I wish I could give this life to someone who wanted it more.

My thoughts get louder and everything feels distant. I miss the silence; the over-confidence, the cleverness. In complete irony, I miss what everyone who I’ve met before laments for: the girl.

late night ramblings with early morning mixes. somewhere between an update and a mildly depressive, pedantic word vomit

Whenever I get stressed or upset or sad I walk into the kitchen.

Sometimes I grab a bottle of 409 and scrub. Other times I empty out my fridge and try to make something I’ve never made before. Every time it ends with feeling like I am where I belong.

There’s a loneliness that happens when you treat life like a competition. Somehow everyone turns into competitor, and very few people ever turn into allies.

2019 was the year of aggressive self-discovery for me. A lesson in relationships, in business–in partnerships of romance, of finance, of familial. Lessons in who I was, who I wanted to be, and who I kept ending up like.

My mind always goes back to the two people who I came from. I’ve made a million bad mistakes and maybe thirty two good ones. The good ones are all people. Friendships and kindness I happened into that I probably had no business in having.

What do you care about in life? Honor, character, perseverance. Respect, longevity. What influences it? Maybe a hundred and one rewatches of Mulan. Jesus, how did I get here? I think sometimes when I sit down to work.

Oh my god, how did I get so lucky? I think most of the time when I sit down to work.

It’s interesting how long 500 days sounds like when it’s barely a fraction of anything relatively important in the timeline of your life. When was the last time you did something or felt something for 500 days? The last time you changed shampoo brands, used a different toothpaste or had something for the first time?

500 days is the lifespan of a child still being counted and measured by months.

500 days is the starting title and premise of a very unsettling romance film.

500 days is the amount of time it took to go from relatively nothing to stunning expertise in a very specialized career.

I used to repeat to myself over and over Everything starts with a day one and I never absolutely understood. Momentum in my life felt like sitting in a car blindfolded. I spent twenty four years of my life feeling barely above water. Can I take the blindfold off now?

I want to stop the car, but it doesn’t.

My counselor told me that people who’ve experienced life changing trauma sometimes feel afraid of happiness. My counselor told me once before about imposter syndrome.

I was sixteen, a junior flunking out of high school since I forgot how to get out of bed in the morning. I had mandatory counselor sessions every day because I was mentally high risk. Ten years later I still don’t know how to get out of bed some mornings, but I found a job where I didn’t have to.

I’ve replaced the counselor with a cat, boyfriend and a liter or two of patron. Cliches suck but everyone knows them.

People always want to talk about millennial issues and maybe the big one is the internet because it makes us lazier, less stimulated. Ten years ago I thought marijuana was a hard drug. Now I feel like hard drug lies somewhere between DHT and PCP. But once in a club bathroom one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen talked about how much she loved Angel Dust.

That’s when things get confusing, maybe. When you follow the beautiful, effervescent girls. Then you become one. Then you stop being one.

I’ve changed songs about fifty two times throughout writing this. I still think I’ve been through more friendships in more phases in 500 days.

People don’t like you when you’re not fun anymore. When you’re not young, lithe; free. But do you like you?

On ‘Why don’t you write more?’

Why don’t you write more? Everybody always asks me the same question over and over and once more for good measure and once again when they’ve remembered how long it’s been since they’ve asked it last. It’s flattering and kind. It’s sweet, with undertones of wanting, complementary, but naturally so and not forced so–all of the things I’ve ever wanted anybody to say about me. To feel about me.

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on being twenty-five & not a streamer.

It’s hard to write this because I don’t really want to, but there is a deep, high-pitched voice in the back of my head that tells me I need to.

There is nothing more unreliable than memory, and nothing more valuable. We are a compilation of stories constantly crafted and rewritten by the second. Walking, unstable machines plagued with the consequences of emotion.

Every person has multiple versions of themselves: our own personalities are split into multiple directors commanding the narratives of who we actually are, who we want to be, and who we believe we are.

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Some men are going to look at you and wonder about the others before him. Some people will look at you and summarize the entirety of who you are to the people who’ve touched you, kissed you, fucked you.

I grew up surrounded with the idea that the more of me I shared, the less of me there was left. That I was some kind of pie or cake or confectionary made for consumption. A math problem about how many pieces I could be cut into before there was nothing.

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I think I’m out of tears.

I think today is going to be different.

I think I’m tired of being unhappy.

Today’s the first day I found someone else attractive since I met you. Today’s the first day I responded to text message who wasn’t you, but made me smile like you used to.

This is how I know it’s ending.

When I used to be yours–nobody could compare. Now it’s morbid and sick and you feel dead in my heart.

Today’s the first day I didn’t check my phone in hopes of you.

This is how I know it’s over.

This morning was the first time I looked at Toronto apartments–and realized I could never be with someone who didn’t want me in the same way.

I think I’m done, and it’s remarkably refreshing.