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The Internet is going to save me from my feelings. But what is going to save me from the Internet?
Reality was never my first choice.
Eventually, the pain of waiting for texts from the drug-person outweighed the highs. I said my final goodbye. I blocked him on my phone. I then went through a period of grieving much deeper than I ever went through in quitting the drug-person before. I cried about deaths that happened fifteen years ago. I cried about having to grow up. (FYI: It’s probably never really about the person you think you’re obsessed with. It’s about old pain.)
One form of romantic obsession is to become infatuated with someone who actually exists. With this type of romantic obsession, you project your entire fantasy narrative onto a person in your life and attempt to get them to comply. 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). But you believe that this fantasy person will fill you, because he or she possesses all the imaginary qualities you seek in a lover. And how do you know that he or she possesses all of these qualities?
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It seems weird to me that here we are, alive, not knowing why we are alive, and just going about our business, sort of ignoring that fact. How are we all not looking at each other all the time just like, Yo, what the fuck?
