You really wanna hear it? Like all of it?

Fine. But don’t fucking look at me like I’m crazy when I’m done. Don’t give me that pity face, or worse, that fake shock like you’re not just as rotten inside.

Here’s the truth... I don’t believe in anything. Not God. There's no “meaning.” Forget that bullshit about everyone being special. People are just meat. Soft, needy, pathetic little animals pretending they’re better than the hunger in their gut.

And me? I’m not pretending anymore.

I’ve stripped all the layers off, burned every excuse down to nothing, and what’s left is this: I’m here to be used. That’s it. I’m not meant to be someone’s love story. I was never here to be protected. My purpose is to be owned, wrecked, filled, and left dripping with whatever someone felt like dumping into me.

And honestly? That feels more honest than any fairytale crap.

I mean, think about it. What else is there? Everyone wants to take. To control something, fuck something, ruin something. They lie about it, they dress it up with romance or morality, but deep down? They’re all just waiting for something soft enough to destroy without consequence.

That’s why I’m perfect. Because I want to be that soft thing. I want to be the one they don’t hold back on. Who can take it all.

You know what actually gets me off? The idea that I’m not even a person to them. That I’m just a hole. A toy. Something they can spit on, piss in, dump their filth into, and not feel bad about because I asked for it. I fantasize about being a permanent fixture... kept somewhere dark and stinking, chained up, plugged and leaking, waiting for whoever feels like using me next.

Yeah. That’s my happy place.

And it’s not just sex. It’s the philosophy of it. It’s knowing I’m stripping myself of all that fake dignity people cling to. Like, what’s the point of dignity? You die. You rot anyway. So why not rot right now? Why not give up the fight and just become what you really are?

Just a body. A fuckable, ruinable body.

I want it to go so far I stop being me. I don’t even want a name. Just call me “it,” or “the hole.” Don’t ask how I feel. Stop treating me like I matter. Just use me like the thing you put your hunger into and then wipe yourself off with when you’re done. That’s all I’ve ever been good for anyway.

Sometimes I imagine it as a religion. Like I’m the altar, and the worship is just… desecrating me. Filling every hole. Covering me in spit and piss and cum until I don’t even look human anymore. That would be the purest kind of faith, wouldn’t it? No lies, no masks. Just raw hunger meeting raw surrender.

I’d let them do anything. Things you’d probably throw up even thinking about. Things I can’t even say out loud without feeling my hole clench. Choke on whatever they shoved in my mouth.

Because the truth is… I don’t want to belong to myself. I don’t want to be clean. Don’t want to be “safe” or “loved.” I want to be ruined.

And I mean ruined. Like, permanently. Stretched, broken, too used up for anything but more use. I want to be the one they all talk about afterward, laughing about how far they could take it. The one no one remembers as a person - just as “that thing we used.”

You get it? It’s not just a kink. It’s a way of seeing the world.

There’s no heaven. No higher purpose. No soul floating around inside us. There’s only skin, holes, sweat, filth, and the urge to take. So why not embrace it? Why not be honest and say, Yeah, I’m the one you take from. The one you dump into... ruin. And I want you to keep going until there’s literally nothing left.

That’s all I want. To be the final, filthy proof that meaning doesn’t exist. That we’re all just meat. And that some meat is better when it’s willing.

So yeah. That’s my fucked up little philosophy. Don’t try to save me. Or tell me I “deserve better.” This is better. It's the only thing that makes sense to me. Now look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t take it too.