“She’s not like us. She doesn’t stand in the middle of the crowd and yell, ‘Look at me: I’m special.'”

“You are as selfish and arrogant as the number five!”
Her voice squirmed in my ear.
I almost like her.

I think all artists must experience mild synesthesia. My mind has been lotus-ing recently. He asks me how I feel.
“I’m suffering from cubism today.”
“Today I am a cactus.”
“I feel like a damn post-it.”

Don’t get me started on objects’ emotions.

What do you do?
Are you me?
“I hate my job. I hate my job.”
Will you do me?

You were sitting on the bench in your break-up-grey dress, both of you smiling these really ugly smiles, and he made his excuses and you threw them back at him until your denial dried up.

He wanted to walk you back to the bar but he dawdled behind you and you snapped at him. Do you remember what you said? “We’re going to walk at my pace for once.” And you saw the amusement flash in his eyes; your fury made you interesting to him. Do you remember what he said? “A woman cannot be good and interesting at the same time.”

You were fine when you left him that night and you believed, naively, that you would be okay. And then That Summer happened. Four days after the break-up on the bench, he messaged you. He said, “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” Or was it, “I’m sorry if I hurt you. Very sorry.” You don’t remember anymore. You don’t think about him anymore. You know he only saw you through a peephole. But when you think of that bench, that feeling, that panic-sick-gut-feeling comes back, because he might be an asshole, but you’re a dartboard for rejection. That feeling has sunk somewhere deep inside you and it’s crusty now. Your pain (what a stupid, pretentious word!) has usurped your glow and now here you sit, content, but less shiny. Definitely, infinitely heavier.

I had been on anti-depressants since March and I have recently come off them. They made me crazy. But a non-myself-crazy. I am already a bit depressed and it sucks but at least it’s mine.

I work too much and I broke my laptop last week but FUCK I need to read more, write more, write here more, sing more, draw more, listen more, look more, breathe more, smile more. I want more. This is a good sign. So are you.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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