I’m actually quitting weed this time. I promise. I threw away my joint (again). But this time I was like “No more! I must not! I must be a better version of myself!” and down the toilet did the last of my beloved weed go.
I walked through midtown after work. It’s funny walking through midtown in the evenings because I feel like another unremarkable office girl in a sea of office people. I like the feeling of being unremarkable though, there is something very liberating about it.
There’s a lot of ego in Brooklyn, especially Williamsburg. It comes with this pressure to keep up appearances, emphasize how cool you are. During my evening walks through midtown a lot of these delusions melt away. I’m surrounded by people in khakis. They are like me, they are in midtown because they have a reality they have to attend to. That reality is paying bills, keeping a roof over your head. Survival. It’s not sexy. It’s emails, hours at a desk typing, eating lunches with plastic forks, maneuvering through sometimes sadistic workplace power structures. My life isn’t a giant rush of glamour and fortune, it’s a slow slump to mediocrity.
Ah, love isn’t happiness. To be clear I am referring to romantic love. I think romantic love is like an asset, like owning a car or a home. It brings positives into your life, but can also create work and stress. It also doesn’t guarantee happiness. A home can burn down, a car can die, love can blind and trap you.
Love is a lot of pressure too. I don’t get to be the office girl hiding in the background. Instead I get stuck with the pressure of being the main event. My femininity turns into a meal that I need to slice up and serve to the customer. I fucking hate it. Alone, I fade away, remain irrelevant to everyone else but myself. In my solitude I gaze at life and cut at it until it feeds me.
a soft death 