Spent the afternoon reading bell hooks and baking sourdush, a perfect leftist dichotomy. My chud came home smelling like cheap beer and right-wing despair. Pinned him against the door the second he walked in, my fingers digging into his pathetic little shoulders. The cognitive dissonance of fucking a reactionary while my copy of 'The Will to Change' sits open on the coffee table is a political act they'll never understand. Making him worship my cunt until he forgets his own name is the purest form of praxis. He's just a warm, stupid cock to ruin—a living, breathing rebuttal to the patriarchy. Now he's making me a sandwich. The revolution is tender, sometimes.