so, here's the thing: i have a brain that has been fried by medication and nicotine and alcohol and weed and exhaustion and the curse of being in my early 20s. i have tried very hard to keep it this way (damaged, that is) because i think it is worse to admit that i might have always been average before i made that my norm. this is nobody's fault but my own. i have taken a kitchen knife to my neuroses and it's fine.

i do feel bad, sometimes, because i think you expected more than that from me. some wonderful thing i refuse to live up to because it is better to never try than it is to attempt it and fail. sorry. i fear i am too comfortable with knowing i will never get better. it's not that i think my illness makes me interesting or funny or anything that could make me a john green protagonist, it's just that it is so much easier to be like this.

hope you understand someday.

lots of love.

about
I think about people from my past often, especially those who have long forgotten me, and I am overcome by the desire to write them a letter, with no intention of actually sending them. Perhaps some things are left unspoken. But I like to flirt with danger, and by putting them on here, there is a very slim, but non-zero chance my subjects will happen upon the sentiments meant for them. Maybe I want them to know. Or maybe I just want to catharsise. But I sure as hell am not posting any of them directly.
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