Detox December


You guys.  It’s weird.  I had no idea I was so emotionally addicted to the payoff I get from… what?  All the likes and comments?  The simple knowledge that my endless stream of consciousness is being projected to a handful of people who kinda enjoy it?


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my eternal self-loathing has jumped the shark

My jaw is sore as FRIG, and I legit think it’s from eating too many sunflower seeds.

It’s really only to satisfy my oral fixation–and the intense love of salt that will one day lead to my death–so when I sunflower, I do it up big.  Pop 10-15 of those fuckers in one cheek, crack them in the center of my mouth, move the cracked seeds to the other cheek, spit the shell, continue until all seeds are shelled, eat them all at once.

Thing is, this takes a lot of tongue coordination and muscle use.  But it’s addictive as fuck for me, because it satisfies that weird urge to be “accomplishing something” without having to do anything hard.

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Accidentally wrote this like a private blog. Private blog? More like FRY… VET… SMOG…?!?!?


I’m not batting a thousand today, but I keep thinking I should write, so.  HAVE SOME WORDS.  OKAY.  WE GOOD?  WE DONE HERE?

I don’t even know what “batting a thousand” means.  Like, I know it’s baseball.  I know what batting is.  Obviously you can’t literally bat one thousand times in a game, so it has to be some sort of… points… system.

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Aight.  I need to get real about some shit.  Posting this publicly scares the crap out of me, but I’m gonna try, because ya know… Accountability?  I guess?  Also I am the internet generation.  We can’t keep things to ourselves.

I’m, like.  The size I was when I was 19, right now.  And it’s weird.  It feels really weird.

It’s probably not that noticeable to other people, but.  I’m back to drowning in size 2 pants and feeling this uncomfortable excitement at the idea of maybe being a zero again.  A ZERO.  A size that shouldn’t even fucking EXIST, you guys.  I might be a zero, lol!  NEAT!

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On Accountability and Heroin

I am a hot mess.

I mean, anyone who’s met me more than once has PROBABLY FIGURED THAT OUT.  But then, I don’t let people into my apartment, and I don’t talk about my job, because there are limits to how vulnerable I can be when I’m so frighteningly aware that I am not emotionally healthy.  I have to draw those lines, because other people knowing what I am means I have to acknowledge it myself.  And, honestly, that doesn’t make it better.  It just makes me want to lock the doors even tighter.

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