundred times more. I can’t even begin to tell you how much fraud occurred at the retention desk. I don’t know. Retention’s where one creates meaningful relationships with the clients, months-long relationships, building trust, showing results and profits from the person’s investment there. Retention agents figure out how much money you really have and then persuade you to invest a whole lot more than that. I’m starting to feel that it’s difficult for me to write about this. It’s strange places. At my peak, I made 14 grand a month from my sales. My boss called the British clients ‘sheep’. We were never never never never to mess with U.S citizens.
Never.
A short while ago, the FBI arrested Lee Elbaz as she landed in New York. She was sentenced to 22 years in prison for investment fraud of 145 million shekels. The fraud was much greater than that. I’m certain of it. I don’t know why I’m writing this. This is another side of me. I’d wanted to experience it. I’ve had numerous dreams about Samuel and Clive. I felt bad. I once called Samuel in England on WhatsApp and he didn’t pick up. Don’t know what I was thinking. He must have seen my phone number and my name too, what the hell was I trying to do there. I thought maybe I’d tell him and he’d forgive me. But why did I put myself in such a vulnerable place? I'd get screwed big-time if he then contacted the company or filed a civil lawsuit. We were never allowed to contact the clients outside office hours. The entire company would burn to the ground, because then they’d discover that we were actually calling from Israel and that my name wasn’t Stephanie at all. Also, I was entertained by the idea of having such power over them. I’d only worked there for 4 months but I knew that if I wanted to, I could really fuck them over. The companies remained the same companies with pretty much the same employees, but they would change their platforms and their names after 6-12 months because the internet would fill to the brim with bad reviews, which would in turn abolish any and all sales cuz once you’d Google the company name – say, Roitex for instance – the first thing you’d see is, it doesn’t matter, you don’t see anything anymore because the domain is gone and the website no longer exists. I’ll try E Markets Trade – found it but nevermind don’t wanna talk about it anymore it makes me feel terrible. For some reason I took a Focalin pill an hour ago, it expired over a month ago but I don’t think it matters, would be a shame to have it go to waste, each pill’s like 7 shekels and I took it because I’m a bit tired of feeling what I’m feeling, I’m looking for thrills, I’m bored. I’m lacking something really lacking something and feeling vacant. Enough I’m in pain.
There’s a bad feeling deep within my stomach and I’m scared. I’ve asked the psychiatrist to lower my antidepressant dosage because I felt mania symptoms on Sunday, I felt an unjustified sense of strength and love and it scared me. I then took a momentary step back and the feeling ceased. I sensed the deterioration since Tuesday morning, I saw it happening and couldn’t stop it. By night-time I was already feeling really bad. Each of these episodes takes something away from me, never to return. Now my heart’s racing cuz of the Focalin. And I feel bad, why did I do it? Something is lacking in me, something is lacking in me, something is lacking. I feel as though something’s been taken from me. I think that I over-identify with my feelings. My social worker told me that, I think it’s true. I also really want to be understood because it’s hard for me to explain, it makes me feel stressed. So many thoughts rush through my mind and each one floods me and then I forget what I’d wanted to say to begin with. And no one understands me, I wish they’d understand me and then I wouldn’t have to put in so much effort because I’m all out of strength. It’s funny that I can’t express myself well with words because I find it difficult and it demands so much from me, but back when I was working for those companies I was the no. 1 employee in sales. I had to turn off and extinguish a side of me in order for that to work.
Juice
I usually write out of impulse and sometimes during moments of despair. At times I have no mental energy for writing because it takes so much out of me.
After I finish writing I feel drained, like men after they come. A guy once told me that after men come they’re too tired to talk to the girl next to them. I think that he’d hinted I get out and so I did. That was Tamir.
I’d met Tamir at the Kuli Alma club at the end of the first semester of my first year at Bezalel. Recalling that makes me wanna cry right now for some reason because I don’t like to think too much about having known him, and writing about it forces me to confront it.
For fuck’s sake, don’t want any man in this lifetime or the next to hurt me like that.
