Entry four.

"wow, make a list of all the guys you like. check them off one by one after having told them ALL to fuck off."

Once again, Teresa proves her genius. I've been extremely crush happy the past month, but a conversation with a previous partner has killed that. Thank the fuck Christ.

Entry three and a half.

Dear dudes,
I'm writing this on behalf of a few members of Venus Cunt Trap. There was a supplementary meeting recently and there was an observation in relation to your dicks made. You can't seem to cuddle without getting a boner. I get it, we're all super attractive and it's awesome laying in bed with us. But cuddlezone is not the pregame to the boneyard. We're obviously cuddling with you because we like you, at least platonically, and we enjoy it or we wouldn't do it (wait, you did ask and make sure it was okay right? There was consent to cuddle? GOOD). But one day I'd like to watch a movie with you and not feel your boner in my back.

Love,
Tonia on behalf of Venus Cunt Trap.

Entry three.

I can't be fixed. Please don't take that for more then it's worth. It's not my heart, my spirit, my deeper metaphysical self. It's my body. I can't be fixed. My body doesn't respond to all of the raw, organic, overpriced vegan foods and $50 supplements or the 5 miles I ran every morning. It also politely ignores the handful of pills that restructure my chemistry and slow down what goes too fast. Ignores the synthesised hormones I pump into myself. It hides whatever it attacks me with from the CT scans, sonograms, dozens of blood tests.
I average 6 weeks between emergency room visits. The nurses know me, the doctors hate me. They've seen me enough to know that there's no clear cause to what's happening so they get me out as fast as they can. 2 years after consistent visits, I'm all but immune to the synthetic heroin they give me. 2 years ago, 1mg had me out for 8 hours the second it hit my brain. Fast forward to January, they've just given me 5mg, I'm awake and coherent but at risk of my respritory system shutting down. They send a 17 year old home with oxycodone. They don't even hand it to my partner, or my father. They hand it to me, without knowing my history of prescription abuse.
I know what should be causing it. I know I deserve it for some Victorian-era autoerotic ritual of infliction and then denial. I know it's the root of my other ailemts. My hypersensitive heart, my hair falling out in handfuls, fainting spells, consistent diziness, the half digested blood I've shit out when it gets really bad. It's obvious what should be causing it, but somehow, that's not it.
Logic even manages to escape my body.

Entry two.

I never thought I'd admit this, but I really don't want to be in California right now.

Entry one.

Without fail, I get sick every time the seasons change.