Lately all I keep thinking about is how I should’ve just shut the fuck up. Like, I don’t say how I’m feeling for a reason, and then something big and scary proves me right for being a feeling hoarder. Talking to doc makes me feel like I’ve buried so much shit in the past and now it’s coming back to bite me in the ass. It was much easier to sweep things under the rug and forget about them, but I never realized how sentimental I actually am to little things. This new wave of emotions this month is leaving a lot of room for feeling like shit from the most unlikely places. It bugs me that I used to let all of this shit go - but it also bugs me that people remain set in their ways to change, but constantly make themselves out to be a victim. I often wonder if I’m doing the same thing. Doc said I’m trying to project so that I don’t feel so bad - a side effect of moving on so quickly without proper means of dealing I guess. It makes sense. I just wish it didn’t have to leave me so fucking sad when I want normal things like a general sense of stability, a nice apartment and a decent love interest that isn’t going to make me feel like shit for being crazy or isn’t going to judge me based on the fact that I am definitely crazy. There is no truth in words anymore.
I’m almost 30 and I’m writing about how I feel. What a disaster.
“I’m not going to be the girl you marry, but I’ll be the girl you’ll be thinking of 20 years from now while you engage in polite sex with your boring wife who fakes her orgasm to make you feel better about your receding hairline.”—
The lights were dim and the crisp buzz of the California winter air sent a puff of smoke in the air, as you laughed.
She looked at your feet as you shuffled them. She walked out of the bar putting her jacket with a surprised face of “Oh my - it’s cold”. You both knew you were stereotypes of the California fashion, 54 degrees is an ice prison ‘round these parts.
That’s all I got so far. But this would be a favorite scene if one ever existed.