retarded. i'm gonna whup your ass and slap you down if you waste your energy.
does it ever get easier? i don't mean myself. i'm happy. i mean other people. don't they ever get sick of the routine?
maybe. it's all got to mean something. or eventually, something is different. so many bodies. what is one more, or one less? who is don draper, besides a summer man?
or when,
will i be a real girl? you already are. but sometimes i suspect i might be dream figments. something so insubstantial about being alive except when my body thinks it's gonna die and goes oh god and molly blooming at the same time. hello bdsm joyrides. meaningless in love, but meaningful in being ridiculously alive. love is overrated, but also probably one of my favorite timesink indulgence with no payout. we're all friends in the end, yeah? does romantic love even really exist?
we push people away because we don't really want them. we're drawn to those who run, so we don't have to run. it's a sabotage we pretend we can't fight.
eventually everyone tires, so we run inwards, deaden outwards- but not yet.
we're still young. i'm still young.
i bet significantly older people laugh at us when we tell them we know what we want to do in life.
i can sit and mull sometimes. summer is dead on thursday. i like ribbons and uncertainty, am bored with obsession. i know nothing lasts and i don't want it to.
would be nice to have something steady for a while though.
i got over my way-too-enchanted-with-life-wave, and now i'm back to being me. which is good. i'm not a pessimist.
maybe if i derealized or depersonalized less. (comorbid with high cortisol levels, anxiety disorders, sleep deprivation, half confessions & half bullshit.) it's my reality check when my itty-bitty feel-y-weelies check out.