I also have the sex appeal of a toaster.
lately, my head’s been tabulating a series of open ended questions and run on sentences. it’s like how my actions are continuously in transition between another. never finished, not technically started, as though to suppress a fear of the end. i keep moving, starting, forgetting, moving on. with men, my habits, my plans, and even my diet. as my time in college draws near, i’m already itching for what’s next, for the better tomorrow, comforted by the thought that ‘it’s not actually the end.’ i pretend i’m an adult to escape reality on a friday night, running down prospect, i sip on this gin as i strip down with sin, because ‘it’s college.’ but the going gets tough when i ask myself the question of what actually happens when it ends, when i start writing things down, one more word closer towards the end.
“Being in a minority, even in a minority of one, did not make you mad. There was truth and there was untruth, and if you clung to the truth even against the whole world, you were not mad.”
George Orwell, 1984