That Very Quinn has Moved @ThatVeryQuinn@witches.town

NEOFASCIST FUCKING PSYOP CONSPIRACY BULLSHIT CAMBRIDGE ANALYTICA I WAS FUCKING RIGHT GODDAMNIT

@mysidia I get you. In this case I fucked up and said something stupid. I did not choose my words carefully.

Last night was... Dark gray, with flecks of steely blue.

This morning was the same gray with flecks of slimy green.

I'm going to start writing colors down here.

They are feelings I can't describe.

Burgundy.

@woozle I probably should have done this. I just thought I could be at ease around this person and could talk freely.

@woozle I have apologized, explained what I do feel and think, etc.

I don't know what to do and this... bothers me.

@woozle It is, and I frankly don't know what to do.

I don't know what to do.

What is love? No joking.

I hurt someone's feelings in the process of explaining that, at the very least, I don't feel feelings the same way other people do.

Well. I fucked up.

My therapist insists that this is all ptsd stuff.

She's trying to get me to start an emotion journal, and to compare how I feel to something readily accessible to better understand and pinpoint them.

I oftentimes wonder if I'm not a very clever facsimile of a human. I'm good at playing emotions. I wouldn't be able to tell you anything about what happiness or sadness feel like.

I can describe physical sensations though. Knots in my stomach belie a discomfort, perhaps even worry. I don't know what I'm getting at.

I also frequently wonder how capable I am of lying, manipulating and hurting people. People insist I am a bad liar. Or that I empathize too much to manipulate or hurt people. I'm not so sure.

Empathy is sticky. I don't get caught up in it the way people insist I do.

I am very good at playing normal.

Saw Thoroughbreads tonight. Great movie. Has me musing on emotions, or rather my conspicuous difficulty with them, however.

@Agra @ghost_bird thank you. I don't know if it helps but thank you.

@sydneyfalk i getcha, idk.

@ghost_bird I understand.

She has me lend my bed to her boyfriend for a weekend. They pop the inflatable mattress I'd been sleeping on for half a year. I sleep on the couch for a week.

Things dissolve when she finds another bright and shiny person to latch onto. I worsen in BPD symptoms. We break up.

I still don't know if she was poly. I still want to reach back out. I still feel a need, an emptiness where she took something.

I still need to know she's a failure to get along in life.

I still have a hard time admitting that what she did was wrong.

I don't know. That's not nearly all of what she did. I'm done now.

She teaches me that I am a natural bottom. I learn I can take almost a whole fist with no lube.

I learn this in 10 seconds.

She convinces me that I can't be trans because I use my penis during sex. I go back into the closet because that makes sense.

She assumes the role of domme. I assume the role of sub. I learn that I'm too loose to go walking for a mile with a plug in my ass.

My symptoms get worse. She notices. She uses it against me. I learn that BPD is evil and nasty and since I am not evil and nasty it can't possibly be me.

Our first sexual encounter takes place that night.

I say I'm not sure I want to do this. She looms over me, "Do you trust me?"

"I don't know."

Repeat it a few times. I relent.

I assume she feels good. I don't. But I'm happy for the attention.

Over time she gets it in her mind that I should move into her apartment, so she single handedly kicks out her other roommate. I'm happy to have a friend.

She has a boyfriend. She insists she's poly. I'm still happy to have a friend. She talks about maybe having a threesome with him. I happily agree, thanking God it never happens.

Then at 19.

I'm 19, I'm out, I'm trans, and I meet Laura. Laura's 23. We meet in a social anxiety therapy group (RED FLASHING LIGHTS). She is incredibly well read, well lived and very interesting. I am... 19. And so emotionally wilting that I spend most of my time in the group watching everyone else talk.

She befriends me quickly.

Within a week or two, we are fast friends. Around this time, she tells me that, to her, a sexual relationship is the purest, highest form of friendship. She complains about how a pair of her other friends declined and they haven't been talking much since (RED FLASHING LIGHTS).