The Wisconsin winter is brutal and it hasn’t even begun. I'm asking for sweaters and on the lookout for gloves.
I’d say more about winter but I’m channeling Amy March. My thoughts are simple and (hopefully) powerful. I’m not a poet. I’m just a woman. Except I’m not even a woman, I'm just a girl (yes, I was reminded of this quote because of TikTok).
I want to have an artist’s eye again but I have to get people to like me and find my footing first.
I’ve barely made any friends in this city. My disposition is mostly medicated and lonely (which is iconically a step up from a month ago when I was quarantined and catatonic). My chest is weighed down by a blanket my parents gifted me because it wasn’t safe to see them on my least favorite holiday last year.
All my emotions are almosts.
I’m almost sad but I stifle the sobs in my throat and hope for something funny to say. My mom told me that she has to laugh so she doesn’t cry every day and Kennedy Morganfield recommended an essay on heteropessimism.
Apparently here’s a philosopher who calls comedy a momentary anesthesia of the heart. But I don’t really care about him because he wasn’t on the phone with me in the middle of the night when I thought about dying and deep breaths and throwing up.
My mom made fun of me for being dramatic and I hope it’s love because it’s being seen.
A boy that wants nothing to do with me thinks that I’m broken because I want to be bullied. I say it’s because I want people to pay attention to me. It doesn’t really matter what they say.
I’ve gotten to the point where I’m lonely enough to listen to ambient recordings of coffee shops and pretend to eavesdrop.
When did life stop feeling special?
Everything is bogged down and boring and each day is just a stepping stone to another day and I want to be held.
He saw me naked and I can’t remember if he called me pretty. Didn’t Lucy Dacus sing about this exact instance?
He said he wanted me to feel good and I wanted to feel anything at all.
I’m not capable of casual care. My heart is shriveled up and grinchy. I have the capacity to kidnap Christmas. I want to be left on the top of a mountain and only remembered in myth. Maybe I'll get a dog? No, I'd get a cat.
Should I do anything?
My brain is the size of a goldfish and my ears ring all the time. Side effects of staying awake.
I’ll keep reading Brene Brown and spamming my friends’ inboxes with memes that we laughed at a year ago. They seem to enjoy that.
Consider this another week of unclogging and blogging.
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