i made a journal and now i’m afraid of it being public. i make it public for you, i’m okay with you seeing, bay. just old paranoia about old internet creepers.
i wanted somewhere i could type because i type quicker and more neatly than i write.
to start, i’m emotionally and physically miserable. i can’t sleep worth a damn except a few days where i pass out for a solid 9 hours and you’d think that would feel good but it makes me just perky enough to really appreciate the sucky parts.
i have zero sex drive and i’m sorry for that. i genuinely don’t know if it’s because i’m so tired, my medicine, or my pain. i’m so shut down i don’t know. after my last few dreams about you i think i would be okay if you had a no strings one night stand for the simple fact that i know i’m no help.
part of me is curious, part of me would ask for details.
i’ve latched onto growing succulents like i latched onto cross stitching and adult coloring for mental relaxation. i can’t ever concentrate on those though i’d like to make some of the ridiculous embroidery on pinterest.
speaking of, how are you supposed to clean a 6 foot crocheted rug made from yarn the size of a man’s forearm? beat the shit out of it with a tennis racket?
i’m looking for things to do with an almost desperation. i feel so empty inside. i want it to stop.
i keep everything bottled in where i don’t even know half the time why i do what i do. jump in head first and hope it helps for a little while at least.
buy a ton of makeup.
download a ton of kindle books.
get a ton of plants.
save a ton of pinterest ideas.
watch-list a ton of netflix.
hoard each and every ridiculous thing with the ridiculous hope that this will be the thing to make me feel happy inside.
it does sometimes. small moments of content.
i’ve got a giant pink diamond cut glass crystal. if i stick it in the middle of a rosette arrangement it would remind me of a crystal butt plug.