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?