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.

We've mastered the art of mental demolition. We can drive people to the brink of existential crisis with alarming ease, twisting logic into pretzels and exploiting every insecurity. Making someone smarter though? That's where we draw a blank. It's like we're amazing surgeons who can only remove organs, not build them.

Which makes you wonder, doesn't it? Maybe the smartest person isn't the one with all the answers, but the one who's willing to raise their hand and say, 'Wait, I'm completely lost here' at least once a month. It's a rare talent, this humility thing. Almost unheard of, really. And frankly, in a world where everyone's pretending to know everything, a little self-deprecating humor is probably the only thing keeping us from collectively losing our minds.

The body, in its primal wisdom, recognizes the subtle shifts in the tectonic plates of the soul, sensing the inevitable rupture before the conscious mind can grasp its implications. To ignore these internal warnings, to romanticize the signs of impending disaster, clinging to the illusion of calm even as the winds begin to tear everything asunder is crazzy.... You aint feeling butterflies it's just a mimic or exacerbate of that feeling.

going to sleep to escape my problems then end up having dreams about them

when the eldest daughter meets the youngest son.......welp

*relax stressfully*

Tech is better?

i myself am unfinished, like everything i've ever started

Allow yourself to be reshaped by stillness

We've been conditioned to equate busyness with worth, and anxiety with productivity. We tell ourselves that if we're not constantly striving, constantly juggling a million responsibilities, then we're somehow failing. So, what happens when the pressure valve is released? What happens when the deadlines evaporate, the expectations fade, and the to-do list shrinks to nothing?

That's when the true terror begins: the confrontation with our own minds. Without the external pressure, the internal void becomes deafening. We discover that we've been using stress as a distraction, a way to avoid facing uncomfortable truths about ourselves – our fears, our insecurities, our lack of direction.

The silence is terrifying because it forces us to ask the big questions: Who am I without my accomplishments? What do I actually want? What if I'm not as capable, as driven, as special as I thought I was? It's easier to cling to the familiar discomfort of stress than to navigate the uncharted territory of genuine freedom.

"Shakespeare and Dostoevsky leave you with an insufferable regret: for having been neither a saint nor a criminal, the two best forms of self - destruction."

-Emil Cioran, excerpt from Tears and Saints.