The Fappening: Reaffirming Man's Ruthlessness in 2014

"The Fappening" happened.

"Finally" some Reddit users are saying. Yes, finally. Finally we have bold evidence that humans are the most inhumane of creatures.

The Fappening is rape from a distance. It is cyber-molestation, a complete expulsion of privacy and a discharge of decency.

The Fappening will be remembered as the day mankind devolved into a gang of horny and greedy degenerates who jumped at the chance to degrade a group of women, worldwide.

This is not pornography, this is a disgusting sex crime in which everyone who views the photos partakes.

I saw some of the pictures yesterday. I observed and commented and even laughed. Can you believe that? I fucking LAUGHED at a fellow human being whose most private moments were stolen from her.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME. THIS IS NOT OK.

I feel so strongly for these girls. This is not just their bodies. This is their minds we are ripping away from them. And I am just as guilty as the rest of you spectators.

So why did I do it?
Shock. Awe. Curiosity and the complete relief that it wasn't me.

Well guess what.

It WAS me. A few years ago, when I was barely 19, I was at a Halloween party and my phone got stolen. Now at this time, I had had a long-term boyfriend of two years, and of course, some photos had been traded between him and I. So what happened when my phone was stolen, and the photos with it? Well the person who took my phone, opened my Facebook (I was constantly logged into my account as it was an app on my cell phone) and uploaded, to MY OWN profile, nude photos of me.

What did this look like to everyone else but a slutty teenager who got drunk and posted nudes of herself online?

Needless to say I was devastated. I ripped around and deleted every photo that had been posted. Luckily (as if anything was lucky about this situation), it was two in the morning on Halloween, so it was not the prime time for Facebook. But believe me, there was enough attention given (many repulsed, and many [repulsively] aroused responses) to really get into my head.

That was MY body. Those were MY photos. And it was me at my most vulnerable, on display for every person I knew to see. It was horrendous. The following week at University and the reoccurring scrutiny that it brought to my loss of dignity made it worse. It took me a long time to get over that violation and rebuild my self-respect.

Now for me to imagine what these girls are going through, how the ENTIRE WEB-ACCESSING WORLD can see them naked without their permission, that is fucked up. That is horrible. That is rape from a distance, and every fucker out there who jerks off to these women is violating them without their permission.

And maybe you think I'm just disgruntled, maybe you think I'm overreacting, maybe you think I'm a self-righteous female, but fuck you for doubting for one second the shame that this brings to everyone abusing this defamation. Fuck. You.

You are an asshole. I am an asshole. We are all a bunch of fucking assholes armed with computers and cruelty.

Take it from someone who's been there; This violation of privacy, even on a small scale, and especially on a large one, is a brutality that deserves objection.

Sincerely Disgusted,

LF

cheese

do you know when you've had a really long day, and you stop at the grocery store to buy dinner, and you don't really want to cook so you go to the deli section and you think, I could go for some cheese tonight, so you head to the fridge carousel and you pick up some cheddar and it says it's been aged for two years and it looks pretty tender and you think, This is some nice cheese, but as you put it in your basket you see another cheese and it's gouda and it's smoked and you think, Gouda? I hadn't even thought about gouda, so then you think about gouda and you start to notice all these other kinds of cheeses and you see that the gouda is lactose free and even though you're not lactose intolerant that somehow intrigues you, and you don't know a lot about cheese so you think maybe it's because gouda comes from goats not cows and then you think How come people aren't intolerant to goat's milk? so then you look back at the cheddar and now it doesn't seem so nice even though it's been aged for two years and it's pretty tender and you thought it was nice before, so then you put the cheddar back but as soon as you let it go you think What if I don't like gouda? and so you put the gouda down and now you're standing there by that refrigerated cheese carousel without a fucking thing in your hands and you get sort of sad all of a sudden and you wonder if you're ever going to pick a cheese and even if you do will it ever be the right cheese and suddenly you start to tear up but you think, No, I'm better than crying in a grocery store, so you pick up the cheddar again because trust your first gut right? and you pay for your cheese and you walk back to your car but as you sit there in the parking lot getting ready leave you realize that maybe it's not about the fucking cheese and it's never about the fucking cheese and maybe you don't even like the fucking cheese that much anyway and so you kind of scrub your fingers into your scalp and pull your hair and hit the steering wheel once or maybe twice and your cheeks are hot and wet and it's hard to see so you rub your eyes dry and when you look up there's an elderly asian man watching you freak out a little bit in your car by yourself, and so you slowly start your car and pull out of the parking lot and as you drive away you wonder if the elderly asian man ever cries and if he ever can't decide on a cheese and if he ever thinks that he doesn't even like cheese at all either.

