how loathsome

“There was something scummy about adolescence, it wasn’t sex, it was how I hated myself when I was confused, how loathsome the act of waiting for something was.”

–Eileen Myles, Chelsea Girls

E N I G M A  (m)

Synopsis: The sweetest people can have the darkest hearts. Aggressive arrogance is linked to inferiority. Sexually promiscuous people often feel the most loathsome. So, how does someone like that keep getting wrapped up in your bed sheets?

Word Count: ???

Genre: Smut, Angst, fuckboy!jungkook

Disclaimer: THIS IS A TEASER POST. IT’S A WIP. HOWEVER, you know me. BACK AT IT AGAIN WITH THOSE MOODBOARDS SON. I’m a hoe for a good moodboard.

Idol. Dancer. Singer. Sexy. 

Jeon Jungkook is certainly all of those things. 

But, how many times do we need to be told? Never judge a book by it’s cover.

Fans flock from east to west for high touches, meet and greets, and concerts all to graze the fingers of a boy who’s been brutally trained in the art of charisma. Average isn’t even allowed in his vocabulary. Best of the best is the only thing he’s programed to do now. He was raised for the stage, so even when he’s not on one… he can’t stop the show. His image may be the ideal identity, but what secrets lie beneath the “golden boy?” 

One spiral notebook filled with words that divulge his inner demons mysteriously lands in the palm of your hands. Suddenly you can see through the enigma, and what you find trapped behind the eyeliner and charming smirks shocks you. Not to mention makes you a little hesitant to work alongside him. Jungkook seems to have this immense fixation on control, and can’t stand things not being as “perfect” as they should be. 

To everyone else he’s a “golden boy.” 

But you know all that glitters isn’t gold. 


The few pages in sequence I could rip from the clutches of Amazon, since there’s no proper digital version of How Loathsome and it’s not a superhero comic so there’s no fan made scans available (That I can find, anyway).

How Loathsome is so fantastic and just saedgfvsdxfv

Everyone needs to read this. It’s cheap, especially for a hardcover. Pick it up, I guarantee you’ll love it.


Read by Sophie Hunter and Louise Brealey
Letters Live, March 13, 2016

Recently I received the following letter:

Dear Madam,

Unless something is done at once about your disgusting exhibition in the filthy play you appear in every night, I and several of my friends will do something very unpleasant about it.

What you do nightly in public is a slur on English womanhood. “Fallen Angels” is disgusting as a play, but your performance in it makes it loathsome. How the powers that be could permit such an exhibition is past the understanding of a God-fearing woman who supports the present Government—and thanks God for them.

I give you fair warning to leave the play, or it will be the worse for you. Our wrath will strike at you in your home, or maybe during a performance at the theatre.

A. Friend

To which I replied:

Huntington Hartford Theatre
Hollywood, California

Dear Friend,

How clever and capricious you are, cloaking yourself in anonymity, and I must confess I cannot for the life of me guess which of my many friends you can be. You have sent my head spinning and my imagination whirling. Could you be found among my dear friends, intimate friends, close friends, childhood friends, pen friends, family friends, friends of a friend, friends in distress, friends who are closer than a brother, friends in need, or school friends. Your letter shows quite clearly that you are not illiterate, and therefore we can rule out my school friends. Your masterly command of the language banishes the thought that you could be found among my friends from overseas. Your witty criticism of my performance makes me think that I might find you among my nearest and dearest “bosom friends,” that is, if you did not choose to address me as “Dear Madam"—a clever move this, and one that reduces my last thought to mere stupidity and you to a “casual acquaintance.”

An awful thought has dawned—it is all a joke—and you aren’t really my friend at all. I must try to dismiss this thought. It depresses me. To lose a friend like you in a few words, oh no.

So, dear anonymous friend, if this should chance to meet your eye, please keep your promise and come around one night—yes, and bring your friends, too, for I know intuitively that your friends will be my friends.

Cordially yours,
Hermione Gingold

P.S. If you wish to strike at me with your wrath in my home, I am always in between ten-thirty and twelve in the morning, excluding Tuesday, which is a had day, as a lot of tiresome tradespeople call for the same reason. You will easily recognize my apartment from the letter A marked on the door, over the knocker there is a notice, “Bell out of order, strike twice and wait.”

“I used to tell myself that being honest and transparent are the best traits in me, but now after dealing with you I realized how loathsome honesty is.” -ex-best friend

He used to be my best friend. He was the only one who motivated, loved and cared about me. We used to talk for hours about books and ideas. About happiness and disappointments.
Back then, I was heartbroken and he was in love. I needed someone to save me from myself and from my feelings, and he was always there. When he decided to finally tell me he’s in love with me, I said that the feeling is mutual. It definitely was not. I just fucking hate myself for doing that.