I just wanna hangout on roof tops at 2am laughing abt all the silly stuff that once made us cry
π1
being good at logical reasoning and having no impulse control just means you're the best at convincing yourself to do the dumbest shit ever
what if the reason my therapist doesn't think I'm a manipulative narcissist is that I'm too good at it I've even fooled her. what if the reason she told me that the thing I told her wasn't fair at all and I deserve better than that is that I somehow corrupted the truth and she has fallen into my sophistry. what if she's another victim that I'm trying to take advantage of just to feel better about my self-image (that's literally what therapy is for but anyways). what if all of my efforts are useless and I can not get better 'cause I'm doomed and depraved and unfit. WHAT IF
π3
im not a people pleaser because that would imply that i am good at pleasing people
im more like. an aspiring people pleaser. i try my best and hope that countsπ
im more like. an aspiring people pleaser. i try my best and hope that countsπ
π¦2
A whole system for figuring out how screwed you are based on your walking speed. Apparently, your sorrow level is directly proportional to how much you don't feel like moving.
Polka Sorrow Scale, or How to Tell If You're Actually Doomed (Based on Foot Speed):
Type 1: The Molasses Stroll (or, "My Feet Have Cement Shoes"): You're basically a zombie, but, like, a really slow zombie. The world is a goddamn marathon, and you're just trying to make it to the next tile without collapsing. You're convinced everyone else is on some kind of stimulant you didn't get invited to. You're actively trying to slow down time because the present is awful, and the future? Don't even go there. Your ideal destination is a hut in the woods with no Wi-Fi and a lifetime supply of comfy blankets. Basically, you're just trying to rewind your life, but you haven't figured out how to work the remote. You're moving forward only because gravity is a bitch and won't let you stay still.
Key Symptoms: Intense envy of sloths, a deep appreciation for the concept of hibernation, and a burning desire to wear sweatpants 24/7.
Type 2: The Runaway Bride ( From Life Itself): You're running from everything. Emotions, responsibilities, that awkward conversation you had with your neighbor three years ago - doesn't matter, you're outrunning it all! Tears are just aerodynamic accessories at this point. The horizon is your only friend, even though it's a lying bastard that keeps moving further away. Lungs are screaming, heart's staging a revolt, but you can't stop. Because if you do, the "it" you're running from (depression, crippling anxiety, existential dread, take your pick) will catch you and swallow you whole. You're basically a human-shaped dust devil, powered by pure, unadulterated fear. The clouds are crying for you because they know you're gonna crash and burn eventually. You're too heavy for this level of sustained crazy.
Key Symptoms: Shin splints, an unhealthy relationship with energy drinks, and a permanent fear of standing still.
Type 3: The Human Statue (or, "I Can't Do This Anymore"): You want to run, you really do, but your body's staging a coup. The air is solid, your lungs are filled with concrete, and every muscle is screaming "NOPE." So, you sit. And the world spins around you, just fast enough to make you nauseous, but not fast enough to distract you from your own misery. You're waiting forβ¦something. An epiphany? A lottery win? A spaceship to come and beam you away to a better planet? Mostly, you're just waiting for someone to tell you you're not a total screw-up. But deep down, you know that's a lie. You're convincedI you deserve this. This isn't just a bad day; this is karmic retribution. You're surrounded by people, but you've never felt more alone. You just want to disappear. You try to move, but your brain and body are having a disagreement. You're basically a human paperweight, stuck in a perpetual state of "I can't even." You're convinced you'll never breathe properly again. This has to end sometime, right? Right?!
Key Symptoms: A permanent indent in your favorite chair, a deep understanding of the phrase "analysis paralysis," and a strong urge to binge-watch Netflix while simultaneously hating yourself for it.
