Q: Why do you want this? A: I want to feel better. I want to curl up in chairs. I want to feel confident. To feel more crevices. To see the shape of my body. For the form. To move more freely. For my clothes to fit better. To look better in my clothes. I am a size 12 by May 25th, 2011.
My therapist talks about the crux; the feeling that this is the best offer I will ever get. He says it’s inaccurate. We talk about self respect, settling, and saying no. My heart is scared. It trembles and cries. I hear you little guy, and I’m trying. When am I going to change? When will things stick? When will I stop eating to comfort my self hate? I read today that a study was done...
Tonight my Tigers beat the White Sox. Tonight I also met Adam. I think there will be more to say about that in the near future.
…I’m pretty sure that love is the most accepted degree of insanity.– D.M.
Writing this is like scratching that itch.
The truth about the Erik situation is that it feels just like the Jorge situation; Desperate, perfect, urgent and meant-to-be, all at the same time. It feels like perfect-supposed-to-happen happiness is right in front of me, and it’s my job to say/do the right thing to make it happen. It’s my puzzle, and failing that puzzle, failing my challenge, results in me losing the person, the...
I got the guitar for my 19th birthday. I finally picked it up today- in my 4th month of being 20. You should have seen the rupture of excitment, as I sat on my bed, freshly printed out sheet music laying in front of me, figuring it all out. On my own.
I think when you are younger, you get swept away by grand gestures…. When you...– Sarah Jessica Parker on Relationships (via siximpossiblethingsforbreakfast)
The truth is more important than the facts.– Frank Lloyd Wright
I’ve started to write at least 10 posts that I’ve inevitably deleted. I guess you call it writer’s block, but I think I call it: Can’t-write-because-now-I-know-people-actually-see-it. Or maybe it’s called: sick-of-typing-the-word-“love”-because-I’m-sick-of-sounding-like-every-other-20-year-old-girl. But I think it’s really:...
I like what boys do.
I am only bitter about love because it isn’t working out for me. I love other people’s love. I’m drawn to the electricity we create. I could never survive in a romantic comedy because it’s always the person you least expect, and I expect everybody. I create imaginary relationship montages in my mind (complete with “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” by the Beach Boys...
A goopy note on that love shit.
I think that love isn’t as rare as we think. That being said, I’ve noticed that there is good love, and bad love. And maybe the point of living is to distinguish the difference and go for the good. It makes sense because in order to do this, one has to know their self worth, what they want, what they need, and most of all, be able to do what’s best for them even when...
I am so unfuckingbelievably happy that I am who I am. Being yourself is the best thing you can do.