Beautiful World, Where Are You

I spent half my twenties with this person, and in the end he just got sick of me.

It’s so hard to see the point sometimes, when the things in life I think are meaningful turn out to mean nothing, and the people who are supposed to love me don’t

It was important to me then to prove that I was a special person. And in my attempt to prove it, I made it true.

The idea of taking care of you, or you need my help, whatever. I probably have a thing about that anyway. Whenever a girl asks me to open a jam jar, I kind of fall in love with her.

Yeah, it was weirdly sexy. It’s funny, I think I enjoy being bossed around by you. A part of me is just like, yes, please, tell me what to do with my life.
He was laughing then, touching the inside of her thigh with his fingers. You’re right, he said, that is sexy.

After that, everyone began sharing horror stories about the rental market.

I know I am bisexual, but I don’t feel attached to it as an identity – I mean I don’t think I have anything special in common with other bisexual people.

Why do they pretend to be obsessed with death and grief and fascism – when really they’re obsessed with whether their latest book will be reviewed in the New York Times?

I looked at the internet for too long today and started feeling depressed.

I keep encountering this person, who is myself, and I hate her with all my energy. I hate her ways of expressing herself, I hate her appearance, and I hate her opinions about everything. And yet when other people read about her, they believe that she is me.