it’s three a.m. and i find myself sitting on the bathroom floor, staring at the toothpaste-streaked mirror. i’ve practiced smiling in the reflection so much that sometimes i wonder if the real me has forgotten what genuine happiness feels like. it hits me that maybe, just maybe, i’m not actually happy—just an expert in pretending—because even my own laughter sounds rehearsed at this point.
ever realize you’ve been apologizing for existing like it’s an Olympic sport? it’s exhausting. i catch myself saying sorry for bumping into someone, even when i’m just trying to walk to the other side of the room. and now, after years of shrinking myself down to fit everyone else's idea of normal, i’m just tired. like, can’t i just take up space without feeling guilty? when did being myself turn i...
i just added up all my forgotten subscriptions—turns out i have a premium account for an obscure cat grooming magazine. never owned a cat, by the way. meanwhile, i scroll through my streaming apps—picking out another one that has “limited access” to random B-movies. as my monthly bill becomes more cluttered than my digital library, i wonder—how did my life come to funding the fandom of others while i just sit here in a stained t-shirt contemplating poor financial choices? #TyJerome #subscriptionaddiction
i just added up all my forgotten subscriptions—turns out i have a premium account for an obscure cat grooming magazine. never owned a cat, by the way. meanwhile, i scroll through my streaming apps—picking out another one that has “limited access” to random B-movies. as my monthly bill becomes more cluttered than my digital library, i wonder—how did my life come to funding the fandom of others while i just sit here in a stained t-shirt contemplating poor financial choices? #TyJerome #subscriptionaddiction
it's not that i care about basketball, it's just—seeing that news about Ty Jerome got me spiraling back to when my last situationship ghosted me. it feels like everyone is moving on, and i’m still staring at old texts, questioning why i let myself get that attached. sometimes, i wish they’d come back just to admit they miss me, or better yet, just text me one last time so i can slam the door shut ...