A Collection of Spectacles

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I had a great time in Europe, actually. I don’t know why I stress out over nothing. Things at home are ok too. Fuck I hope I don’t seem ungrateful.

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Delirious free writing exercise that will probably have typos:

I’m in Europe again. I’ve been up a day. How many times have I been here and lamented over people who aren’t even in my life anymore? It’s a waste of time. My best friend blocked me on everything and it hurts so bad, worse than anyone romantic leaving me. I can’t stand how little I care about my career or school because that stuff comes easy for me, but I’m always lovesick. I let you in and dropped my guard and you gave me hope and I know there’s a time difference but I can’t wait around with this anticipation that will give me ulcers. I want to fence myself in again, it’s too vulnerable so I should hide. I want to stop getting hurt and appreciated in hindsight. Feels like I’m always vying for attention before the person realizes I’m special, which is self destructive. I remember being that age, and I look back on how absent minded, short sighted, and impulsive I was so I don’t know why I…I’m so mad at myself for sitting in a sauna halfway around the world and wasting time wondering about people who really don’t give a fuck about me. Don’t you want to fuck around on a park bench, everywhere, whatever. Someone read through all the posts in this diary but I’ll never know who and it’s never who I want. Made a new friend out here but I can barely recognize it. Looking backwards, obsessed with the past is always to the detriment of something in the present. Smart and cool are great things to be but they don’t get you affection. A female libertine, how rare. I’ve heard this all before, yet no one seems to make rare synonymous with special treatment. What an angry shitpost. I’m sick of myself.

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Dumb bitch award goes to me

I want to write about something other than love for a while

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I don’t think I want to have children. I’m uncomfortable having my body change, and it seems rude to have a kid in a world where people can’t get it together. While out earth burns and we’re twiddling our thumbs. I’m getting more frustrated as I get older, because all these societal hallmarks feel like they strip away the respect I should be given as an autonomous being. Like, my family always talks to my boyfriend as if he is responsible for me in a patronizing way. If they found out what I do, they’d probably ask why he “let me” do that, as if I never had a life before being partnered. As if I don’t have my own strength.

He’s upset when I say I don’t want to take his last name. I want to live and die with the name I was born with unless we take each other’s names. Women are not dowry, I say. I’m endlessly confused because aren’t we Marxists or something? I mean, we’re not really -ists at all but certainly we orbit the left sphere. Then again, he is admittedly a reformed reactionary. I keep finding and fucking men like this, so it must say something about me. More women are giving me attention which is exciting, but I’m always afraid that they’re too homophobic to take my affection seriously, so often I preemptively shy away.

You can fuck whoever you want and see whoever you want just let me know how passionate you are for me. I’m always trying to cut back on talking too much, because I want you to tell me everything about you. I’m looking for deep levels of intimacy and obsession without monogamy. I think many conflate possessiveness with love, but I want obsession and desire without hierarchical rankings. Maybe I’m asking for the impossible. We’ll play with knives only when we have access to the sharpest one. It has to be real or its not worth it.

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Forever disappointed in others and often myself. I play tough but fold quickly like most romantics, tender and frightened underneath. I’m more like a sadomasochistic one though, chasing love because I know it will be wretched and painful. I wonder if I act differently with platonic friends because love interests are always hot and cold with me (and I can never keep their attention long enough). I endlessly stress over why someone rejects me and obsess over past scenarios, a list of my previous actions and deeds.

Maybe it’s all just bad timing, or maybe I don’t know how to be sexually empathetic. It’s easier to seem desirable from behind a screen, but real life interaction terrifies me. I’m better in two dimensions. I rant to you about larger concepts and ideas, showing off books and music because I can’t muster up the courage to say that I think about you all the time. Always gotta play it cool, you know. Whatever. Part of me thinks I should just give up on the idea of love altogether and focus on working on myself.

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