as a procrastinating overachiever i feel like i don’t necessarily “half-ass” things, it’s more like a “3/4 ass”. like overall did i do pretty well? yeah. did i reach my maximum potential though? i think the fuck Not.
i pour alphabet soup in a bowl and the letters rearrange to read ‘TRYING TO FIX OTHER PEOPLE WITHOUT EVER OPENING YOUR HEART TO VULNERABILITY ISNT AN ADEQUATE SUBSTITUTE FOR GENUINE CONNECTION’
halfway through microwaving i stir the soup to redistribute the heat and now it reads ‘ITS EASIER TO USE DIFFICULT REALISATIONS ABOUT YOURSELF TO CREATE IRONIC PIECES OF PSEUDO-ART THAN IT IS TO ACTUALLY CHANGE THE WAY YOU LIVE TO ACCOMMODATE THEM’
The pretentious man writing my life: this is what drove him crazy about her, her wildness, her insanity. One moment she was peaceful, the artist in her nest – the next, she dived into chaos, dined on it, challenged it. Just when he thought he understood her, she moved to again rewrite her definition, always unknowable, always glittering like the ocean, hinting at a story yet untold, laughing at a joke not meant for him, her eyes twinkling with secrets and humor and the otherworldly feminine. She was surrounded by color, loved it so much she tried to pour it inside of her, tried to poison herself with it, tried to paint even her organs. He wanted to kiss her, to entangle that art into his own skin – but the moment was passed. She was again order, peace. The chaos ceased. He didn’t even get to touch her boobies.
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