“BRO YOU IS FAKE”
“YOU ARE THE EVIL EYE”


THIS kinda healed something in me.

Trust me bro feminism isn’t the thing that makes women hate men.
No help needed.

Dumb arguments I think that exists.

Beselam weya some dumb ass always ruins it.
Never arguing with ignorance.

Considering because agghhhhhh.

በግ።

Guysssss
I lost my keys again.
Weyneee

I live the same life again and again ahuns

Endeeee last time I lost it was in April meselgn.

Ohh my dumb ass ahun may nw Leka.

Think before you type dumb ass.

The food you make when you are alone tho.

I hate instagram (I love it) but why does it snitch on me can’t I like on hate videos pleaseeee.
( every hate videos is liked by me)

I’ve always been obsessed with counting numbers. When I say “counting” I mean I count every little move people make steps, gestures, blinks, everything. I usually don’t even realize I’m doing it until I reach a certain number.
Why does that automatically put me on a spectrum?
Stop it.😭😭

You know what seriously gets under my skin? When celebrities or normal people try to recreate a photo of someone else but it’s just completely off. Like did you even look at the original? If you’re going to recreate a picture, recreate every single detail properly. Don’t half ass it. Either match it or don’t bother.

Aghhh annoying
The second one she didn’t even try

I don’t think I crash out enough.

Like more nechnech Eshi

two lives, Sometimes it feels like my hands are dipped in different colors one in each. And I know that if I ever let them touch, if I ever mix them, something new will form, and I’m not sure I’ll be ready for whatever that is. So I keep them apart. Arms stretched wide always making sure one hand never brushes the other. One never influences the other.
not easy. It’s never been easy. There’s a kind of sourness in keeping them separate like holding your breath for too long. But the fear of what might happen if they mix? That fear gives me strength. It keeps the colors clean. Separate. Controlled
But it doesn’t give me peace.

Sometimes I stare at my hands and wonder what the mixed color would look like. What it would feel like. Maybe it would be ugly. Maybe it would be loud, impossible to hide. Maybe I’d lose parts of both lives in trying to create a new one.

There are moments when they almost touch. Little slips. A sentence spoken in the wrong setting. A look held too long. A memory from one world bleeding into the other. It’s like watching paint drip in slow motion, knowing you can stop it knowing you should stop but also wanting to see what happens if you don’t.

But I always catch it. Just in time.
And I pretend I don’t want to know. I pretend the colors on each hand still look good on their own. Like they still make sense apart.
But late at night I feel the weight in my shoulders from holding them wide for so long.

Turns out I still have paragraphs in me.

“All my life in human society I have suffered from that sense. Like a wife who sticks by her husband through thick and thin, a sense of wrongdoing has been my faithful companion, and our private, cheerless frolicking has amounted to a way of life for me.”

No Longer Human
Osamu Dazai