When I made an only fans, my brain chemistry changed irrevocably. My jaw and my soul grew slack, there was absolutely no pleasure left in anything and all of my cheap belongings languished around me, shedding microplastics that filled the air and absorbed into my body. I missed New York City with its real people. My friends and lovers. In the clutches of my algorithms, my mind felt like a hunk of pink taffy being pulled and folded by a gyrating steel machine. Most days the unrelenting nausea prevented me from doing anything to help myself, so I just inserted my loose and worn-out brain into the metal claws and let them work it for several hours.