I wish I had the strength right now to file a complaint with the police about Vlad, that son of a bitch. I feel like I’m fearless at everything. I really am capable of anything. Here are a few examples:
At the age of 17 I moved to Russia to begin studies for a degree,
I travel to the most remote, faraway countries on my own, and I don’t want anyone there with me either,
I reprimanded my neighbor’s boyfriend after he’d harassed me and I told him that this would never happen again, in front of her,
I study at Bezalel,
I won a flight to the United States,
I’m sensitive, talented and smart,
But there’s just one thing that I can’t do,
And that’s to file a complaint against Vlad Petrov of no. 1 Jerusalem Street in Bat Yam. I only manage to look at his building from my house on no. 4 Jerusalem Street, trying and trying and trying to watch the balcony on the eighth floor and understand what goes on there. Get pissed off in my stifling, mold-filled, reinforced-concrete safe room. I can also scream, but no one can hear me from the first floor. I can get so pissed off that I don’t fall asleep at night and I go to the window and look at that balcony again and think why didn’t I scream that night when we were on the stairwell between the lobby and the first floor at 3 or 4 or maybe 5 in the morning. I don’t know, the stairwell was artificially lit and I lost my sense of time. What I do know is that when he finished, don’t remember if he came or not (I’m scared that I won’t be able to answer that during questioning either because they’ll definitely ask), he said that he was going to buy me some juice at the shop near our homes. I felt nice for a moment because I’d been crying real hard and I thought that he understood, and when he returned he handed me a little glass bottle with a bit of juice left inside because he’d drank it all.
Arum Palaestinum
Last night Jimmy was in my bed and I came really hard, so hard that the entire charade of sexy groans I’d presented but a few moments earlier simply vanished into thin air as I went on to urge him not to stop.
Today he told me something really hurtful, he told me that I need to put limits on my art and that I shouldn’t draw myself nude or let Sergey see my naked body when he films me in the nude. He thinks that it’s all well and good but not if I’m in a relationship with him, he would find that unacceptable. I felt like the smallest thing in the world when he told me to put limits on my art. But he doesn’t understand, I’ll never limit myself on any medium, I’ll record myself choking from a cucumber on a stairwell in Bat Yam as though it’s a cock and throw up audibly, I’ll be naked and write about my orgasms and no shitty little loser like him will ever tell me to limit myself because I have no limits.
Still, I started crying after he said all that, because he’d made me doubt myself and think that if I’ll be that way then he won’t love me and no man will ever love me if I’m like that. He said that a man who isn’t possessive of his girlfriend like that is no man at all, and I’m a little bit scared that I’m entering an abusive relationship and that it’s becoming difficult for me to get out, like with those flies who climb into that tropical flower that smells good although humans find it rancid and they start sliding through its innards in slow-motion and it seems as though they can still get out but they’re already caught within it. I’m scared of being that way. The worst thing about this whole story is that Jimmy reminds me of my father. His mentality, his speech and his demeanour make me feel at home, not in a good way but still, at home.
I’m crying again now because I realize that my father too doesn’t accept that side of me. When I’d spent months making a 100 by 136 cm nude self-portrait of myself and left it out in the hallway to dry, I had kind of wanted to torture my father a little bit, have him see this painting of his daughter with the vacant stare in her eyes and her breasts exposed for all to see and all of that in supersized dimensions. My father never said a word about it, he always kept quiet but I know that he hated it but I wanted him to see me.
I would never dare show him my nude video.
I showed it to Jimmy a week ago because I wanted him to see me and comprehend me and get to know all of me and understand. No wait I’m bullshitting, I wanted to make him horny because he doesn’t understand a thing about art but his dick would get hard.
He doesn’t understand and he doesn’t accept it and it makes my stomach convulse and I cry and cry and cry and cry. I don’t know why, I don’t think that I want to be in a relationship with him, because he’s stupid, a primitive loser who isn’t searching for nor finding himself, I don’t get why I insist on people like that in my life but still I cried and cried and cried.
