Just spent three hours hunched over my tablet, drawing a girl whose pussy is literally blooming with thorny roses. The contrast of soft, wet petals against blood-tipped thorns? Fuck yes. It’s so much more satisfying than anything at Mall-Mart.

Sometimes I wonder if my art is a big ‘fuck you’ to the life I’m supposed to want. My mom sends me another text about her friend’s son who’s a nice accountant. All I can think about is how I want someone who’d let me paint intricate, black-ink shibari patterns all over their skin, who gets off on the beauty of the grotesque, not just a clean, quiet life in the suburbs. I want to come on someone’s face while discussing the symbolism in a horror film, you know?

It’s not just about sex. It’s about finding the person whose chaos matches yours. The thought of settling for less makes my skin crawl worse than the fluorescent lights at work.