'My Grief Is Gain When You Cannot Mock It' by Hanna Umin at Mole End, New York

If melancholia is rage turned inward, if rage is melancholia turned outward, if melancholia mourns a lost object—

Nemo me impune lacessit

My aggression is too self loathing to be sanguine.

I've puked on a lot of cocks. It’s just stubbornness really, I need to see how far I can go and I just forget I have a gag reflex, I’m not one of those superhero babes without one. I have GERD you see, due to a bad gall bladder, so things come up quite easily but I refuse to let that stop me. Sometimes it’s just a small source of embarrassment and I swallow it back, but for the guy that can hack it I’d imagine it being quite pleasurable. It’s a sudden burst of warmth on the inside, cool on the outside. It comes up suddenly like an ejaculation. Also, it looks pretty cool when I go third person. There’s a lot you can do with it, like rub it on my face, jack off onto it, hit me. The best one was quite recently, on my fire escape. The escape is above a garage between two buildings, perpendicular to the street so it’s fairly public, but it was late and no one was around. I was in my chintzy zebra print faux silk robe, a silly useless thing, I was essentially naked, and he obviously had his pants down just enough; I’d imagine the view from the street was just an ass bobbing. It was a pretty average mouthfuck, not particularly brutal or anything, and there was absolutely no warning, he just happened to hit the trigger. A sudden stream of bile beer and spinach cascaded down my flat chest, past my crotch, through the rusty bars, and splashed off the concrete floor a story below. The sound was incredible, cascade is the exact right word. I laughed so hard with destructive pride and delight. It was the first time in a long time I’d felt genuinely bubbly.

JASON: You feel the pain yourself. You share in my sorrow. 

MEDEA: Yes, and my grief is gain when you cannot mock it.