Here I am, friends. On the floor again. Freshly rolled from fetal position to a cannon ball, just for you. Like a nice sushi–which, as we all know, is the emo king of takeout.
I arrived here after quite a trying day, friends. Quite a trying day indeed. The carpet smells alright, better than I’d expect an old, shag rug in an old, shag house to smell. So, already looking up I’d say.
I’ve cried a lot today.
It feels awfully good to cry. If you’ve never known the mind numbing death of ambivalence, you may not agree. To you, crying may feel messy–unattractive. But to the rest of us, crying is a God damn blessing.
I dedicate this next tear to you, my dissociated friends. You, who want nothing more than the ability to feel enough at once to get the fucking pain out of your bodies. I feel you, buddies. I really do.
When I’m here, on the floor, it always helps to laugh. So for you, my lovely, gorgeous reader (ooo getting frisky in my fragile state) I will unearth some of my finest, comedic content.
For a long time I used my twitter drafts as a diary. Everything that was worth thinking about, I condensed to a lil tweet, and filed away in the relative depths of the internet. At first they were disgustingly emotional; this boy, this girl, etc. Then, about a year ago, when I stopped feeling emotions, they got funny.
One good thing about ambivalence is that you come up with really creative ways to make light of situations that should be emotionally debilitating.
So. Without further whatever, here’s last year’s twitter drafts. And yes, they are all real. Promise.
So happy that I wake up everyday next to a large jug of vitamin-packed grape juice and not a person.
It was then, when she sent him a gif of a minion in a thong walking in slow motion, that she knew she was in trouble.
*Cries into wanton soup*
Just to put your mind at ease, yes, I would date a fan.
When you’re so bored at work that you rewrite “dancing on my own” from the perspective of a bee. Relatable content.
I pretend a lot of things. I pretend my wisdom teeth aren’t growing in; I pretend someone named “Galleria” isn’t texting me rn.
It’s a sad day when you’re listening to discover and you hear an indie girl mumbling to acoustic guitar and you’re like “same.”
I’m going for Mia Thermopolis pre makeover.
I once yelled at my friend for making noise with a can of monster and sometimes this keeps me up at night.
Boring, boring, boring, fake, love of my life, boring, boring, boring.
Really beautiful hands though, really nice eyes, great hair.
Thought I’d let everyone know that my worst fear was realized last night. It’s okay though, the waitress apologized for giving me a kid’s menu.
I feel so guilty when I speak English in Montreal that when someone speaks to me I go with whatever French I can think of. Today I responded with “La Vie en Rose” and a little shoulder shimmy.
The caffeine shakes turned my stats homework into abstract art and honestly, proud.
Whoops used to much data. Time for the monthly brawl.
“You should probably cut your hair before people start mistaking you for a Duggar.”
“What’s wrong?” *sniffs* “Ukuleles are sexy, right?”
The word “cuddle” makes me want to drag my face across gravel.
I broke my mug. I loved that mug.
Mood: the host of Chopped who never gets to taste any of the food.
No one makes me feel like a sexually available man like Ginuwine.
“Had a party” is easier to explain than “got drunk alone and cried over women’s Olympic gymnastic trials” right?
I was your orientation leader, child. Do not comment on the roundness of my backside.
Raisins should re-brand as “dried grapes”. Ppl fricken love grapes.
Watching gymnastics and a girl just bashed her head off the beam. The announcers said nothing. I just don’t know.
Never thought a 2009 Kelly Clarkson album track would be so relatable, but here we are. Here we are.
In an unexpected turn of events, the creative writing major couldn’t find the La Croix.
That’s all for now kiddos. I love you.
Girl Seeking Peanut Butter 