As an anarchist into boot worship

I find the phrase bootlicker offensive. Just because I get erotic pleasure by running my tongue over highly polished leather boots doesn’t mean I support hierarchical institutions, just the mutually agreed upon arrangement between me and the owner of the boots I happen to be licking.

I’d say the inimitable Bret Michaels but like… honestly Bret’s fairly imitable so that would be lying.

C’est mieux que de chier à mort

Battle Cry of Napoleon’s Troops.

Femboy?

No, I am a fully adult fem-man, with concerns about local elected officials and something approaching an understanding of tax deductions.

There has never been a heterosexual bone in my body

except for those of three or four confused straight men who slept with me by mistake and all the chicken bones I ate before I found out that you aren’t supposed to eat chicken bones at age 20.

Yes, for the thousandth time I know ALL about the Petrine cross, but pop culture means that shit is ours now, bitches.

A recipe

I have invented a meal that is simultaneously the embodiment of “I worked a horrible set of hours I deserve this” “I am PMSing and underslept to the point of hallucinating a little” and “God has forsaken us, no one deserves this"You start by carving up and frying some slab bacon, blearily forgetting to turn the heat down to a reasonable level.

Then, once the pan is saturated with grease, remove the bacon and add two eggs to soak up the grease along with old stale French fries from last night because why the fuck not? You scramble that into a hideous oozing mess, mix hot sauce and butter on a piece of white bread, put your awful egg mixture atop it, add salt and ketchup (any brand that isn’t Heinz, because your husband went to the whole foods and thus had to get their special ketchup, and is for this reason slightly weird in terms of its flavor profile will do) and eat while simultaneously contemplating the futility of everything and trying to remember what you said five minutes ago because your working memory is shot from lack of sleep.

You know sometimes I’m weirdly glad I’m not a cis dude

Because like honestly, fucking my boyfriend with a weird sparkly crystalline nightmare cock

or a franken-dick

while he smacks me around or humiliates me is just so much more me, you know?

There is a video of me as a child

Twirling in my dress-up clothes, insisting that I am a princess, while the little neighbour boy argues with me by insisting that I am a girl, and I feel that this is the debate I have continued to have with the world about my gender ever since.

My most recent tweets are a beautiful synthesis of fincuck rhetoric and vague Marxism (with a lot of toxic masculinity thrown in because fincuck):

So allow me to explain why #findomme is such an excellent system for female satisfaction. Many women want two things: Good hard dickings as provided by a big hard cock attached to a hot guy, and sparkly pretty expensive things.

The problem is, hot guys who can provide the good hard dickings are almost never the same guys who can provide us with the sparkly pretty expensive things we obviously deserve. Bougie guys have been statistically proven to have smaller dicks and less staying power.

Thus, #findomme, where alphas play, and losers pay, lets us bang the sexy lumpen prole bad boys we lust after, and the weak flabby unappetizing bourgeois pencil pushers who look like shit under their suits, pay for it all including the designer lingerie our lovers rip off us.

and thus I get designer shoes and diamonds and am a #spoiledprincess, but I get to be dicked down by sexy ass artists and rock musicians, who do manual labour and can thus fuck me properly. #fincuck #brattydomme