"The internet, like most spaces, is a male dominated place, but the specific wormhole of the web I’d discovered seemed to be the most blatant and accurate display of its masculinity. There was something violent in a faceless man hovering pantsless over the picture of a woman. If I played all the videos at once, in different windows on the screen of my Macbook, that would be the patriarchy given definitive form: hundreds of dicks ejaculating on the faces of women."

Excerpt from I Want to be a Tribute Star. 

You can read the rest of my essay on tribute porn, desire, and masculinity here

(via seemstween)


Reading from two phones at Kate Durbin’s book launch for E! Entertainment. 
"Let the richest man find me and let him find other women too. One rich man can finance the art of at least 10 girls. I would like to see the art of 10 girls and a once rich man."

Samantha Conlon, who did an amazing job on the photography for the cover and photo series, with Alone With Other People.

Review of Alone With Other People on Goodreads.
"If originality is a “sense of novelty and freshness” then, in the act of constructing ourselves, originality is not the goal. We construct a self-portrait, relying on existing objects – books, quotes from authors and artists, images, art – that we are more than happy to show off to others for them to use as masturbation material or for the material by which they align themselves. This is the new action painting – the curational archive. The referential self portrait. The portrait of any other artist could be readily used to explain yourself, just reblog it and caption it with “same.” The past consistently becomes the present, not through linear time, but through the constant reconstruction and relabeling of it."

Gabby Bess in the Fanzine on Sheila Heti, the self & way more

Feels right to add this to the Tumblr archive

(via tracydimond)



Luna says that all the sad, lonely girls died from the cancer of being a woman.


Do I have this vulvic sickness too?


What I do know for sure is that I have this thing with addiction:

It started with cigarettes

and adderall

and number games

and wrapping my hair around my fingers

and playing with my boyfriend’s balls

and two vaginas rubbing against each other

and HBO mini-series

and Netflix original series

and blogging

and GIFs of baby animals

and ordering pizza

and cleansing myself of pizza

and the routine of quitting

and collecting books that I will never read

and poetry

and email

and weed

and money

and institutional acceptance

and awards for genius

and storing handguns in my cunt

and recognizing TV tropes by name

and feeling wanted

and feeling neglected

and feeling wanted while being neglected

and spit in mouths

and coffee

and validation

and Ben Lerner

and my own name

and cocks

and specifically cocks in lace underwear

and pictures saturated with light

and making plans to see friends who are in different countries

            like Paris

            like UK

            like Spain

            like Canada

            like South Brooklyn

and feeling in control  

and loving myself

and feeling out of control

and hating myself

and the internet.


The internet…


Yeah, it started with just those things

and it never ended. 


stills from everything i want
screened at pillow talk, an event curated by grossmary for mattress

Post-Swallow: Original poem by Gabby Bess



I have a friend who keeps telling me that she just wants to be a normal girl but then changes her mind and continues to act strangely, which I like and admire. (Specifically the part about indecision and unwillingness to commit.) I guess it’s true that there are different types of girls that you can be at any given time. At most, I was probably 24 different girls at once. I’m not a callous girl, or an unfeeling one, but I’m certainly not a lonely girl. Or a sad one. In the hotel room, I just wanted to be one of many. I wanted each individual act of living on our bed to be anthologized, highlighted in their glut. There is something in being where so many bodies have been that I can romanticize easily. The sheets were neither mine nor yours but I ate them anyway. We stood the excitement of ruining that which belonged to no one. There was nothing on the walls — just prints of flowers and fruits from some generic retailer. The title of my memoir will be Still Life. You know as well as I do that to entertain a new person is just an exercise in amusement. I could perform all my faces for you and it would be a nu romance. But tru love? I don’t know about that. A forgetful girl, I left comfort on some shore that I sometimes imagined returning to – though it seemed more like a fantasy now. I could never return because, for example, I started dreaming of libraries, consuming bodies and swallowing human hair. I’m ruined and I belong to no one now. There are strangers whose hair I eat on accident. And then there is my own hair that I chew on deliberately. And then there is your hair that I patiently swallow at night. And then there are always other things that can’t be accounted for and unfortunately, there is this new sadness that hangs over us. But I ate the sadness. And when it wouldn’t fall away, I ate your body with the sky still attached to it. And when you called me a curious girl, the whole room took blueish tint. We became so quiet. Our own bodies towered over us in the absence of other images on the wall. To replace genuine feeling, I started performing this person who marveled at small things and I just wanted to touch everything at once. I just wanted. I was a Good Girl. I just wanted. I guess it’s true that I probably pout more now than I did in 2012. I guess it’s just the new thing that I do in the bathtub or at a restaurant when I’m subtly pushing my tits together and you’re not noticing. I just let the juice from the watermelon drip down my fingers and I licked them clean. I threaded my wet fingers through the handle of the mug that said #1 WIFE, though I didn’t deserve it. Oh well. I just hope that when you picture my body, I am two fingernail painting emojis and a knife emoji.

Post-Swallow: Original poem by Gabby Bess for WONDER.

Follow Gabby at seemstween