Are we dead yet?

Please don't judge me for what I write when I'm PMS-ing

I dreamt I was in the bottom of a Stanley cup surrounded by ice cubes the size of a house,

turns out I’m allergic to lead and it makes me cry - I’m floating in my own tears -

but at least I’ve got 37 different pairs of cowboy boots to make me feel better about the horror of it all.

I watched a TikTok about a woman with high ceilings and an open kitchen asking her boyfriend to peel her an orange; he buys her a whole sack of fruit, presents it to her, picks her up and she’s small and perfect,

one of the comments reads, “my boyfriend told me to peel my own damn orange 😭” and other people ask her how she found someone who loves her so much.

A girl on the train shows her friend the books she got for her #bookhaul,

“When will you read them?” Her friend asks and the girl says she prefers audiobooks, actually,

then they talk about strawberry skin and milk jelly nails and made up, dangerous things like ‘leggings legs’.

I feel sick because I know all the words, I know all the words,

I thought I was better than them but we’re all in the mud, aren’t we?

All the small and perfect girls, showing me small and pretty things they buy for them and their dogs and their babies; I will join them in the raptures -

thank god for Apple Pay for letting me do it quickly, starving-like,

time to re-read how to break up with fast fashion to shame myself into being good again, but also fuck it, this is all I’ve got: give me my pop of red and mob wife and claw clip and fur trimmed and Valentine’s Day themed lingerie and stuff and stuff and stuff me until

I’m full and

feeling special once again.