18 years old, cisgender female
favorite character: Anton Chigurh, Tyler Durden
Used to be passionate about literature and philosophy, loved reading science fiction novels and watching sci-fi films. I did all that to improve my creative writing ability. Due to certain upheavals, I've had to give up these interests, but I've always held a deep, gnawing attachment to them, which to some degree reflects my personality.
You must be: pro-LGBTQ+, pro-suicide, the opposite of a patriot, a radical anti-natalist extremist, the kind who wants to ****(A verb that looks scary) every single person who voluntarily reproduces and everyone who supports reproduction.
Let me emphasize again: your fundamental values must align perfectly with mine, otherwise don't bother seeking me out.
How long I can accompany you is also hard to say; I might suicide soon. If you want to go together with me, that would be even better.
Below is a piece of garbage fiction I wrote. It might only help you understand my personality, because it truly holds no literary value.
laoda, while I was washing dishes, I came up with this story! I imagined that my autobiography would contain a dream sequence like this (it has to correspond to my experiences, so if taken out of context it might seem rather obscure). An officer meets a prisoner of war in a POW camp. While talking with the prisoner, the officer senses his great literary talent and saves him. He tells the prisoner, "From now on, your sole purpose in living is to write. If you don't write, I will kill you." The prisoner is fairly willing at heart, so he writes. One day, the prisoner falls and hits his head, and from then on loses his ability to write. The officer orders a subordinate to give him a bottle of poison, instructing the subordinate to kill him with poison regardless of whether he chooses to take his own life with it, and to tell neither the prisoner that his death is inevitable nor the officer how he actually died. Two months later, the officer comes to visit the prisoner's grave. He thinks to himself that he hopes the prisoner died because he lost his ability to write—so that he would have died for his dream. The officer finds that very beautiful and doesn't want to know the real cause of the prisoner's death. He lays a bouquet of flowers on the grave and then leaves.
What this story tries to express is, first, that after my cognitive impairment, I had this feeling that I had to die. That sense of urgency and obligation to die turned into an external force, just like how if the prisoner could no longer write, the officer would kill him. Then, whether the prisoner drinks the poison himself or is killed by the soldier—a force of inevitability—is a metaphor for whether I die for my dream or because I can't live a normal life (because dying for not being able to live a normal life is simply an inevitability, something anyone would do; right now, I'm dying because I can't live a normal life, not for my dream. To me, this robs it of much sublimity, whereas I feel dying for a dream is sublime). The officer hopes the prisoner died for his dream, which he would find beautiful, so he deliberately doesn't clarify the prisoner's true cause of death. This corresponds to how, in reality, I also have this feeling of not wanting to tell the difference. Actually, before I clearly figured out that logical problem I mentioned earlier, I was half-believing that my death was for my dream, but I still didn't dig deeper. Yet now, having figured out that my death isn't for my dream, it feels really stupid. Writing this plot now, I sort of want to explore: if one suspects that a certain beauty is merely an illusion, should one still investigate it deeply? Is it better to remain deceived for a lifetime, or to face the truth?
so i can stream movies for us.