I’m somewhat losing myself within all of this as I realize that I’m facing him on my own, and I don’t even know how to start telling my friends about the conversations with him so that they understand and rescue me if the need arises, and to be honest even if they tried to rescue me I wouldn’t want to get out because this flower has already caught the fly and it’s far too sweet to abandon. Even if he isn’t that sweet and he is a bit shitty he still reminds me of my father and I want him to see me naked and I want last night’s orgasm again.
I Think I’ve Broken My Heart Again
July 30th 2022
00:47
I haven’t gotten this excited about a guy in a long while. I feel like it’s only in hindsight that I’d managed to open my eyes and understand what had happened or gone wrong with the guy. Maybe that’s what’s happening to me now with Amir.
I met Amir 50 hours ago (a little over two days) at H. Stern the night before my birthday. I had dragged the girls there because I thought I’d manage to make an impulsive purchase of a few grand since now that I’ve cheated Social Security out of 23 thousand shekels, my economic status in society is significantly high for an unemployed 23-year-old fresh Bezalel graduate.
I didn’t buy anything because the diamonds were too small and therefore didn’t possess the traits of a fine, shiny diamond.
And the big diamonds were actually engineered crystals and pearls. Okay Amir’s downstairs. We’ll resume writing once everything goes to shit.
The following day –
Amir spent the night at my place despite our having split the bill over a 90 shekel bottle of wine. Natalie’s going to call him Fifty-Fifty Centy-Cent.
Gotta say I was charmed by him, he didn’t pressure me, he flattered me and his touch felt good.
But I realize that I have to pause this so as not to seem desperate or overly-quickly loved-up, I’m not even sure if he got a degree after high school, don’t know much about him.
August 3rd 2022
21:13
After another night of him sleeping over, I realized he wasn’t right for me. He doesn’t have the emotional depth I’m looking for, and yet I’m still in anguish.
I guess it’s those old patterns, where I develop a swift obsession for random douchebags who contribute absolutely nothing to me.
It’s easy to realize he’s not for me – smokes loads of weed, no emotional depth, doesn’t know how to be there for you, not the slightest interest in my art, strange penis I’d felt through his underwear, like a pointy little kitchen knife, doesn’t make me laugh, 28 years old and works as a salesman at a jewelry store and as a waiter/bartender who doesn’t know how to make a Pina Colada. It’s also just as easy to recall that he’s got an American citizenship, a lawyer for a father, he’s attractive and the chemistry between us on our first night together was out of this world. It’s interesting that on the second night he constantly tried to elegantly pull my hand towards his cock and disguised it as wanting me to feel comfortable lying down next to him, that he continued kissing me in the morning even though his breath made me wanna throw up and I didn’t feel right telling him dude, go brush your teeth with your finger or something. The fact that the night after I’d told him that I’m a virgin and had experienced sexual assault in the past, he stopped initiating meetings or messaging me. Fucking gross. I wish I’ll never need any man ever, not for a green card and not for comforting me on nights when I feel the emptiness.
It’s really empty now, and tears are coming up, and I’ve even thought about hurting myself a few days ago when I’d felt him growing distant even though I know, I know, I know, I know and I know he’s no good for me, he’s not the right person for me. Yet again I imagined slicing my wrists and jumping towards the light rail as it passes by and blows my hair in a thousand directions.
I know, and yet I still called him today after having deleted our messages yesterday as well as his number, only kept it on the ME contact search engine from when I’d wanted to find out his last name and then his Instagram. So I pulled out his number through ME, dialled it, he didn’t answer and I hung up, a second later this unknown number calls me back and I start mumbling my impulsive question – “I have a question and I don’t know how to ask it not sure if it’s a good idea at all or even appropriate, feel free to say no it’s all good – remember how you offered me to join you on your final week in Hawaii?” And now he was the one stuttering and saying, “What? Can’t hear anything” in an attempt to buy some time for him to figure out a good way of declining. I went on to say that I found tickets for a good price at 1,200 dollars with just one stop in San Francisco, and then he interrupted me and said he might not be going to Hawaii at all but rather Mexico, New York or Los Angeles.
