It’s always just a faint rumble somewhere in my ribcage, distant enough from my heart but also from my brain, that it’s my goal to irritate you to the fullest of my ability, to let you know that yes I’m applying for that internship too, and I’ll probably get it before you. That yes, I’m intelligent and smart, and oh look, I’ve lost weight, gained athleticism, attained confidence, asymptotially wandered as close to happiness as possible! And I’m doing fine, fucking fine and wonderful and goddammit, you’ve even complemented me on my hair and on my interests and on things I’ll say and articles I’ll publish! And sometimes, after I’ve got enough vodka sloshing in my liver, I’ll tell your friends what a good person you are — not you, no not you, you can’t know because a small corner of my sloshing mind knows you’re flawed too. But I hope you overhear my words and know that you’re indeed a great person. Not perfect, but nobody is, but you’re great to know, and I’m going to be so happy for whoever you date. I’ll irritate the fuck out of you, take pride when you notice how much better I’m doing than a year ago, and hope you kick yourself with regret for not having me when you could. 

does this make sense?


I think I’m just excited to see you and talk to you, because you’re one of the few people out there who ever listens and responds rationally. I know I need an excuse to see you at this point, but that’s okay. 

I know you’re one of the few people who’s ever been crazy about me. I’m sorry I’m not crazy about you too; I want to be friends with you because you’re a good friend. Right now, what I need is a good friend who cares and listens without judging. There’s none of those around here anymore.

That moment when you come to realize that yes, you’re slowly hollowing out. And you’re pretty disgusted in yourself. And as empty and numb as you perpetually feel, it’s the closest to happiness you may ever feel because at least for once, your racing thoughts are somewhat muted.