The Art School Diaries

The Art School Diaries are excerpts from a real diary, which a dear friend of mine has permitted me to post, so long as she remains anonymous. She wanted to burn them… I find them fascinating, in a profound and pathetic sort of way. They speak to me of the human condition. And they get nasty. Pulp, smut, and philosophy, it’s all here.

Tell me what you think, and I’ll carry the message to her.


On a saucy note –

No one has ever fucked me like he does. Electric shocks – pure energy – coming on the tips of his fingers – sucking on his tongue – licking and being licked – rubbing his cum into my skin – taking his entire dick in my mouth – fucking and fucking and fucking – on the couch, on the coffee table, in the kitchen, in the shower, on the bathroom sink, on all four corners of the bed, on his studio floor, kissing in the car, holding his hand.

I want to know what he likes. I want to peel myself open – crack open my skull and let him fuck my brains. I want to swallow and be swallowed. Nothing left. Consumed. Absorbed. Fucked to nothing. Transcendence.

(date unknown)

The emptiness – A longing. An attempt to try to communicate the feeling. To communicate the logical explanation of a feeling. I think he asked me what is it I’m trying to do? Just lay there – what is it? To get the most honest thing out – a feeling from the stomach – get it out. Art – intuition & purity. Alone – to the extreme. The ultimate experience is LOSS. (death) Longing — Obsession — Loss

(everybody dies)

I’m never saying what I really want to say.

He says, “You cannot take what is inside your body and put it into the world. Stop trying. Stop the expectation. Then you may feel better. Cause you can’t – someday it may change.”

I can die. Cold Bucket of Water. Unlimited source of potential. It is all in the doing.

He says, “If we can just assume for a minute that I am the one that has a rational grasp on the situation.”

I think that… I wish that someone would have told me – someone should have told me – that the hole is an endless source of energy – the hole is not a hole – the hole is a passageway – the only way to it is through it.

(Spring Break, 2001)

So here’s a sticky situation:

After wrecking my car after a pill & robitussin binge, I get no calls from him. I get angry — I get drunk – I remember I’m a free bird – I sing “Free Bird” at Karaoke – I get more drunk – I get talking to some guy, a cute 24 year old freshman. I happen to be the Teacher’s Assistant for his Art History class.

“Some guy” and I get talking about anal sex and mad foreplay – he tells me he’s into having a finger shoved up his ass while he’s getting a blow job – so I took him home & we did just that. Partied till dawn – gave him a blow job and stuck my finger in his ass – he licked my pussy and finger fucked me – we went to his place & got weed – went back to my place, got high, got taken from behind. This is my life. And what about him? What the fuck am I doing?


(date unknown)

And now: the termination of the him episode.

My friends were right from the start – in terms of – emotionally – a waste of time. Turns out, I was right (if there can be a “right” in this situation) when I said I was doomed from the start. I once asked him if he thought he was a passionate person. An offensive question, to be sure. I was seeking to offend. Something. I just wanted him to be passionate about me… either love me or hate me. I didn’t really care, but indifference is unbearable. The animal which is I thrives on passion, and that’s the long and short of it. I fall hard, fast, and for the most promising object. It’s sick. I’ve got so much lovin’ I’ll just stick it where it ain’t. Just because. It makes it all feel so much more – and I’m all about the feeling, I admit this. And I thrive on feelings and passionate exchange. And that was there. I fell in love with him immediately, and I tried to pretend like I didn’t. Somewhere within that lie and trying to play it cool I lost my mind. Failed on all counts. I tried to play it off legit, but not really… cause the radical honesty of it all, is that I wanted to fall, and I did. Hard. And I waited for the pain (because as in all things I am always in the opposite to where I’m at even though it’s exactly where I’m at. And this complication, perhaps, is ????*.

But to log, for the moment, how it all went down – sunk straight down, like a brick – running…

???* The rest is indecipherable. It appears she passed out at this point, her pen leaving a large ink spot that runs through several pages.

More to come…she’s got a ton of these


About the Author