And we grow older.
No one reads this anymore. I wouldn't expect them to. The last entry maybe to attest to what is and what isn't -- a past I left in the dust.
I lay in a bed I share with not just a lover, but the man I imagine I might marry. We bought this blanket, and this fan, and we cook dinner in blue le Crueset pots.
I work five days a week, forty hours, make too little, and keep getting promised a false promotion. Recently, I was told I look sloppy and as a testament I've started pretending I like wearing make up.
I turned off the music, for the most part. I can get too lost in the lyrics and make up sad sad stories. I'm bipolar, I struggle with depresion. I can easily make myself crash and burn if I'm not careful. Instead I listen to podcasts on my hour long commute to a job that has me questioning my life desires every day.
In the morning, I press snooze far too often. I wake up. I take a shower. I put dry shampoo on my roots and conditioner on my ends and I blow dry my long dyed hair. My allergies are bad and getting worse; sometimes I choke on my own tongue. I take an allergy pill at night and an allergy pill in the morning.
On my way to work, I stop at starbucks, where I pick up my first cup of coffee and breakfast sandwich. I eat it in the car, between cigarettes that I confess is now my one and only vice.
My boyfriend is good for me. He's on the straight and narrow. He gets upset when I drink too much and when he's not around, I drink too much. If I was given the ability, I'd be drowned in self medication. He's taught me healthy ways to ignore my own brain. I watch television shows. I cook home made dinners from homemade cookbooks. I draw sometimes but not as often as I used to.
Leo's somewhere. We still talk, but my boyfriend is at home waiting for me and I have no intention of putting my heart elsewhere.
His name is Chris. And he's been good for me.
It's like I splashed cold water on my face and alllllll the make up came running down into the sink; a testament to what I chose to walk away from. Now I think I need a degree. Now I think I need a promotion. Now I think I need a raise.
I bought my first car.
I can pretend that who I was years ago was simply a bad dream.
My boyfriend knows my secrets, but not my traumas, not my day to day problems, he just knows I was bad, but not how badly I felt.
That's okay. I can take those to the grave.
That's where I would've gone anyways.
I lay in a bed I share with not just a lover, but the man I imagine I might marry. We bought this blanket, and this fan, and we cook dinner in blue le Crueset pots.
I work five days a week, forty hours, make too little, and keep getting promised a false promotion. Recently, I was told I look sloppy and as a testament I've started pretending I like wearing make up.
I turned off the music, for the most part. I can get too lost in the lyrics and make up sad sad stories. I'm bipolar, I struggle with depresion. I can easily make myself crash and burn if I'm not careful. Instead I listen to podcasts on my hour long commute to a job that has me questioning my life desires every day.
In the morning, I press snooze far too often. I wake up. I take a shower. I put dry shampoo on my roots and conditioner on my ends and I blow dry my long dyed hair. My allergies are bad and getting worse; sometimes I choke on my own tongue. I take an allergy pill at night and an allergy pill in the morning.
On my way to work, I stop at starbucks, where I pick up my first cup of coffee and breakfast sandwich. I eat it in the car, between cigarettes that I confess is now my one and only vice.
My boyfriend is good for me. He's on the straight and narrow. He gets upset when I drink too much and when he's not around, I drink too much. If I was given the ability, I'd be drowned in self medication. He's taught me healthy ways to ignore my own brain. I watch television shows. I cook home made dinners from homemade cookbooks. I draw sometimes but not as often as I used to.
Leo's somewhere. We still talk, but my boyfriend is at home waiting for me and I have no intention of putting my heart elsewhere.
His name is Chris. And he's been good for me.
It's like I splashed cold water on my face and alllllll the make up came running down into the sink; a testament to what I chose to walk away from. Now I think I need a degree. Now I think I need a promotion. Now I think I need a raise.
I bought my first car.
I can pretend that who I was years ago was simply a bad dream.
My boyfriend knows my secrets, but not my traumas, not my day to day problems, he just knows I was bad, but not how badly I felt.
That's okay. I can take those to the grave.
That's where I would've gone anyways.