I find the romanticisation of being ‘fucked up’ to be so fucking disingenuous, gross and just boring, like maybe it’s fun to run around with pupils like dinner plates at ten in the morning, maybe it’s fun to throw a screaming fit and slam your body into your friends’ housemate’s bedroom door because he’s not giving you enough attention on a Tuesday, maybe it’s fun to send people photos of your blood all over your bathroom floor so that they have to leave work to check you’ve not damaged yourself too badly - it certainly gets you hits on the internet, certainly makes people say poor little babydoll, certainly makes people click Like on your photos of old dudes that you caption ‘Daddy’…
But you know what’s not fun?
Being anyone else who has to deal with that fucking nonsense. Trying to love a friend who is so wrapped up in the idea of being damaged, of being broken, of maintaining an image of being ~fabulous~ and fucked up, of having to drink champagne every day and never cook real food, of telling everyone you’re obsessed with incest. Trying to hang out with someone who can’t talk about anything except their own problems. Never being able to focus on moving your own life forward because your brain is so full of someone else’s made up problems that they cultivated in order to maintain the worst kind of personality/image.
Life isn’t an episode of fucking Skins.
Stop emotional vampires 2k15.