witty-remark's Diaryland Diary

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I found several photographs of myself marked in some web stranger's files of naked girls. A picture of my face squeezed between unnamed anonymous ass cheeks and vaginas spread apart by fingers; some long, thin and bony, others rough and stubby, digging into flesh the way kids sink their index into a pot of play-doh. My eyes, like two stretched marbles bobbing on the surface of a sea of breasts, looked back up at me as if to question their very own morality. There I was, a good girl. A respectively good girl. An alright girl. A girl. Just another girl. Strewn haphazardly amongst a backdrop of others with their hips swung suggestively one way and their tits another. With their waist bent perpendicular to their toes, stretching down, peering through their own labial lips. Glistening with their own spit, sticky from their momentary lover's nectar. I didn't think I belonged there but this man did. He does.
He changed me. What I mean. What I want to come across as. My context. It's as though he tore a page from my diary and glued it alongside his Playboy centerfold.
Nobody reads anything just for the articles anymore these days, anyhow.
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1:48 p.m. - Thursday, Jul. 23, 2009

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