i went to campus today to see what has been happening. fixed my bike, only to find out there are other things i need to fix. crack open the bearings and count them, add the missing one. $30, they said. new seat cover probably, or new saddle. $30 to $70, depending on who i want to be, someone comfortable or not. money can buy a lot. it can buy me french classes, a trip home, a trip to europe so i can brag about how i am a different shade of myself, a reinvention of myself. some girl next to me at the Tables told her friends she was considering transferring to USC for her bimbofication and I hope she goes, because i am one of those reasons that you hold onto evil eyes, perhaps. maybe. who is to say. sometimes you have to keep them guessing. resentment is a powerful thing, brooding is terrifyingly uncomfortable, especially in this climate. on another note, my boyfriend says taylor swift doesn’t know how to write metaphors, she only sings in the literal. i can agree, i suppose. she only has a high school education after all. sometimes it feels like i’ve let all the cards scatter down the stairs, i’m in my ball gown and all the onlookers are waiting, and i’m about to do my last party trick where they all guess how far i can tumble in one fell swoop of my body. i light my voluspa candle that i’ve wanted to rid myself of. i’ve spent the last few years shedding everything i once pined for to become the shell that i am now.
i miss my boyfriend even though the last time i saw him was several hours ago. i miss who i used to be a lot, the busy body, the griever, a man granted me the role of Beautiful, Devastating Martyr and I played my part so, so well. it’s really a shame that in the process of going method, i’ve lost it. i’ve really lost it. i can’t really concentrate on anything, i’ve given up in some ways. in others, i have accepted the worst outcomes. i don’t plan as well as i used to. i’ve been ignoring texts, forgetting texts. i miss my friends. i rarely ever see my friends. i have become inured to that, i’ve accepted the isolation. i make some half-hearted attempts at reaching out but i’ve lost it, you see. i must have dropped it casually somewhere out in the pelouse of healing, and lost it there. now i am accepting my fate, my defeat. i’ve lost the part! who am i now?
i’ve been reading: I’m reading The Hours right now. I also read the profile of Miuccia Prada in Vogue and how she is left-leaning, how she thinks a lot about her legacy as she nears her swan song, but her new “legacy” in founding and managing the Prada Institute feels like a vanity project. how many transcendent art exhibitions do we need until we are full, we are healed, we are enlightened and i haven’t lost it anymore? i’m in my miu miu era style-wise, i’m in limbo everywhere else. carry me to my jia tolentino era or something, goodness!
tenminutethoughts 