I swallowed and with great difficulty hiding my insult, I told him it’s all good and not to worry and it’s just my daily impulsive thing of looking for last-minute tickets to run away.
Run away from myself. Sometimes during moments like this it’s hard for me, hard for me to bear myself.
I hate how I chase after men who I don’t even see a future with, hate that I need immediate satisfaction for everything, immediate solution and immediate love, I don’t understand what that even means.
He actually has love handles and awful teeth genes, he showed me photos of when he’d straightened his teeth and I thought I was gonna vomit.
I don’t know, maybe I’m just talking shit about him now because my ego’s bruised. To have this cretin refuse an incredible girl like me? 23 years old with a degree, four languages, smart, knows how to handle herself?
I think I agree with Tania, the girl with whom I’d had my first lesbian experience.
She told me today that she must have wanted me as badly as she did because I didn’t want her, and that’s always an attraction, those places where we’re not wanted, no matter the reason.
I however obviously decided that I’m not wanted because of the following:
Fat
Talks in her sleep and probably snores too
Shy
Full of sexual trauma
Wants too much
I spent the last few night drinking alcohol, smoking marijuana and dripping cannabis oil under my tongue.
I did all of that because I couldn’t bear to feel what I was feeling. Otherwise I really would slice my wrists.
August 27th 2022
I think I’ve broken my heart again.
Less than two weeks and over a week ago, I unwillingly flew with my mother to Germany for her work, where she smuggles unique expensive orchids which are banned from growing in Israel. Once again we landed in the middle of nowhere, that same boring town where I’d gotten Covid during the last visit and swore never to set foot there again.
I’d agreed to go because I wanted a change of atmosphere and to escape from what I was feeling towards Amir, as well as have him see that I was abroad and not thinking about him. While there, I turned on Tinder as well as TeleGrass in order to feed my sickness, which for some reason has been long left untreated.
I searched for two days until I found a guy who matches my fucking patterns – Arabic appearance, elegant and somewhat damaged.
(Just got a message again and my eyes immediately looked to see if it was from him despite not having answered his last two messages.)
The first question I asked him was if he knew where I could score a couple of grams in this hell hole, I think he found that funny, my frustration.
When we met he looked slightly different from his photos but still really cute and tall, we drove like a couple of teenagers to his friend’s office in another town, where we sat on our own on a balcony overlooking a cemetery, talked, smoked, and eventually kissed too.
I feel like a fucking schoolgirl as I write these lines.
I’m sick and he’s sick. Don’t wanna feel sick. No fun writing anymore, I feel like there’s nothing left to write and this is all a fucking broken record of Nadia searching for love in all the wrong places.
At first he was a chance to forget about Amir and a second chance, and he very swiftly became a fresh-new chance with which I went on four or five dates, and the moment I landed back in Israel and got on a taxi home from the airport I suggested for us to meet at the Venice Biennale. I had a feeling he’d agree considering the fact we had found it so difficult to part on my last night in Germany.
He agreed.
I bought tickets for goddamn Wizz Air with whom I’d flown the day beforehand from Germany to Israel and swore never to do that again no matter how cheap their tickets are.
I drove to the mall and bought loads of clothes, underwear and pajamas because I was so frightened of the idea of sleeping next to him and for him to see my double chin, my telling secrets in my sleep or heavens forbid let out a fart. So a nice PJ would make up for all that.
I also bought shoes, planned to wax, got laser too, hyaluronic acid lip injection which he loves so dearly and thinks is real, nails done on both hands and toes, eyebrows and tache, and planned to go to the hairdresser’s.
…..
He still hasn’t answered and my body feels bad I feel bad.
……………………….
It’s over Nadia and you have to accept it, it’s happened again and you seriously need to go to therapy.
Tick Tick Tick (Encounter at Turquoise)
I break my own heart every time anew, or perhaps it’s reality pounding it in my face every time.
I think it’s me, hurling myself into places unbefitting my economic status, just in order to smell it, maybe something of that affluence could stick?
Maybe someone will want me and take me far away from the poverty, the survival, the daily calculations.
And then all of this will just seem like an unfamiliar, old nightmare, uncapturable.
