I am in someone’s bed, the first bed in a long string of beds, and it’s 5:30 a.m. — the time where you either decide to have sex again or leave while they’re still asleep. The sex could be great, it always is at this time. It’s hazy and zombie-like at first but then both of you come to life at the same time and it feels like a Lion King-esque celebration of living. You think about what it will be like after, though. After the orgasm fades and you regain your proper senses. All of a sudden, you’re able to see things for what they are: you’re in some foreign apartment with some foreign body trying to have familiar feelings. You’ll have to do the song and dance of getting up to leave and putting on your clothes. You’ll have to give him a kiss goodbye, even though all intimacy has left the building. Thinking about staying here leaves you feeling exhausted, so you leave. You leave and save yourself the human emotions.
I am loving someone while knowing that it will all end in tears. My tears. I love him anyway. No boundaries, no protecting myself. I guess I’d rather be frustrated than alone. Maybe that will change but, to be honest, I don’t mind feeling all the hurt. I can take it. I’m young enough to take it.
I am waiting for a text message and wanting to cry just staring at my phone. I think about all the time and tears I’ve wasted over technology and then want to cry some more. People can die from an unanswered text message, right?
I am doing something I never thought I would do and it doesn’t surprise me the least bit. You enter your twenties with all of these convictions and lose them all by the time you’re 23. 24 if you were raised right. This is not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes it feels good to surprise yourself.
I am watching my life as if I’m not the one who’s living it. I am pulling the strings, I am negotiating the terms, but I am outside of myself. I know this will eventually kill me. I know that if I want to survive, I need to take the wheel but I’m just having too much fun crashing the fucking car.
I am the unfortunate one who stayed late at the party and now I’m paying for it. Now i’m having to watch the sun rise as my serotonin falls with a bunch of idiots I would never talk to at 2 p.m.
I am on a train on a Friday night going to some house party. I spent two hours getting ready because I enjoy the ritual of it. Sipping gingerly from a glass of wine, making the perfect playlist and sifting through my closet. It relaxes me, prepares me for the social Olympics I’ll have to participate in for the rest of the night. I’m going to this party to make a connection and if that doesn’t work out, I will get drunk and make myself feel connected. Right before I ring the doorbell, I realize that this is what it means to be young. To be doing things for the sole reason of finding the cure to whatever is ailing you.