more than unwell
You’d think as a 26 year old who owns a house & has good credit, well, that you’d be more of a grown-up, but I’m just sitting here thinking of getting a foot peeling kit & a PS4 slim.
You’d also like to think that you are less petty than you are, but age might actually be making you pettier. You are embracing this though.
(your girlfriend sucks at makeup. it looks like jc penny did that shit. & you both look like you’ve been hit with some good old fashioned given-up-ness. you really need to take better care of your beard. oh & your baby is ugly. that’s for a different you. okay, actually: the baby is cute & props to you on the muscle gains & 100k salary but you are still a bad person.)
I lost all sense of control there in all sorts of ways. Forget what I said about embracing, I’m trying hard to let go of grudges.
It’s surprising, the way goals change. It’s interesting how we change. I feel like in the past few years, I’ve grown in so many directions that there isn’t much left that fits me. I’m so…abrupt. Aggressive. I’m moody. I’m grumpy. I’m also happier than many may think.
I don’t write love poems. I suppose that’s a significant change—I’m not really interested in love in that all-consuming way I once was. This is not to say that I do not love. It’s more of a product of figuring it out, dismantling the illusion of first world romance. I want what is earthly, lasting. where my flesh counts for less.
& the first world. so much I could say there with the plague of it that we’re all sick with but depend upon. (i mean to say. there is blood on your hands. my hands. i mean to say none of this that we believe important, is. i mean all this wealth built on the bones of genocides. i mean. i mean. i mean. exploitation will kill us all, but we love the products of it. cognitive dissonance ourselves to justify all of this.)
so little fits me. & even my own voice, i’ve grown away from it. what importance does it have. little. so little.