Rich ppl are sooooo stupid

I was born with unbounded hunger and an inconceivable desire to want more in the pits of my stomach, no amount of trivial grazing comfort will be able to tame me. It's all or nothing

Don't live a life that progressively rots away

Yes,I'm strong. I'm constantly fighting not to end every single word I say with 'whatever'

He is a man but he is ovulating

Dying in a full Shakespearean way

“The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison.”
——Dostoyevsky

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Walking home, for a moment
you almost believe you could start again.
And an intense love rushes to your heart, and hope. It's unendurable, unendurable.
Franz Wright, from God's Silence; "East Boston,
1996"

I had an imposter syndrome episode today "I actually don't like 1996?"

Having experienced both, I am not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it.

I noticed something today . I used to fall asleep as soon as I sat down in a bus or any vehicle, but lately i can sit through a 2 hour drive and not even nap. I guess I’ve grown up

This is really embarrassing to confess but recently i have nurtured the habit of sleeping when it's tomorrow

I remember way too many small details about people so I have to act dumb sometimes so I don't freak them out .

But i like freaking them out

But female fat is the subject of public passion, and women feel guilty about female fat, because we implicitly recognize that under the myth, women's bodies are not our own but society's, and that thinness is not a private aesthetic, but hunger a social concession exacted by the community. A cultural fixation on female thinness is not an obsession about female beauty but an obsession about female obedience.

You attempt to seize freedom- idealizing,fantasizing,romanticizing -with a grip fit for a monstrous god, a crushing force that can only destroy what it touches. But the truth is, you never truly chase it. Instead, you run, you hide, burying the evidence of your terror beneath the empty declaration: “It’s not that interesting anyway.”

there will not be times when i am not reminded of how guilt is what i know best, what i know how to hold best.

My curse is imitation, and I've mastered it with unnerving skill. I can dissect and replicate any craft, any art form, with near-perfect accuracy. It's a talent, yes, but also a heavy weight. Originality, that elusive spark of genius, seems forever out of reach.

The beauty of other's creations is almost painful to witness. I recognize the inherent worth, the unique perspective, but I can only mirror it. I'm not a wellspring of innate creativity; I'm a craftsman, a skilled replicator. If I put my mind to it, I can master any style, any technique.

I possess the tools, the technical proficiency, the ability to construct something impressive. But the blueprint, the guiding vision, the "why" behind the creation... that's what I lack. I can mimic the form, but I can't conjure the soul. The question then becomes: what is the value of flawless imitation, if it's devoid of genuine expression? Is it a gift or a gilded cage?

So, in the messy, swirling end, I was it. The whole damn thing. Everything I ever craved, clutched, whispered into the dark? Me. And the bile-rising stuff, the things I'd stomp into the ground if I could? Also me. The only place that wasn't a damn battlefield was this weird, shaky spot, just... standing here. A quiet kind of explosion. A beautiful mess, I guess. My own private storm.