The only thing I really need to fix is my lower abs and possibly my arms. But lower abs are a priority. I need to stop eating bread, as it’s the only thing I eat at my apartment. And maybe start getting protein style burgers again, even though I hate lettuce.
I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. My mom needs to start making fun of me for getting bigger because it only makes me want to eat more.
- looking back at myself a year ago: how embarassing
- looking back at myself a month ago: how embarassing
- looking back at myself a week ago: how embarassing
- looking back at myself yesterday: how embarassing
- looking at myself right now: how embarassing
I feel like being “in love” with someone, in a lovers’ relationship way, is merely an illusion. We can all marry anyone, if both parties try. The mutual effort is key. Humans are just picky. She has to have nice boobs. He’s got to be attractive. She needs to have long hair. He must play a sport. Humans are too picky. But putting all of these things aside and fixing our overall attitudes, we can fall “in love” with anyone. But I know that I’m ridiculously picky.
I say this because people in their late twenties end up settling with what they’ve got. Because there’s a small chance that they’re going to fall in love with someone else due to the fact that their getting too old.
Telling myself this doesn’t help my current state, but neither does it hurt it.
You might disagree, but I’m still trying to develop my theory. So calm zee tits.
n. the smallest measurable unit of human connection, typically exchanged between passing strangers—a flirtatious glance, a sympathetic nod, a shared laugh about some odd coincidence—moments that are fleeting and random but still contain powerful emotional nutrients that can alleviate the symptoms of feeling alone.
And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.