i-cannot-even-contemplate-the-series

1191****

It’s 0:23 in the morning. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day.

All I remembered was the four-hour SAT mock test I did in the morning. I forgot what I was wanting to type down on this entry. Right, I feel void at first, just like every single day I’m living in doesn’t make any sense at all. What am I doing? I despise those people who have made me feel this way. I drop my phone down and contemplate with a great disgust to myself. I picked up a random note and wrote down its series and changed my Instagram’s account to that series numbers and tossed it away.

Tossed everything away.

The last thing I want to do on Earth is questioning about my gender, my identity. I’m not straight, I’m not gay, I’m not even lesbian, I’m me and that’s cannot be explained by mnemonic rationales. I can like who the fuck I want to. Boys, girls, cats, actors, actresses,… It’s just I’m so excessively fastidious that no one can satisfy my personal interests. I’m happened to be allegedly asexual, doesn’t mean I don’t feel sad on these days.