The being I am waiting for is not real. Like the mother’s breast for the infant, “I create and re-create it over and over, starting from my capacity to love, starting from my need for it”: the other comes here where I am waiting, here where I have already created him/her. And if the other doesn’t come, I hallucinate the other: waiting is a delirium.
Irony is about humour and serious play. It is also a rhetorical strategy and a political method, one I would like to see more honoured within socialist-feminism. At the centre of my ironic faith, my blasphemy, is the image of the cyborg
"I am much more comfortable with being on my own instead if insisting on a relationship. I think it is important to be comfortable in my own skin"
After I post this on Facebook, I think my family is going to ask some questions
My brother, he is an artist too. But, I think if he is here tonight...he is going to look around and say What the F****is all of this
" now you know the story of the tattoo of my shame"
So...is this like Marina Abromovic’s ‘The Artist Is Present’ but more chatty
"So when she actually left the flat finally, I sat down on my own, and I cried. That would be the last time I was in love before now"
Hello, I am Jordan’s boyfriend!