Product Of

So you don't have Mommy issues? That's cool, I also don't scream into pillows over minor issues. The shattering realization that you weren't good enough for something, or someone, and it didn't end in a car, or at school, or at a party. It happened right in front of you, with blood rushing to your ears, your heart, your stomach, your fists hitting something but you're too blind with rage to see what it is this time around. The point is you connected with something, and it resisted the punishment.

When I lose a follower I feel like you do. What is she talking about, this white girl with trash metaphors and bad similes? I wrote something stupid and then deleted it. You know Dominos, or those Russian dolls that are a copy of a copy of a copy? That's my posts, my life, my bleary eyes looking into a mirror at myself. This is Fight Club, and our lives are ending one minute at a goddamn time. It's almost like I have to deal with it or something. Who am I?

I used to walk alone at night, looking at the stars. I thought fate was written in them, until I learned that I'm responsible for that, too. No one and nothing will save you. I spent Covid locked in my room, writing for myself, too alone to know what it means to be a part of something bigger than myself. I stood in line outside of the grocery store while a bouncer called people in, one by one, a copy of a copy of a copy, a government conspiracy, or someone on a power trip. What's the difference?

There's something beautiful about water. I'm an air sign, but I love the ocean. Lakes, ponds, creeks, rivers. There's something timeless about them, the wind running over them like the comforting, guiding hand I almost had but then was born and was told to be quiet, unseen, unflinching as life washed over me.

Are you still reading? The point is, I'm hanging on by a thread. It's so easy to write this shit because, like cursing, this stuff just pours out of me, a broken container for something they don't sell anymore. I'm Blockbuster, or Filenes. I'm the opposite of McDonald's, with a cult following. I get told in parking lots things on the phone I wouldn't tell my worst enemy, or maybe that's me, sitting in my car, eating a Big Mac and contemplating existence with early 2000's music playing.

Goodbye. I'm not here for long. Wait - aren't I supposed to be saving for retirement? Whats' that, living a long life that you spent wanting more of?

I hope if you're out there, reading this on the internet, you are least have something to hold onto, someone worth fighting for. That you're happy to read what I write. You don't know me, but when you see, or think of something sometimes, you put the pieces together, and I'm the finished product.