As I come to the end of typing up Dittusopus, the journal of my 8th grade year, I find myself asking myself will I ever feel such excitement for a guy like I did during these youthful years I type up. I’ve grown up and life has drug me like a meme on tumblr and most of the time I don’t feel there is anything left. Just a evil bitch sitting constantly on guard for some BS.
It’s so amazing reading through seeing how excited and alive I was. Crushing hard on two or three guys at one time. Even swapping my last name with theirs on pages as if in the future there would be a chance we would be something more. Believing in the idea, however diluted and Walmart, that one of these guys could be my future husband.
I had not yet been told, “I don’t date black guys”. I had not yet had to pretend like we were not just holding each other close just nights before. I was not yet lying to myself about the trade that I traded sex with for moments of being with the drug that was him.
Part of me is a little scared to keep typing. As I know I will have to go back to some situations. Some people are better off forgetting. They don’t want to remember but I do. I want to remember how I got here.
Or as I end this entry could it be I’m addicted to the pain like bass? Could functioning on pain so long become my drug? Am I always looking for a situation in which I know I’ll be rejected? Oh wow girl this post took a turn didn’t it?
In the words of a former best friend,
You betta FIGURE. IT. OUT!