Recently I also feel like everything I write is shit on a stick. Don’t know why.
Maybe because it really is.
I feel I’ve exhausted all of my options, I’ve already cried over men, rape, mental health disorders. What else is there?
Each time I open a Tiffany’s catalogue, enter a vintage store for luxury brands, stare at the exterior of glorious hotels with infinity pools in Singapore, somehow I always start crying, just like now, for example, while sitting at the lobby of an extravagant building containing Israel’s wealthiest population.
I’m dressed in a black suit, buttoned blouse, itchy trousers and sandals I bought a few days ago on sale at the Zahav mall, back when I still thought that me and my new boyfriend who suffers from undiagnosed manic-depression and thinks he can heal through magic mushrooms without psychological treatments planned to travel to Venice, I ‘d already purchased the tickets. And I was in the process of choosing new sandals because the old ones tore after six years of unshaken fidelity.
Nevermind. So the bipolar cancelled the trip because it turns out he’d been in the midst of a manic attack when he’d accepted my suggestion for a getaway, and I stayed in Israel only to work a million shifts at this luxurious tower.
So right now I’m here with these sandals which no longer look brand new, typing these words and wiping away tears and snot.
In front of me lies an auction magazine for luxury brands, some from collections, some second-hand, but what they all have in common is the fact that I can’t afford a single one of them.
And the funny thing is that this magazine was tossed at me a few days ago by some old man here at the lobby as a nice gesture, he said here take this so you have something to pass the time with. And here I am leafing through the rare, high-quality Swiss watches priced around two grand, and all I hear is tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick, thirty four shekels an hour, you loser with a degree you can wipe your ass with.
When I was seventeen years old, I went with Hen Sha’ul to a swimwear launch at the Tel Aviv Hilton, she’d been invited there as a social media influencer, we met gorgeous models and took photos with them, I looked like a short butch, chubby and strained next to them, got some very embarrassing photos from that time.
Anyway, when the launch ended, I suggested to Hen we sneak into the hotel swimming pool. When we went down there we saw an elderly guest and asked if we could hang with him in case security came after us. He agreed and that’s how it continued for a few weeks that summer, I’d send him an sms and he’d let us in, until he returned to London.
It’s been six years, and a few days ago, he wrote me.
I’m twenty three now.
He suggested we meet for lunch at the Turquoise restaurant in Herzliya, and I realized that he must have very specific intentions regarding me, or maybe he’s just lonely, but either way I get a free meal.
He sent a car to wait for me downstairs, I wore my red Lacoste dress which cost three hundred shekels and is probably my most expensive dress, a very uncomfortable pair of high heels and a no-longer-new handbag.
At the restaurant, Reuven, the grandpa, got straight to business, he said he could care for whatever I wanted, pretty things, holidays, help with tuition, and me? I’m tired, so tired of this rat race, and out of nowhere comes this old fart waving everything I’d ever wanted in front of my face as though nothing, as though fucking nothing, as though I don’t work for thirty four shekels an hour like a fucking slave, as though I can afford to study at Columbia University for a hundred and fifty grand for two years, as though everything’s so easy, just suck my sixty-three year old cock, go out with me and don’t be embarrassed when waiters give you a look. And you’ll feel like a whore, as though you’re naked in front of them, because they know, they know you’re a freeloader, they know what’s happening, and if they were unsure, the old man would seal the deal by reaching his hand to yours across the sticky table. So they’d definitely know.
It's funny cuz I always thought that were I to get this sort of opportunity, I’d grab it straight away, but I just sat there in complete disassociation from myself, trying to figure out how I got to the point where I was flirting with him as though I’m a prostitute at a job interview, I even told him I’d consider his offer. God… It all starts and ends with the fact that I can’t even afford therapy because any psychologist with immediate availability who knows a thing or two would cost four hundred shekels in this country. I need therapy right now and I can’t afford it, and if I go out with you, you putrid old man, I’ll need therapy even more but I guess at least then I’ll be able to afford it.
I still haven’t replied to Reuven, even though any sane mind would know the obvious answer. But I am waiting.
