everything is really hard. i am having a lot of trouble staying positive. i feel like that part of the bell jar where esther doesnt want her picture taken because she knows shes going to cry, that there isnt anything she can do about it but she feels like a glass of water thats too full and if someone looks at you too long it just sloshes out. i know that i am going to make it, but i worry about how this will shape my already-prone-to-depression outlook. i feel myself hardening. i dont know if that is just a normal part of growing up and going through difficult things or if i am becoming a fucked-up person. im scared to think about how things will change between me and my siblings. i count and recount my money, probably 20 times a day. while im working and talking to others i am silently adding and subtracting, calculating how much this cigarette break will take away from my grand total, how many more shifts until i can get new work shoes. i am too young to be this jaded and cynical but i dont really have time to worry about my character because i am too busy having my body equated with merit. fuck, man.
wtf, facebook. he is dead. even the internet is trying to make me upset today
you know what you are to me, don’t make me say it over and over again
Mad Men 1x06 Babylon
My brother wrote this story on the tablecloth at dinner.
out of the ash i rise with my red hair and i eat men like air
After sex, you curl up like a shrimp, something deep inside you ruined, slammed in a place that sickens at slamming, and slowly you fill up with an overwhelming sadness, an elusive gaping worry. You don’t try to explain it, filled with the knowledge that it’s nothing after all, everything filling up finally and absolutely with death. After the briskness of loving, loving stops. And you roll over with death stretched out alongside you like a feather boa, or a snake, light as air, and you … you don’t even ask for anything or try to say something to him because it’s obviously your own damn fault. You haven’t been able to—to what? To open your heart. You open your legs but can’t, or don’t dare anymore, to open your heart. It starts this way:
You stare into their eyes. They flash like all the stars are out. They look at you seriously, their eyes at a low bum and their hands no matter what starting off shy and with such a gentle touch that the only thing you can do is take that tenderness and let yourself be swept away. When, with one attentive finger they tuck the hair behind your ear, you— You do everything they want.
Then comes after. After when they don’t look at you. They scratch their balls, stare at the ceiling. Or if they do turn, their gaze is altogether changed. They are surprised. They turn casually to look at you, distracted, and get a mild distracted surprise. You’re gone. Their black look tells you that the girl they were fucking is not there anymore. You seem to have disappeared.
