I was supposed to wake up, drag myself to the gym, and then come home, have lunch, and then write. But I felt like writing first thing in the morning. It’s wild that I’m writing so much. Do you know why I’m writing so much? It’s because I’m fucking sober. But let’s zoom the camera out a bit. Being caught in a stoned/drunken stupor isn’t really a product of “oh, I like this” or “oh, I lack self control and self awareness” No, at its core (at least in my experience) it was a coping mechanism, more than anything.
I’ve been an aggressively sober sally my whole life. I barely drank or smoked weed in college. My 20s were the same (except for the year after I graduated college and I was a train wreck party girl. I regret nothing). When I turned 30 I dated a guy who stressed me out a ton but also kept buying really good weed, so I found my coping mechanism for aggressively stressful situations in that relationship.
It’s usually toxic boys that send me to this place of extreme stress and anxiety. Outside of them my life has been relatively manageable while sober. To be clear, it’s white boys every time that stress me the fuck out. They remind me of high school, an emotionally shallow environment with low levels of empathy. They love to look at me and then drag me through hell. I don’t think it’s me that they’re antagonizing though. I feel like a man’s relationship with the more feminine energy in his life determines how he will treat a woman. For example, if he knows how to have emotions, empathize with his emotions, and treat himself with love, then he will naturally treat a woman with kindness and empathy.
White American dudes in Williamsburg, Brooklyn are the eye sore of humanity. In their minds they’re gods, but in reality they’re dumb fucking animals. They love to have power, power over people. They love to tell you how great they are, how beautiful they are. And in some respects they are beautiful. They smell good and always seem so cleaned up. Fresh. And then you get closer, thinking, oh all that freshness must mean they’re fresh on the inside. No, it doesn’t. They’re dead on the inside. Like roadkill rotting and baking under the sun of a hot day. They’re absolutely wretched.
That felt cathartic to say. After all the meanness I experienced in their company, it feels good to be like “haha you’re an asshole” on my little blog on this corner of the internet. One of my favorite dating advice Instagramers, @maybeboth, talks about her shit dating experiences in New York and the emotional abuse she experienced. There were times where I judged her for talking so much about her toxic romantic experiences, like, do we need to hear all this? But I get it now. It’s like the softcore version of the Me Too movement, but in dating. It’s a way to collectively come together, to try to give voice to surviving an aggressive negativity that works so hard to minimize, trivialize, and deny your existence.
a soft death 