Gonna be honest(i can lie) here for a second both romanticization and anger are ways of prolonging the grief because your brain is trying to delay the inevitable conclusion that "a good thing was once here and it no longer is and there is nothing you can do about that".

'I wont correct myself i would rather kms,Sir nibblesworth' daily reminder 4 hours of sleep aint enough folks

i have too much faith in my future self to know the right answers just based off of vibes. like. if god wants me to succeed then he will bestow upon me the knowledge to fill the paper. Something something

We dont ragebait we worrybait and that actually works, nah?

I say whatever comes to my mouth so fact check what i say

no one has ever been as unemployed as i am rn

hey wanna hang out tomorrow. hey what are you doing later today do you wanna hang out. hey i miss you we should hang out some time. are you free this weekend? we can plan a hang out or something if you are. hey could i come over to your place later today and hang out? do you want me to come to your uni so we can hang out? hey, where is your job by the way? i can come over there and we can hang out whenever you get off work. does anyone wanna hang out later toda-

You were always on my touch list btw

Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows after. Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind. Instead of being a single, downright, bluff piece of work of which no man need feel ashamed, our commonest deeds are set about with a fluttering and flickering of wings, a rising and falling of lights.

-virginia woolf

I wanna dissaper vs i wanna build an empire

Impressing old ppl is my favorite source of validation

i’m on whatever sylvia plath was on when she put her head in the oven

Stomachache so intense im genuinely considering quitting food

I'm avoiding journaling these days cause i'm lowkey scared of the self awareness it might lead me to

Can i come over and concern you, please?

“living is so uncomfortable. Everything pinches: the body demands, the spirit doesn't stop, living is like being tired and not being able to sleep—living is bothersome. You can't walk naked either in body or in spirit.”

I look like sick with longing and squashed cigarette

Home sick?
-i wear 'i feel like i shouldnt have come here' like a patched-up,old, worn blanket

“I fear that you wouldn’t like me too if I’m not perfect like an album,” he said. Soft. As if he almost didn't want me to hear him.

We were sitting across from each other. It was late, the kind of late that dredged up confessions from deep in your soul.

I frowned. "It's not about perfection. It's about what I love and enjoy."

He shrugged, trying to sand down the sharpness of what he’d just admitted. “I’m just saying… in that logic, if you don’t like everything about something, you won’t compromise.” “I don’t like the way that sounds.” I said, defensive.

I crossed my arms. “If I can help it, why would I spend my precious time on things I don’t absolutely love?”

Silence stretched between us. He nodded, but his eyes didn’t. He heard what I said and took what he believed.

The conversation ended there. But it didn’t. Later, alone, I replayed it. “I don’t require perfection… do I?” I asked myself. "I don't want to be a person who loves only shiny perfect things."

But no. I dont require perfection. I just don’t waste time. There’s a difference. I thought about how I listen to music. One off note. One boring bridge and I skip. There are millions of songs. Why force myself to sit through one that doesn’t move me?

I thought about shows I’ve abandoned halfway through. Places I’ve left. Hobbies I’ve dropped. If it doesn’t light me up, I move on. I'm efficient. Decisive. And fiercely protective of my time.

But people aren’t playlists. There aren’t “suggested alternatives” for someone’s laugh. There isn’t a better produced version of someone’s childhood. No remix of their nervous habits. No remastered cut of the way they say my name. Songs are replaceable. People aren’t. And that’s what I couldn’t articulate that night.

I don’t demand perfection from the irreplaceable but from the replaceable. If a song is mediocre, there are billions more. If a show disappoints me, there’s another season. Another series.

But him? There was only one him.
Not a better version. Not an upgraded model. Just him, with his awkward phrasing, his quiet fears, and that single question that revealed more about him than anything he's ever said.

I wouldn’t have left because he wasn’t perfect. I would have stayed because he was singular. And maybe what hurt wasn’t the accusation. It was the assumption. That he thought I loved the way I consume. Disposing. Interchanging. Skipping

I don’t. I just know exactly what I want to invest my time and love on. And I wanted, so badly, to invest in him.

#ummm?
#fiction (but is it really?) Welp

Im just kinda there