YUCK?

That awkward moment when you fall in love with a piece of clothing, but then you see the price.

iwontbelabeledasaverage:

Self Inspection

My room is in constant pandemonium because I am completely capable of seeing a clutter of mess and stepping right over it. Socks, knickers and jackets mingle with food containers in little mountains scattered over the carpet, and the curving path remaining is what I travel through to navigate around. Want to leave? Find a way to the stairs.

Reflection on how I deal with the mess in my life.

Not good. 

Time for cleaning.

YeahSaturdayYeah

As usual, slept my day away.

Some room cleaning.

Watched Eli vids till I grew conscious of myself <333

walmart.com, target.com, urbanoutfitters.com, asos.com

Put nail polish in a row.

I don’t have a hanger for this? On the ground.

New curtains are very transparent and non-perv-proof.

Called my bro and gave him a lecture on how evil girls are.

Tore a page out of notebook: squiggly edges: in the trash. Repeat until not squiggly.

Strange craving for cabbage? Isn’t that like some fairy tale where the mother trades her daughter for cabbage?

Aging Shoulders

As I trudged up the stairs after the most random date with Mr. X, I realized my shoulders were drooping, like they’d suddenly become aware of gravity’s pull from earth’s core and wanted to leave me armless and groveling on this long climb.

They drooped like they will when I’m sixty seven, is what I decided.

If spending five hours with Mr. X will make my shoulders feel like sixty seven, I’m done with that shit. Is what I decided.

I just turned twenty one. I’ve got a whole life to feel young before I turn into a woman with aged shoulders.

No more dates. No more talking about your dogs, your bikes, your failed engagement. You want to hold my hand? Well fuuuuck you. Go pick on someone your own chapter of life.

Kelly Clarkson Lyrics on a Night Ride in OH

Remember all the things we wanted

Now all our memories are haunted 

We were always meant to say goodbye

He was in his uniform that night. She remembers. Navy button down, khakis all nice and ironed. When he took his shirt off to dance, she snuck a furtive glance at his white wife beater and thought to herself: not bad. What she meant was: not bad at all, like holy freaking cow. It took 15 minutes longer than she anticipated for him to finally say hello, once all the kids were off tending to their barbecue grills, famished and tired from learning the dance routine. He had been so patient and absorbed with the kids he hadn’t paid her any attention, even though she circled the adjacent ping pong table probably more than six times looking for some non-existing ball. Incapable of handling negligence, she huffed at her bangs and gracefully stomped out to sulk. But he did come. It was not until a month later did he let her know how he had been casting glances all along. I kept wondering what you were looking for, he had said, and if you were looking at me. But you never did. She told him it was a ping pong ball, or something like that, and that yes she had.

He fumbled with the cap of his water bottle while he talked, and later on, fidgeted with his shirt buttons. She felt like they let her in on a secret, his fingers, that she had the furtive power to call the bluff his calm voice was dictating. And so she let him steer. They both left that night with goodbyes instead of see yous, but like always, with cases concerning love, fate, and everything along the lines of corny, the waters brought them back again one evening. He spotted her in a crowd from the stage and held her gaze just long enough for her to think, perhaps.

She thinks this: she had always known it would end in karaoke songs mingled with the stench of beer. She thinks this also: a girl has a fountain of tears, but a woman, a woman has a well that can dry up, and so she starts using them more frugally. 

While she packed the last of her boxes, she realized it was the last time she could look out that window, the one she spent hours gazing out of while they talked on the phone, the one she traced little pictures on to with her index finger, smiley face, pikachu, question mark. Once, he had ridden his motorbike all the way to her home. He had never before dared to go near her home. A week later, when they were back on talking terms, he commented on the construction work next to her apartment. Wait, how do you know? She was upset he hadn’t told her back then despite the fact that she had told him not to talk to her so it was really her bringing it all on herself, the silly girl. So what did you do? Just ride here then ride back? He had counted ten floors up to her apartment and admired the reflections of the clouds on her window. Now, the finished building blocked the sunlight. 

There had been so many places to go, so many things to see, her and him together! What defines a promise? Because that would determine how many of them they broke towards each other. She does not remember if she really, really promised he would be the first one to take her on a motorbike ride, but she had felt a ghostly pang of guilt wrapping her arms around another’s waist, sliding across the dark streets. A promise can be set free from its cage once the other stops wanting it to be promised is what she came up with, and she thought it reasonable. But it was a mindset like this that had lead her to the conclusion six months before that she was not capable of promising him anything. At the different stages in their lives, she really had nothing to give, her cage was empty to begin with, he had no key worth holding on to.

Of course she hated him. Then she didn’t, and then she did, and she and her feelings had an on and off, abusive relationship that lasted an unhealthy amount of time worthy of a hotline emergency. They beat her, they did, bruised her up inside all surreptitiously so the correct snippet of lyrics could wench itself into her hidden scars and leave her all numb and gore. She knows this: the right choice was made and it all had to be cut off, dug out, disinfected, but she didn’t know this: the holes never really go away, covered up but not recovered. The one thing she is still proud of: she knew she was doing this more for him than for her, and that made her a beautiful, amazing, selfless person. She really knew how to compliment herself. Whenever a hole resurfaced, she would say to herself, sucks to be beautiful, amazing, and selfless, totally sucks, and it would make everything more okay because she loved being complimented.

And I want you to know you couldn’t have loved me better

But I want you to move on so I’m already gone

Six years later she listens to a pop song with a conventional beat, and the high notes really get to her. She remembers his high notes, how she had laughed at his singing which, really, wasn’t that bad. She thinks about him, and she is fine, she is happy, she tries reaching the high notes, she frowns a bit. Not because of anything to do with him but because of how her pitch is kind of off.