I don't have enough green in my wardrobe
“I’m trudging through this gray wooly yarn. It’s clinging to my legs. It’s really heavy to drag along.”
— Melancholia (2011) dir. Lars von Trier
I don’t have enough green in my wardrobe.
I watched 69 movies so far this year. (You laughed.) Next year I will probably watch more. In fact, I’ll make sure of it.
You’re keeping all these people waiting for something that won’t even be that good.
You almost deleted that because you’re not as vulnerable as you claim to be.
Once I was told, based on a cursory glance at my liked songs on Spotify, that my music taste skews sad. I knew that already, but him saying it made it true.
I need to start The Sopranos.
I can’t say with certainty that I’ve always viewed myself as fundamentally lacking. Language is latticed like that. The only thing harder than ending things with certain patterns of speech is remembering how you met in the first place.
You presumably don’t need to write this because no one will want to read it.
My mother informed me via text that six year olds laugh an average of 300 times a day, compared to the age-nonspecific “adult”’s 15-100. Humor, I want to tell her, was never my deficiency.
It’s not that I think it’s too late or it’s no use.
Kamala Harris was probably always like that.
I look forward to Daylight Savings Time because it gives me a legitimate excuse to feel the way I shouldn’t at 7:45 in July.
One of my favorite shows got canceled today.
The jokes I tell about myself are often dishonest.
I’m afraid I’m definitely too young and it’s worth a try.
Must I always confess to something?
There are too many of them and it’s really none of their business anyway.
I’m sometimes asked if maybe I just like being sad. I think the answer is yes, with the caveat that it’s not so simple.
I like being myself. And for as long as I can remember, being myself has meant being sad. I don’t imagine that will always be the case. But on the off chance that it is, I’d rather count sadness among my favorite things than stop doing at least one thing I like.
She was right, I can’t name a single hobby I have outside of media consumption.
What do I care about? How can I be so sure?
It doesn’t matter whether you are your own worst critic when you don’t trust your own voice in the first place.
Whatever that means. Please go to bed.