My lovers told me a lot of things — mostly things about myself that I didn’t realise I had or lacked thereof. Or things about themselves that I didn’t anticipate or could have anticipated but chose not to. Sometimes they were just passing comments that my lovers would very soon conveniently forget but somehow they got stuck at the back of my mind.
You double tap one photo, then two. You drop a friendly comment. A few minutes later, your phone screen lights up with a text message from him — Hey you! — as though you’re two good friends just catching up, no big deal.
I used to be in love with a hipster European boy. He was everything I wasn’t (and still am not). He rode bike to work and around the city.
It’s terrifying to have to make all the important decisions not knowing if they are the right ones. But it’s also liberating and wonderfully exciting because I get to make all the important decisions. I get to live my life the way I think is best for me and this is all what matters.
I don’t see relationships as an end-goal or a measure of my self-worth. Speaking of which, I don’t bring my self-worth into the mix when a relationship succeeds or fails. I know the outcome of a relationship is down to our compatibility, not worthiness — worthiness is irrelevant.
I would do anything for money. Well, I would do most things for a good amount of money. My rules are simple. I don’t mind danger, don’t mind dirt, don’t mind humiliation, don’t mind pain. The only things I strictly don’t do are prostitution, killing and love. As for the rest, it’s always a matter of assessing the pros and cons, a question of whether the money is handsome enough for the risk to be worth it, and a problem of me making decisions based on my mood.
I’ve been questioning myself lately what is a good life for a 22 year old and I’ve come to a conclusion that a good life should include having as much great sex as possible. Not just good, but great, healthy sex. The sex that satisfies you, empowers you, makes you glow like a fucking walking LED and doesn’t leave you feeling dirty and shameful.
Dear Johnny, I have written a million times about you and I will write one more time now because while it makes no difference to you, I really need to do this to feel myself again.
I guess that’s the biggest difference between the 22-year-old me and any previous version of me: I’ve learned to let go of people who don’t choose me. I’ve found the strength to move on regardless of the circumstances.