As in.. when it’s over and all thats left of your 27 second experience is awful porn that took you more time to find than actually enjoy AND a deep repression rearing it’s heinous head. This would be around the time that reality comes crashing down around you and also when you realize, and come to accept that you’re a horrible person. Here’s the best part, I’m all about accepting the pieces of you that are comparable to actual garbage. Delve deep into the sewer-like, rat infested areas of yourself and really just, relish, in all that is shite. Need inspiration? Don’t worry, I got chu. I have compiled a few of my favourite things, and my boyfriends least favourite things, that I have come to accept about myself and refuse to work on.
If masturbating to a 90’s Brad Pitt is wrong I don’t wanna be right.
I need to lay down for like… 15 minutes before I accomplish anything. Because apparently I’m too exhausted and overwhelmed to cope with: the dishes that need to be done (all from me, see below), how I should probably read more and spend less time on Facebook, that I need to figure out a better option for hair removal, the massive heap of laundry, the dirty toilet bowl, how I need a hair cut, my neglected guitar, why Trump is a thing, why Leo DiCaprio is a horrible representative for the environmental cause, drawn on eyebrows. You get it. I tire easily, and well, need a break. Give me 10 minutes okay?
How fucking great is this dog tho? #mylifebelike
I can’t finish a cup of .. anything. And I also require at least two beverages for my highly obnoxious palette. I’m a huge subscriber to having multiple drinks. Something hot, something sweet, water and maybe… beer/milk/tepid water/ice water/the tears of a baby rhino. Despite having all of the liquid varieties I’ll ever need, I usually leave them all half empty like a prude wine taster that is never quite satisfied. If you come into my house, there’s an adorable trail of half full beverages lying around, usually cold coffee. (I’ll nurse the same coffee from the morning until I go to bed at night) It’s my boyfriends favourite game, finding them all and transporting them to the sink, because I’m allergic to that part of the house.
I cannot make a decision. And then I get upset when I never accomplish/experience anything. Life is overwhelming, on like a profound white girl level. I live in a fog of not being able to concentrate which results in a deep inability to come to a decisive direction. I’ve always been a planner, and living on the seat of my pants (which I’ve been trying to do as of late) results in my doing actually fucking nothing, because seaty-pantsy living requires quick thinking and fast decision making, which I clearly lack.
Oh Fry, you get me.
I have no regard for how things are put away in the cupboards, or really anywhere else. So long as it’s out of my sight, I’ll baseball pitch that shit in, and providing the doors don’t come flying back open, we good. Lid drawer? Is that a thing? It is in our house, and I shit on the lid drawer with my sociopathic disregard for my partners organization.
I can’t listen for an extended period of time. And let me tell you, it’s fucking noticeable. The lights are on…the elevator doesn’t reach…sharpest knife… you get it. I will fade in and out of our conversation, not because I’m not interested in what you’re saying (but lezbe, it helps if you’re telling a story that isn’t garbage), but because I genuinely have the inability to focus my attention long enough to really absorb what you’re saying. If I’m looking at you while you’re talking and it appears like I’m constipated, it’s because I’m trying REALLY hard to listen. Moral of the story, I’ll forget what you told me (because my heads in the clouds) and you’ll have to repeat yourself more than once to ensure the meat and potatoes of the story sticks. My head fucking leaks, like the levee in New Orleans.