The fact that I sometimes question whether or not my childhood really was that bad is thankfully being calmed by my autoimmune disorder and all the horrified faces I see, when I tell a snippet of memory that in my eyes isn't that bad.
I walk around 20.000 to 30.000 steps a day due to an excursion. Vegetarian options are dire here and I'll be working on my feet non-stop for three weeks upon my return. Come see me be 10kg lighter in August.
I got my period and yes I'm dying thanks for asking. Luckily I only began the perishing process once I finished my 45minute workout. See you on the other side
I'm going to spend a whole day at the river with my partner. In exactly a week. The habitants of this city are really healthy and attractive. Most without flaw. I want to not only compare but outcompete.
My hair is dark now, I want to be respected. I want to be perceived as intelligent and stable. As unpredictable and desirable. As close but unreachable.
I wanted this job for half a year now.
You won't give it to me, again?
You will let me hope just to pull the rug in the last second, again?
I will make you miss me.
I will make you wish you would have let me be good for you.
By being better. By fucking of. Fuck you, if I can't earn money of you, I'll go somewhere better.
I made my bedroom whimsical and beautiful. Piece by piece. I now have stones from the river and little self made potions hanging next to my window. I have rose and green plants on my windowsill. I have books floating along the wall, I have a bookshelf right in the centre of my room, separating it in two. I have the bouquets I got lifted dried out and stood in a vase. I have a head as a lamp. I have mirrors everywhere. And a garden with plants that survived the winter.
My rose tinted glasses are gone and the true colors are somewhat untidy.
I have standards and I act on them myself. For some reason whenever I come back to myself, realise who and what I am and how much I do, I realize how a lot around me is not there yet.
I'm a professional playwright, director and manager. I'm a historian, a florist, a coach, a dancer, an actress, a model, a painter, a journalist. I work two academic jobs, I care for mentally unwell family members, I'm an activist.
Why did I pack presents for my boyfriend? When be hasn't even brought me flowers? Why did I clean his kitchen while he cleaned his flat? Why is currently with his back turned to me? Why did I only now, half a year after he has moved in his new flat, get a single space in his closet?
Why don't I complain? Why am I so understanding?
He has a habit of describing everything he learns as dumb. For some reason he gets it all but has a very bad image of it.
I wonder when this will swap over to me,or if it already has.
I have my special interest which are usually things that scare me or which I, only a personal level don't understand. Like spirituality and fascism. I don't get how people get into it, how they fall for it. So I study it and I find it fascinating. I speak about christianity, about different fascist regimes, about sexual abuse and so much more. Somehow, even though I speak of such things, it doesn't make me as mad as chemics make him mad.
I asked him what he wanted for dinner. He explained what he has at home. I asked him pick between two options so I could cook. He didn't and when I asked why he said it was because he has a lot of other things on his mind. As if I didn't. As if I came just to be his maid and sleep. As if I hadn't several dates planned out, gotten into a nice outfit, just had a hard day myself and then come here to celebrate valentines day with him. I came to him and he hasn't even picked up his clothes from the floor.
He's studying, sure. I am too though. The way we prioritize each other is different.
I don't want to lower my standards.
I've never met anyone who could even size up to him though. He really us the best I've ever had.
If we break up I'll stay single and become an unreachable God. You can pay for my dinner, you can take me on a trip, you can please me. But I will never be yours.
