pyan-nor

[pyan-nor]

🐾🐾🐾

[pyan-nor]

Huge fan of J-Pop, Sana-Chan is my idol. I hope I get blessed with her friendship…one day 💔

[pyan-nor]

Фёдор Достоевский

[pyan-nor]

Love ♡

doodle

[pyan-nor]

I thought about killing myself this Valentine’s Day. To leave the lovers, and the lovers alone to their mingling. To their sex, to their love-making whilst I lay in my bathtub, wrists slit and virginity intact.

but, those two beers and the rest of my gin would go to waste.

[pyan-nor]

I touch myself to Nina Simone

as the moonlight illuminates my cluttered room

and I pretend that I am the other woman.

It is quite fun

to pretend that I was a second-choice

to pretend I was anything but

a time-passer with glasses

and heavy breasts

to pretend I wasn’t a genre of pornography

with sexual-ignorance and a nasal-voice.

I reach my orgasm

and I stop pretending

[pyan-nor]

What is pleasure? What is this abstract, unclear feeling? Does everyone pleasure themselves the same? I worry that my orgasms are different, freakish. That build-up of pure tension, a coil in my tummy of lava. The stretching of my legs, toes-curling as the bird that is my clitoris explodes into feathers. I worry that my pleasure exists from the relief of tension, instead, of plain pleasure. Do I experience it like women? Or, does my insatiable-libido translate into a testosterone lantern, that illuminates my uterus like a forest.

That progressive-metal on my TV, shining onto my mattress-floor bed, a pink light from the drums of Danny Carey onto my sinful body.

My first sexual-experience was called sinning, because, I was too young to know of the full extent of sex. I knew it was bad, and nothing more. I lay in my bed, my vibrator dead and tears on my flushed cheeks.

I will never be like other girls, because I feel this inexplicable-emotion with every wave of pleasure through my body.

[pyan-nor]

NEET moves to New York —

I quit my job, I’ve applied to multiple community-colleges in NYC, and I have a friend that I will be living-with. It’s somewhere between Brooklyn and Queens, and my school is in Manhattan. I love trains, however. Metro won’t be an issue ~ eheh. I’ll be studying liberal-arts, and then transfer to NYU for anthropology. We’ll have an apartment, and I’ll be satisfied with my loneliness! A bedroom, my computer, a couple vibes and I’ll be happy!

I’ll be moving in the summertime, and I’ll be taking my sweet boy with me. Beaux goes to the big city, how darling. I cannot stand to be in Florida. I am so excited to fulfill my virgin, NEET, hikikomori dreams!

[pyan-nor]

spy

[pyan-nor]

Nyon is a babygirl and you can't convince me

[pyan-nor]

I hate it all.

I hate that whenever I was six-years old, my fate was decided. That my life, my path, was decided by the person I have been from six-years old to eighteen. I was plagued by academics, the traditional-system deeming me a failure, and not inverting it. How could common-core be the failure? It isn’t as if the school-system took a $200 million bribe from Steve Jobs to reinvent math. It an attempt to make me an astrophysicist, I go to night-school and get my GED. It isn’t their fault that my parents will never see their daughter, 140 IQ, walk-across a stage, with a cap and diploma. That I will be rejected from opportunity because I didn’t do meaningless assignments, that I didn’t do the made-up bullshit they told me I had to do. It doesn’t matter that I’ve read every classic, or that I’ve been bilingual for years. I’ve written essays about nothing, for no-one, for fun. I spent free-time researching the quickest ways to be worthwhile, the licenses I can get to have a successful life, but I’ll never be happy.

I work in capitalism, fast-fashion. I work because these 5.99 shirts are .05 cents to make. I work because I cannot rise against it. I will never be anything that isn’t capitalism. I have a fantasy, of being an academic. In the sense of the Academy, of Plato, the Lyceum of Aristotle. Doing nothing but learning, everything and anything. I could spend the sixty-years I have left, pouring through every-fucking-book ever written. I could write nothing of my own, be completely, wholeheartedly, insignificant and I would be happy because I got to live. I got to learn.

It isn’t Athens in 367BC. It is Florida, on January 10th, 2024. I sit in my bedroom that my father owns. I read Lolita and The Divine Comedy, both, opened and flat on my bed. I have fantasies of being famous, being a god-damn rockstar, but my bass-guitar sits abandoned in the corner, by the computer, where I’ve created an alternative-account to message my ex-boyfriend. We dated for a month. We’ve been broken up for three, and I hate him. I want him so, so much that it kills me and he doesn’t comprehend what true, obsessive love is. K says that ‘she’s weird’, and that he regrets it. I say that I love him, that I need him, and he denies, and blocks, and leaves. It feels as if God doesn’t want me to be happy. Isn’t my life ruined enough? Let me get what I want, please. Lord knows it would be the first time. It aches that he hates me, he said he doesn’t but I know he does.

It destroys me, like a rot. I will still save myself for him. I will stay alone, if it means I can have my husband back into my lithe arms one day. I will lay, alone in my bed and masturbate twice a day. I will hang out with my cat, and cry, and sob. Secondhand CDs on my shitty, broken stereo. I hate metal. I hate pop-punk. I hate Radiohead if I can’t enjoy it with you.

Another day as Pyan-Nor.

Just one of the many trials and tribulations.

(p.s. it’s pronounced Ph-yawn No-are)

[pyan-nor]

Small gif of nyon

[pyan-nor]

ranfren!

[pyan-nor]

ура ранфрен @captainhowdie

[pyan-nor]

There’s this overwhelming feeling of nothingness when you work in retail. It feels like you aren’t making a mark on the world, not even a tiny scuff. You’re truly, completely doing nothing. In food-service I was providing the hungry with food. In retail, I put clothes on a rack. I get allergies from the dust, from the dirty floor. I flatten it and make the racks pretty, and put clothes that have been returned in the discount section. How could so much be truly nothing?

[pyan-nor]

my daughter that I love

Batman and Robin by Dustin Nguyen

[pyan-nor]

Carrie Kelley travels the U.S.! she doesn’t like Florida… pardon her expression