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results. I also google “Botox flu,” “Botox soulless,” “plastic surgery disaster,” “what’s wrong with me,” “why,” and “how to love yourself.”
As has been said, I am not a human being trying to be spiritual. I am a spiritual being having a human experience. I get it.
I saw the trees of the park and that their roots were actually inverse branches and that they did not hate me.
I will regret the frivolity of chasing beauty and seeking validation, the kinds of things I have done to provide an illusion of safety on this planet, behaviors that perhaps wasted my one and only life.
like, how will i know who i am if i am not measuring myself against something outside me or whatev? it will all feel so bottomless and infinite. i’m ttly scared of the infinite.
like, recently i had a really bad panic attack abt capitalism and how my american lifestyle def causes suffering 4 others—humans and animals—and how i don’t live up to my own consciousness of how i shld be living.
it seems like u r scared of containing multitudes, tbh
why r u just str8 up good or str8 up evil? what if u r a v loveable douchebag? what if u r a heavenly asshole? what if u r a destructive beautiful person?
I just don’t want to deal with having to ask myself every time I take one if my panic attack is “severe enough” or if I am trying to get high. I feel like this would cause me more anxiety.
It’s kind of been a point of pride for me that I’ve never gotten close to the maximum FDA-approved dose.
I feel special and awesome for not having withdrawal symptoms.
I feel self-conscious about sharing this publicly, because the feelings are so raw and immediate. But that’s what So Sad Today is born from. So I tweet about it.
Hahahahahahaha, look how they have sold you my corpse! Look how they have sold you the American Dream, the vacation dream, any dream to distract you from asking too many questions about existence.
My head is like, What if I fucked myself changing the meds and I’m never okay again?
She points to a card called “Strength” that shows a woman taming a lion and a card called “The Fool” with some dude dancing on the edge of a cliff without falling off. I feel like I am not taming the lion. I feel like the lion is attacking me. Also, I think I am going to fall off the cliff.
I feel grateful for the feeling of having to take a shit and having nowhere to take it. I am like, Yes. I feel like myself. But then I take the shit. And the anxiety returns.
IS FAKE LOVE BETTER THAN real love? Real love is responsibility, compromise, selflessness, being present, and all that shit. Fake love is magic, excitement, false hope, infatuation, and getting high off the potential that another person is going to save you from yourself.
You take a living, breathing human being and try to stuff them into the insatiable holes inside you. These holes are in no way shaped like that person (or any person).
how do you know that he or she possesses all of these qualities? You put them there.
With this type of romantic obsession, you fall in love with a magic hologram of a person you create based on a distant image.
If I couldn’t physically have my own dick, I would claim the dick of the avatar.
When the avatar faved two of my tweets in a row, it felt like fucking.
You have enough friends. Do you really want to just be friends? There is nothing worse than just being friends with someone you’re in love with who isn’t in love with you. Actually, being friends with benefits with someone you’re in love with who isn’t in love with you is worse. But friendship with no benefits is bad too. You’ll know when (if ever) it’s finally time to be friends with the fantasy person if they text you and it’s just boring and annoying, rather than intoxicating. Like your real friends.
Maybe try using the cop car emoji.
For the record, I think Aries men should just be avoided entirely. Aries women are fine though.
Be grateful. You may be in a shitty place, but you aren’t as crazy as her. Remember that you have the potential to be that crazy if you don’t let go of the fantasy person.
Instead, I prefer weirder, trippier, psychedelic mantras and prayer mantras so I feel more like a space cowgirl than someone who is trying to tell herself she is worthy, whole, and loved.
I feel like therapy doesn’t really work, but that’s only because I’ve been in therapy my whole life and I’m not perfect or “fixed,” so I’m always like, Therapy is stupid.
Therapy is stupid and annoying, but it works just well enough that you should still do it. Definitely get help.
But there is something about the classification of panic disorder as a mental condition, rather than a purely physical one, that prevents me from extending compassion to myself. If it were solely physical, I might be nicer to me. I might actually have some self-love.
Intellectually I’m like, Yeah. But emotionally I’m like, No fucking way. Buck up, gurl.
“Be gentle with yourself, you deserve it.” Do I really?
Recently, a woman said she likes my writing because I’m not a whiny cunt. I think what she means is that she likes my funny mask.
Oh, well, our curses are our blessings. If I didn’t have panic disorder there would be no So Sad Today.
It would probably be a real relief to just crumble. I wish I could trust that the universe has me and that I could just let go.
“Hi, I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I may be talking about ‘our brand’ but I’m definitely dying. You are too. We all are. But, like, I think I am dying right now. My throat is closing in and my chest is constricted. I have to go. I don’t want to die here.”
One time I saw an interview with a female musician whom I greatly admire,
who is thisss
I HAVE NEVER TOLD THE story of my husband’s illness. His illness is not my illness, and so I did not think it was my story to tell. But the illness is a third party in our relationship. I have been in a relationship with the illness for eleven years. So in this way, perhaps, it is my story too.
made him seem Jewish (in the same ways that I felt Jewish) or more Jewish (in the ways that seemed important) than any Jewish boy I’d been with.
He was menschy.
Rocco Siffredi got matzoh ball soup, which I told him was kind of goyish. I got gefilte fish.
Also, he was ten years older than me. For a man and woman, this put us at the same maturity level.
I have no daddy issues to speak of. If anything, our ten-year age difference reflects only my mommy issues.
I made him chicken soup, harkening back to my Jewish ancestors.
I would float between two realms: the outside world of mobility and sunlight, and the apartment world of darkness, heavy air, fear, and desperation.
This is my one and only life, said Rocco Siffredi. What is happening?
They were neurotic Jewish mothers.
If you tell a desperate person with an incurable illness that you can cure him, he will believe you.
There was a coffee enema, wherein Rocco Siffredi lay spread eagle on our bathroom floor with his ass in the air and I shot a pot of coffee into his asshole via an enema bag and a tube.
It is not an easy decision to marry a person with a disease like this no matter how much you love him.
