Posting pictures online of your habitual weed smoking is so lame. Seriously, you should be really proud of all those brain cells you’re voluntarily wasting you fucking hippies.
I’m not even sure what to write here. My smile is fleeting. This apartment feels empty and cold. I feel lost. I’m only putting on my brave face to appease the onlookers. There’s a hole in my chest. It’s hard to breathe sometimes. He’s gone. He doesn’t even want to know me. I’ve been pushed out and cut off. Even through all the bullshit and put-downs I still feel like I’d give up everything if he wanted me back. Do I even have any self respect left? How can this be my life? Am I that easily discardable? Seven months is not a long period of time. But in those seven months I felt a love more deep than I’ve ever felt before. It’s so sad how quickly things can fall apart.
Every second is a struggle not to cry. I wonder if it feels the same for him? I wonder if I made any difference at all.
How many times can you think “this is it” and be let down before you start to lose hope in the idea that there is someone out there who is made for you? At what point do you decide that you are worth more? At what point do you say to yourself that life is just this strange thing that you ultimately face alone? At what point do you accept people for who they truly are? At what point do you pick yourself up and affirm that you are not crazy and that he is wrong? At what point do you sacrifice yourself for the idea of true love? At what point does true love accept you for who YOU are? At what point do you stop dumbing yourself down? At what point do you accept who you are and become unapologetic about the fact that you are a woman with an opinion?
Oh, how the boys hate when you have a voice. Oh, how they wish they lived in a world in which women were only decorative ornaments there for visual and physical pleasure but NEVER mental stimulation.
At what point will the threatened nature of men be weeded out through their genetics? At what point will they evolve passed the fear of women being stronger and smarter and independent than they could have imagined we would be?
I’m alone. For the first time in a very long time, I feel sad. I’m home on a Saturday night with no one to call, no one to talk to, no one to meet up with, have drinks with, dance with, no one. It feels really fucking bad.
Self inflicted wounds always hurt the worst because you don’t have anyone to blame but yourself.
You like to think you’re immune to the stuff. You might as well face it….
Being in love leaves no room for depressing creativity.