So, according to this scientific system of sorrow assessment, which flavor of doom are you rocking today? And more importantly, do you want a snack?(and ty my Lil mf for browsing through whatever this is I luv you more than myself literally)
#polkadot
Polka Sorrow Scale, or How to Tell If You're Actually Doomed (Based on Foot Speed):
Type 1: The Molasses Stroll (or, "My Feet Have Cement Shoes"): You're basically a zombie, but, like, a really slow zombie. The world is a goddamn marathon, and you're just trying to make it to the next tile without collapsing. You're convinced everyone else is on some kind of stimulant you didn't get invited to. You're actively trying to slow down time because the present is awful, and the future? Don't even go there. Your ideal destination is a hut in the woods with no Wi-Fi and a lifetime supply of comfy blankets. Basically, you're just trying to rewind your life, but you haven't figured out how to work the remote. You're moving forward only because gravity is a bitch and won't let you stay still.
Key Symptoms: Intense envy of sloths, a deep appreciation for the concept of hibernation, and a burning desire to wear sweatpants 24/7.
Type 2: The Runaway Bride ( From Life Itself): You're running from everything. Emotions, responsibilities, that awkward conversation you had with your neighbor three years ago - doesn't matter, you're outrunning it all! Tears are just aerodynamic accessories at this point. The horizon is your only friend, even though it's a lying bastard that keeps moving further away. Lungs are screaming, heart's staging a revolt, but you can't stop. Because if you do, the "it" you're running from (depression, crippling anxiety, existential dread, take your pick) will catch you and swallow you whole. You're basically a human-shaped dust devil, powered by pure, unadulterated fear. The clouds are crying for you because they know you're gonna crash and burn eventually. You're too heavy for this level of sustained crazy.
Key Symptoms: Shin splints, an unhealthy relationship with energy drinks, and a permanent fear of standing still.
Type 3: The Human Statue (or, "I Can't Do This Anymore"): You want to run, you really do, but your body's staging a coup. The air is solid, your lungs are filled with concrete, and every muscle is screaming "NOPE." So, you sit. And the world spins around you, just fast enough to make you nauseous, but not fast enough to distract you from your own misery. You're waiting forβ¦something. An epiphany? A lottery win? A spaceship to come and beam you away to a better planet? Mostly, you're just waiting for someone to tell you you're not a total screw-up. But deep down, you know that's a lie. You're convincedI you deserve this. This isn't just a bad day; this is karmic retribution. You're surrounded by people, but you've never felt more alone. You just want to disappear. You try to move, but your brain and body are having a disagreement. You're basically a human paperweight, stuck in a perpetual state of "I can't even." You're convinced you'll never breathe properly again. This has to end sometime, right? Right?!
Key Symptoms: A permanent indent in your favorite chair, a deep understanding of the phrase "analysis paralysis," and a strong urge to binge-watch Netflix while simultaneously hating yourself for it.
So, according to this scientific system of sorrow assessment, which flavor of doom are you rocking today? And more importantly, do you want a snack?(and ty my Lil mf for browsing through whatever this is I luv you more than myself literally)
#polkadot
π2π1
You look like you got hit by a bus, and you dusted yourself off and did it again for the hell of it. You look like you're wondering when the next time you can get hit by that bus is.
To those who don't have exams tmr and are soundly sleeping without stress, I wish you--@##
π1
on a random friday night i slowly realize that my obsession is no longer providing me with enough serotonin after months of overuse
what once looked shiny is so dull now and the reality is slowly seeping in
i know that for the next few weeks I'll be numb to the bone until next weirdly specific obsession starts
what once looked shiny is so dull now and the reality is slowly seeping in
i know that for the next few weeks I'll be numb to the bone until next weirdly specific obsession starts
everytime someone asks me of my favourite books I realize I haven't read enough
It's taboo to admit that you're lonely. You can make jokes about it, of course. You can tell people that you spend most of your time with Netflix or that you haven't left the house today and you might not even go outside tomorrow. Ha ha, funny. But rarely do you ever tell people about the true depths of your loneliness, about how you feel more and more alienated from your friends each passing day and you're not sure how to fix it. It seems like everyone is just better at living than you are.
Forwarded from The Unknown
Today I heard my teacher saying
Multidimensional poverty
Multidimensional poverty
I love having hyperfixations because things I did not give a fuck about until yesterday become life changing events for me