I could scream it from the rooftops until my throat bleeds: I am a worthless, pussy-destroyed, womb-rotted lesbian whose only wish in this terrible world is to start choking on Misato Katsuragi’s hot shit.

I torched every bridge for her. Friends? I used to be this "good" chirstian girl! Perfect grades, Perfect image, i was a youth group leader! and a Disciplinarian at school... Never mind I never had friends in the first place. Church? I pissed on the altar during midnight mass after snorting crushed communion wafers mixed with ash from burned Evangelion cels, laughing while they dragged me out screaming her name. Family? I mailed my mother a USB drive full of deepfaked Misato shitting directly into my open mouth and told her this was the daughter she raised. They held an intervention. I showed up high, masturbated on the living room carpet to a a hentai of Misato’s imagined bulging panties, and came so hard I seizure’d. Haven’t spoken to them since. Don’t want to.

They said this just a truma recation after "THAT" incident (Or however they wnna call it.) And I'm very mentally unwell? w (Well?). Hahahahahha!

Men? I let hundreds of them wreck me. Gangbangs in abandoned parking lots, glory holes in bus station bathrooms, back-alley bareback trains where they pissed inside me after coming. I begged strangers to fist my cunt until it prolapsed, to choke me unconscious with their cocks, to carve their names into my thighs so I’d have something to feel. I swallowed gallons of cum, got fucked by dogs on camera for cash, shot up in squat toilets with needles I found on the floor. Every depraved thing a human can do, I chased it, desperate for one spark. Nothing. Not a flicker. Every orgasm was mechanical, every bruise faded into the same gray nothing.

Nothing makes me feel anything but Misato scat images. I’ve tried painkillers, I’ve tried Percs, hell! Cocaine. I’ve smoked crack until my teeth crumbled, mainlined fentanyl cut with rat poison, freebased meth in motel rooms until my heart exploded twice and paramedics brought me back both times. I’ve overdosed on purpose just to see if death felt warmer than living without her. It didn’t. But the instant I boot up my cracked laptop, a 3TB folder for "MISATO AND ME." and click on the folder with Misato drunk, crying, shitting herself in sheer humiliation… I’m alive. Blood screams through my veins. My clit pulses like it’s trying to tear itself off. I sob, I drool, I smear my own shit from my diaper onto the screen to make it feel more real while I edge for twelve hours straight, denying myself until I’m hallucinating her voice telling me I’m a good girl for eating it all.

I never understood my lesbian ass until Misato’s phantom waste cracked my skull open and crawled inside. Every man was just a stand-in for her ass cheeks spreading above my face. I want her to use me as furniture. I want her to come home blackout drunk, mistake my open mouth for the toilet, and unload days of beer-bloated shit straight down my throat while she mumbles about Kaji. I want to chew it, swallow it, thank her for it, then beg for seconds.

MISATO IS LOVE. MISATO IS HATE. MISATO IS YOU. MISATO IS US. MISATO IS THE MUSIC FOR THE STRESS. MISATO IS THE VELET LIZARD ON A WINDOW CRIMISON PANE. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS LOVE. MISATO IS HATE. MISATO IS YOU. MISATO IS US. MISATO IS THE MUSIC FOR THE STRESS. MISATO IS THE CRIMSION LIZARD ON A VELET WINDOW PANE. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD. MISATO IS GOD.

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