△

I can smell the cigarettes.
I haven't smoked in days
But I can smell the cigarettes
in between your legs.

I can taste the coke cut up,
running down my throat.
I can smell the cigarettes,
even with no smoke.


I can see an image of
a woman lying bare
I can see the ink she's buried
underneath her hair

pubic becomes public when
we let ourselves believe
that smoking isn't bad for you.
that you will never leave.

if I could capture
you
and me
if I could capture
what
you see
if I could capture
the
capturing

I'd capture-keep,
the
long legs/
black hair/
smoke suspended in the air

a cat with whiskers wiser than/
the man who's broken eggs again

the shells that feed the mystery
because WHO THE FUCK COOKS EGGS AT MIDNIGHT
and I swear to god if one more person looks at me seductively
I'll rip apart the
leather jackets
jean vests
studded flannels
studded chests

because life just never seems as good/
as retrospectively.

as looking back on someone else's/
frozen memories.

and the worst-best part of everything
is when it seems so real,
that you could become one of them
if only you could feel.

Let's Just Do Ourselves A Favour and Remain Two Perfect Strangers

Back before I knew your name,

your one true north,

your compass aim,

Back before I heard your voice,

tasted your teeth,

and felt your noise,

Back before I saw your scars,

dug up your grave,

and drank your tar,

Back before the monsoon came,

I knew nothing of the rain.

Why do lions hunt their prey, in the middle of the day?

And why do strangers seem so strange, if all people are the same?

"What makes you get out of bed?"

You once asked me.

And I once said,

"My bed will be there later on, from dawn to dusk and dusk to dawn,

but a day is like a human life,

once it's begun, it starts to die."

Morbid.

Sad.

and So Naive.

Instead of names you gave me these.

You hated who I had become,

though I'd never changed the song I sung.

It's not the sweetest melody,

I'll be the first one to agree,

the tempo's rude,

the words are harsh,

the violin sparks in the dark.

Far away from crib-side yarn,

it fits more in a smoke-filled bar.

It is not a gentle harmony,

but I'll be damned, if it's not me.

And I warned you when we first became

more than strangers being strange,

that lions hunt during the day,

and I was hungry, in a way.

This City

doesn't this city just make you want to break things
doesn't this city just make you fucking hate things
doesn't this city just make you want to run
want to invest
in a knife
or a gun

don't all these people just drive you insane
and don't all these people always ask your name
just to forget
in a sec-ond
why they even came

into this world,
for shame
for shame

and wasn't it just the other fucking day
that you thought to yourself

maybe I can escape

and wasn't it just
the other fucking day
you told yourself

I can break the fuck away

but here you are in the same damn place

and here you are
losing the rodent race.

because money is tight
and morals are loose

and who gives a single fuck,
if their neck's in a noose

I mean, baby, or shithead,
all these little games,
come on baby,
my shithead
we're wasting away

bourbon, 
no-
whiskey
the devil in a drink

he pulls me straight past hades,
to deeper depths I sink

And it's the scars that you can't see
that run the fucking deepest

and who are you to say
I shouldn't fucking drink this

How dare you look at me
and say I shouldn't smoke,

I look at you-
and encourage you to choke.

