Or am I so used to all my small luxuries that my sadness is totally out of touch?

Because anything a strange man does creeps me out, and LOTS of things nice men do creep me out.

We’re going to Italy in a couple of months, and if I can’t taste all the pasta and mozzarella, then why tf would I even go?

Helping a homeless person who’s missing limbs.

I wanted to ask if I’d really be able to see you, or if the old girlfriend you got back together with but didn’t tell me about would be in town. We don’t talk about that, but friends are supposed to. So I made the costume comment and deflected my own anxiety, the truth, and all that jazz.

It’s so easy to “other” someone else because of their appearance, and I feel like I’ve never thought of how it feels to be on the other end of that disparaging look—to be the fucking freak, as I so eloquently said it above.

Don’t ever think you weren’t special to me!

And every time he folds my clean laundry, he puts a thong on his head and says, “Whoa, look at this cool hat.”

It can be a small moment of conversation, but if I feel like I don’t really know the person, and they’re asking something about me—however innocuous—and I get the sense that they already understand me deeply, I blush.

I have this theory in my head that human beings will become so absorbed by all our inventions and advances that we may forget what we wanted them for in the first place: connection.

“I’m going to leave soon, don’t worry.”

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: Why do I feel like I always need to explain myself? Why am I always needing to DO something? Why do I feel like I can’t take care of my mind without it being worthy of penalty?

What’s more human than diarrhea…

This is what it’s like living alone…