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Yes, my aesthetic was mental illness; no, I didn’t want to talk about it.
“Sorry I didn’t respond, I was purposefully ignoring you.”
the woman had been clinically insane. No judgment though. We all struggled. Except, maybe judgment because she’d lit me on fire every night for years? At least she’d been consistent. It was hard to find people with discipline these days.
No, I didn’t want a man to call me baby girl. Gag. But that didn’t mean a man wouldn’t want to call me baby girl. The distinction mattered.
Men were ignorant, dumb, ugly creatures. Frankly, I was done interacting with them. It wasn’t good for my constitution.
Where was the misogyny when you actually needed it?
Normalize gaslighting men.
RIP civilization. I made the sign of respect for the dead with my hand. It was good while it lasted; I was going to miss showers and freedom. Although, technically, I had no free will. Guess it was just showers.
Mentally, I was a slut. Physically, I was terrified of intimacy. Spiritually, I didn’t like men.
There were red flags, and then there were giant glowing signs that said “beware, this man is not good for you.”
It was time to stop being self-aware, whatever I did was none of my business.
Yes, I was delusional. Next question.
“Whore.” They definitely didn’t mean it in a coquette way. Embarrassing for them.
My new aesthetic was cozy, drug-dependent swamp monster. Not to brag, but I nailed the look.
Did I look like a try hard? No. I preferred to be a try soft. Life on easy mode was what I was looking for. Sadly, I had not found it yet.
Usually, I ignored the kings. Their opinions were like male thongs. Useless. Disturbing. And literally no one asked for them.
Straight women were so weird. Yes, I was straight. I didn’t want to talk about it.
Was I perfect? No. Sometimes I dissociated for days and murdered people. But did that make me a bad person? Yes. It definitely did.
Was I depressed? Yes. Was I never wrong? Also yes. The two were not mutually exclusive.
Society either vilified women for their faults or worshipped them for being different. The decision was usually made based on how attractive the woman was.
Physically, I was hideous. Mentally, I was worse. Spiritually, I was a slut. So basically everything evened itself out and I was thriving.
Apparently, all the men had woken up today and thought, I want to lift something and put it down for literally no reason. I’d said it before, and I’d say it again: men were deranged, and they should all be shot.
I sighed and did what any good friend would do. I walked fifteen feet away down the shore, lay down on some rocks, and pretended I didn’t know her.
“I’m too pretty for war,” she whined. I nodded in agreement and said sarcastically, “Military uniforms have never been my style. I don’t have the boobs for a slutty soldier look. It will make me look too boxy.”
“I just want to read smutty books and have family dinners.
Not to get political, but men suck.
