I AM SO SCARED.
I AM/AM NOT this person anymore: Overthinking every text like a Rorschach blot, giving shape to find wrong reasons, waning interest, and disrespect. I wasn't this way before, and before that. I could giggle and tell you everything 'bout his dick. It didn't mean anything. I can't say to him or anybody else that I don't give a shit this round. But I'm working a used mold: this could be too circular. I am too tired of going through what feels like an assembly line process. But I also give myself pause over the muted, escapist beginning and end of this summer. Am I done yet?
Either way, summer's over and my bed's cold and I'm real fucking serious about it. I want to be serious about you! I thought I was supposed to play it cool, but I'd much rather Do It Right. That is the Lord's Truth: I want so, so blessedly to do it right this time. Dates to places that serve talapia, chatting like douchebags at tea, no more blow jobs for a while, if I want. In the way is: slow, dishonest panic.