Maybe the moment will come when I crack and agree to it, and maybe it’ll make my life much more simple and comfortable.
Because I’m going to need therapy either way.
Conquests
I started therapy last week, turns out the therapist is actually a psychoanalyst. Despite having read about it I still don’t understand what that really means. Ever since the first session I felt that it could be really aggressive for me, because during the session I sit on a couch like Freud’s in a very Freudian room with brownish-yellow walls, dim lighting from the desk lamp, a library filled with essays by Freud and his pals, all male, while in front of me sits a male therapist nodding in apathy to any and all tragedies I cast at him. I find that to be very aggressive.
Furthermore, I told him that the fact he’s a man might prove difficult for me, because his gender, his sex, represents a hefty quantity of my conflicts – belligerence, fear of them, the men, my weakness when facing them, my desire to desire them, to be good and pretty for them, funny, smart, everything they’ve ever dreamed of or will ever dream. I am Nadia Younes and I am here to make all of your fantasies come true. I am nothing and I am everything – for you and you alone.
I’ll fall in love with swimming, tennis, cars, the stock market, philosophy, books, art of the ugly kind. Everything everything everything.
And nothing.
I’ve found a new victim after having exhausted the previous one.
With the previous one, I’ve forgotten his name already, ummm come on gross old man sixty three years old. Reuven!
Yes, Reuven, who gave me thirteen grand in cash in envelopes held by rubber-bands, twenty-nine hundred of that designated for a smoking rehab course for me, five grand for the holidays and then a further five grand when I told him I’d already run out of cash. I also managed to squeeze him for a five grand pair of Celine boots from the new collection. I couldn’t manage to return them afterwards because I’d just looked for the most expensive item in that shitty store at the Ramat Aviv mall, and the funny thing was that this miserable old man was frightened of bumping into people he knew while wandering around with a young woman such as myself in case his wife accidently found out, found out what?
That a young woman is playing him? That he thinks we’re going to fuck real hard?
I didn’t even want to kiss him, the mere notion horrifies me, and the worst thing is that I didn’t know how to get myself away from him after that time because he’d already booked a night for us at some hotel in Haifa for the following week with a very clear intention. Pffff.
People are funny.
Anyhow, two days ago, I told him that I got covid (I think the whole covid thing is one major piece of bullshit) but how lovely is it to have a worldwide pandemic that I can use to my advantage. I even sent him a photo of the covid test Almog had taken nearly a year ago when she came out positive, and I urged him to take a test just to make sure he was alright and didn’t get it too, heavens forbid.
Two days have passed. He sends good morning messages and I tell him I’m dying, even though I’m actually at work at Yoo Tower where I’m now creating new contacts with rich people.
01.10
I pity women who are forced to go out and get married and fuck ugly old men because they have money, a kind of golden cage.
I, in the meantime, am playing with a semi-open cage. I think I’ve found a new sport.
Cats and Cockroaches
There’s a fucking cat here who sounds like a female cat and won’t stop screeching, I think I’m going to kill it. I’m not usually like this, but when his ceaseless howls continue for four hours straight, when I’ve taken Focalin and I’m like a cokehead with a locked jaw, and to top it all off I’m experiencing a crisis in pretty much all aspects of life, then I’m pretty sure I’m going to kill him.
Words can’t describe the amount of discomfort this brings up within me. I’ve already kicked off the day with a fine amount discomfort, sadness, guilt, anger, fear, plus a huge chunk of feeling sorry for my own ass.
I don’t know if it’s worth elaborating on the origins of these emotions since I already felt incredibly boring and dull when describing them to my male therapist, the one taking a hundred dollars per session post-discount and still has the audacity to seem bored by the content of my issues in life.
I’m sick and tired of feeling as though I force my issues onto someone, especially if I pay them this much for a lousy forty minute session in which I spend half the time feeling complete dissociation from this fucked up reality, matrix, simulation, whatever the fuck you wanna call it, while the other half is spent feeling exposed in front of a man which I might find attractive – perhaps the ring on his finger accentuates the allure.
Full prose is available upon request