I don't care what Samara Morgan has to say about it, allowing yourself to be sucked into a screen is not very healthy.

October 17, 2023 - 12:23; it's Tuesday.

I have to set a five-pages rule for viewing content because hoarding it's not a bad habit, but a disease. I find it intriguing that I often forget to revisit pages and jump to something new, leading to a growing number of open tabs. Eventually, this results in a browser crash due to having accumulated a total of 168 open tabs (most of them spacehey super heavy layouts), making it impossible to manage.

I spent all yesterday surfing on spacehey, searching for people to add. Then there was a small occasional break in the nature with my mom. It was a nice and needed walk, especially because of my period cramps and the difficulty to thermoregulate and breathe.

Today I woke up at 9 thinking:
'I need to contact Yo, we need to seriously hang out.'
I thought about him because I dreamt about a certain world-wide notorious redhead actor cheating on me and then I cheated on him. And then we kept cheating on each other until I crossed some lines and felt like sh*t after that, but I was still vengeful of that bastard (in my dreams, not in reality. I like to think he's a sweet dude).
So, half-asleep, I woke up in a reality filled with dissatisfaction and passive-aggressiveness.
And I found myself thinking about a classmate with whom I was forced to share a bench for months. He didn't like me much (as was the trend back then). I couldn't help but chuckle at how he'd constantly berated me for not respecting his personal space, which, in reality, consisted of a mere 3 millimeters of a random notebook and a few pencils encroaching on his part of the desk.
Also, he told me multiple times that I was stupid because I never understood maths, but I always thought:
'I mean, who cares he's Chinese.'
So the standard answer to his trash-talking was:
'You can't spell my name well, your Italian sucks and you talk like my mom.'
He then raged more.
I mean, he really remembered me my mom, and her treacherousness about stupid homework and stuff. Apart from his shenanigans and his Math-lover genes, he was a cool kid. He taught us how to scare teachers with paper bombs and other cool Asian kung-fu sh*t.
He contacted me some weeks ago on an old FB profile and we were trying to schedule a chill-friendly date from then on.

I honestly want it to be chill - super-chill -, I don't have any other interests in the guy from my school memories, but my unconscious is misleading me suggesting that the correct mathematical approach would be:

'I don't really hang out with any males of my age' + 'I'm in my middle twenties' = 'I need a d*ck, apparently'.

Not Yo's though, lol.

I am an old soul, I want things to be smooth and natural, first, and I don't see the guy in that way. I also think he doesn't see me in that way.
Except I don't really understand why males tend to contact me randomly after billions of years. I always tell myself that 'I'm one of the guys', but of course, it's not that because I have a vagina and I'm too old to believe in friendship between sexes.

Here I was, yesterday evening, planning to talk about my idealized crush and now I wrote a post about some d*cks (again, not Yo's, I bet he's still cool).

You know, it's actually not that embarrassing talking about this stuff online, but I have to check everything with AI first (because I am a stupid perfectionist) and today ChatGPT notified me that I shouldn't share my private information on there because they use that stuff in their research.

I mean, it's not like I didn't know it: in fact, I knew it and I also teased the software every other day with this knowledge, but the standard response was:

'Of course, we don't collect your information, chill, dude.'

Of course, they don't store them, but that doesn't mean actual employees do not read them (well, good luck, Dan & Darla from Silicon Valley, I overshare a lot of personal and boring stuff).

So, what is my problem at the end, in a world where young girls aspire to open f*cking OF to 'change their economic situations/get that bag/be real!feminists!yougogurrrl' and sell themselves to sexist creeps?
What's the deep liaison between that and my reality where no one is currently pointing a gun at my head saying to write publicly about d*cks or die?
I don't know, probably just the paradox of wanting to write private stuff for an invisible public. And mental programming.

Also, at least on spacehey, I am not obligated to register with my real phone number.

Another thing that's bothering me is how much time I'm spending here doing basically nothing (not even my layout), so I'll leave my doubts pending for now because I need some sunlight.

Smell you later,

- Toya

PS: If you find grammar or syntax errors, feel free to point them out to me because I want to improve. I checked mainly with Grammarly today and I'll edit later the rest.

Btw, it's now 15:48/03:48 PM.