Problematic

I received KitKats in the mail today. Green tea KitKats that I assume come from Japan or someone in Asia with access, or maybe it's a weird black-market system and they were smuggled in from Columbia. I can never be sure. I am assuming they are safe for consumption and hoping for the best. I feel I am not important enough to be poisoned. Life is funny when it's not happening to you, I have decided. A girl crying incoherently on a tile floor with one breast out is funny depending on the circumstances around it. If the girl had proven through the course of a movie to be a complete bitch and this was the moment of her comeuppance that's hilarious, in a really terrible way. If the girl spent the whole day getting rained on and this was the shit frosting on her shit cake, that can also be pretty funny. We've all had disastrous days, and taking that to an extreme can bring things into perspective and feel relatable. It's also funny in a really sad way if it's 7pm,

The holidays hurt now. The threat of Christmas hangs over me like a specter. I wonder how many years of memories I'll have to form to forget you. I throw out little things every day to make more space to replace you. As the year closes (in a month and a half), I realize that I've learned a lot. I have learned that a clock gaslighting you can still tell you the right time of day at it's whim. Scott was manipulative. I was engaged in a much worse relationship than I realized for a very long time. I was told that I was being ridiculous when I was suspicious. That my lack of trust was going to drive him to cheat like it did with Chrysta. This is a weird existence to contend with- one where someone makes you doubt yourself constantly. I was told I should give up on art, on school, and settle into places that I hated. I was told that I was a negative force in the world. I was told I was the problem. I'm still the problem. I'm still the one that needed to be pushed awa

I have rested a bouquet of Kit Kat wrappers at the end of my bed as a token of my love. Some days the familiarity of feeling lost feels like love. It's something I must adore because I come back to it so often. Like the perfect lover. I am it and it is me. We are one and could not exist without the other. You've been there, at some point, early in your twenties. That feeling was me. That aimless, lonely, down-trodden frustration was a visit I paid. I sweep up the open petals. The scent of their bloom still lingers and it makes me queasy. Their fruit, I have eaten too much of, makes me want to wretch. Half- priced candy- my heroin, my silky-skinned temptress, the immediacy of its pleasure is something I cannot pass down. I think this is the larger problem. I have no desire except for the moment. Even then, it's hard to pinpoint what that moment is. I'm lucky it's never linked itself to drugs. I am unlucky that it has, on occasion, been tied to sugar. Sometimes it