C U N Tuesday

Well, like a cat with it's very own batting toy, I'm contemplating the idea of literary rejection again. It doesn't help that Nick is sending me albums again and I'm fucking obsessed again. I can't stop listening and writing things down in the heat of the shower. Who thought I'd ever want to drive out to Indiana again? Who thought the escapism of Chicago would become this weird existential death march of my own doing? Life's funny but not in a ha, ha, ha way, but we kind of all already knew that one, didn't we? I finally told him about him/her and the cute-black-heart emoji that encompassed all three of us. He was pretty chill about it. Because, like why the fuck not? Nothing really matters. Plus the monogamy I'm currently in is a death march, remember? 

Well, three weeks until my next period. I'm feeling it like a fucking dagger in the ovary already. I found out more recently than not, that my mom had this weird ovarian surgery when she was like still a virgin and thirteen. Yeah, I guess they took one or something? How the fuck wasn't I an only child again? Fertility skipped a generation, and that's entirely fine at this point. I'm not about hustle culture. I write in the way that I have to in order to breathe. Just like my favorite people will always be under the age of eleven for probably the rest of my days. 

David called me a C U N Tuesday this morning because the Daniel Johnston playlist I made for his birthday had repeats. In his heavily autistic mind this equals neglect and most offensively, blind ignorance to the organizing and development strategies of a proper birthday-present-playlist. It doesn't matter much to me; his wizardly attempts at trying to make me feel salty or traumatized for my love of Daniel Johnston, it's near impossible for David and his toxic Brittany ass to penetrate my mind with it. Nick told me that he loves my brain and it reminds him of an indie movie. He's totally right. It just becomes exhausting, you know, mumble coring it and having to look at my own tits all the time. Greta Gerwig truly failed us. But you should still turn on Frances Ha anyway.