Pond Scum

I'm sick of hearing, "you can't". It's starting to sound like the mantra of the majority.

"You can't live in a 10 X 10 apartment."
"You can't work two jobs."
"You can't up and move to another country."
"You can't just be a writer."

Why?

"Because, because you can't! It's not that easy."

No, it's not. But I don't want to do these things because they're easy. I want to do them because they're worth it. Because the higher the pressure the more liberty you feel once it's released. Because overcoming the challenge is half the fun. Because proving you wrong is inspiration enough to get out of bed, to run instead of walk, to jump when told to sit. Because in a world where the survival of the fittest has become a mere concept, the only true form of freedom is recklessness.

No, I don't want your advice, no, I don't need to slow down, and no, I didn't ask you what you're doing this weekend, because let me guess; you're going to check out that new gimmick restaurant where they lock up your cell phones because you and your friends are a internet-nymphos that can't restrain yourselves from getting off on hashtags in the middle of dinner.

"But why would you want to leave Canada? You don't realize how lucky you are."

Do you want to know, do you really, really want to know why I hate it here?

Because of people like you.

Because you bore the fucking shit out of me. Because you watch reality TV and shop at Victoria Secret. Because you're in a perpetual state of waiting for the weekend. And when it comes, you tip well, and absolve yourself of a 600 calorie coffee with the singular Hail Mary, "It's Friday!".

And as I watch you sacrifice your body to the gods of the Weekend, smearing the innards of an imported danish over your face like war paint, I can tell who you really are. Because, don't forget, I've seen you on Monday.

I've seen you Monday morning when I'm not important enough to even make eye contact with, when you bitch and moan because your 6 figure salary still makes you get up before nine. And for all of the smiles and gratuity that the weekend brings, that's who you really are.
A fucking Monday.

So instead of sticking around and sniveling about my surroundings, I want to escape. To experience, examine and explore. I've taken enough from Canada, for a long, long time.

I see that you're already comfortable here. You've settled in, calm and complacent. Not looking to leave, to move, to run like a river. No. You are happy being still. You are happy being stagnant.

And maybe it's the fact that I can't sit without shaking my legs, maybe it's because I've moved more times than years I've been alive, but I feel more at home in the crash of the wave than the calm of a lake. And you told me that you're scared of the ocean, but while still water is easier to swim in, it's the one that gets pond scum.


never yours,
LF

HIDDEN | SEARCHING

365 Days of Creativity

one hundred and eighteen

HIDDEN | SEARCHING

There's a poem hidden on my tongue

but I just can't find it,

my mouth is numb.

I've been sipping on winter for way too long,

this city is colder than your bubbler bong;

but I like the way it's one way streets all seem to lead from you to me,

and I like how you take them at full throttle

playing marco polo with the bottom of the bottle-

-As if you don't find it every night;

like the last few drops aren't your lullaby.

And it's an alibi that lulls you out of lucidity,

because your favourite superpower is anonymity.

And you don't mind if I show up when I'm fucking high,

because I'm a god damn child who can't handle life.

I'm the peak of the mountain all covered in white,

I'm the age old dragon,

I'm the youthful sprite

I'm the bowl that you smoke when you come down slowly,

I'm the pipe that you toke when you got no rollies.

I'm your vice, I'm your habit, I'm your bad addiction

I'm your fight, I'm your project, I'm your real life fiction.

I'm the cut on your tongue that you won't let heal,

I'm the poem in your mouth that you cannot feel.

Now I'm the lover of your discontent,

I'm the jar in your cupboard that's labelled 'rent'.

It's the 26th and the jar's still empty,

but we've got a two-six and your pouring hand's heavy.

Using whisky and water as lubrication-

it numbs and smooths through our expectations.

And I don't know when we made the agreement to feed our fucks and starve our feelings,

But my belly feels full like the waxing moon, 

and my chest holds as much as a fractured spoon.

Naked and hungry-

we share your bed

-searching for the words, in each other's heads.