journal 256: "you're the worst possible version of yourself that you can imagine, and you're disappointed."

it was the middle of summer and i sat on my girlfriend's porch. norman rockwell should have thought ahead when he gave society a perception of what neighborhoods should be like; perfect is really fucking annoying first thing in the morning. i'm chain smoking my thoughts away while she's snoring from the bedroom, twenty feet behind me. it's not working, and i'm thinking about how i should be the happiest that i've ever been. instead here i am, and the best conversation i've had this whole weekend was with myself. i tried it out on a coffee cup but i'll be damned if 90's pop didn't teach me right.

i thought about what you said, when you babbled on about loving fully. instantly, my entire body went cold. forget the smoke and forget filled lungs and forget caffeeine and forget twentyfeetbehind me. the only thing i loved about this place was the fact that i'll never own a mattress so comfortable or a kitchen so accessible. the only thing i loved about this place was that i'd waited six fucking months to get here. i thought about what you said, when you babbled on about loving fully. i've never loved a single thing fully, and i've never seen a problem with it until now.


i'm still chain smoking and talking to coffee cups and damning 90s songs that taught me they wouldn't ever want to talk. i'm still damning myself, but i'm doing it alone. the only thing i love fully is being alone. fuck norman rockwell in the mid summer, and fuck disappointment. fuck me. fuck me. fuck me.