I can’t listen to music without a wellspring of tears exploding from my sockets. I can’t watch the movies or television that I love. I try to read and the letters dance around the page like they are on fire.
I used to insist that I was a very private person. I wasn’t being funny, I meant it. I could tell you that I hate wearing underwear and about my earliest sexual fantasy and still earnestly believe that you didn’t know me at all.
The only thing worse than a nightmare is waking up surrounded by happy sleeping people. You hear everyone breathe and your throat gets tight and sad because you are missing out. Your brain is making you miss out.
If you were to saw off the top of my head, blow off the dust, sop up the blood and gore and somehow stop me from screaming, you’d find a young girl waving up at you with messy hair and chapped lips, just desperate to be liked.
I began the cycle again in September. I felt fat and ugly and then I wrote about feeling fat and ugly and then people on the Internet were like, it’s true, you are fat and ugly, so I decided to go on a diet. Then at the last minute, I opted out.
There is a person on this planet who captivates me. Probably this is largely in part because I’m acknowledging that there’s a world again, because I am outside of myself again, because I am taking risks, and smiling at strangers and being honest for once.