When I look at etsy or other vintage clothing sites and they’re calling Everything from the 90’s ‘grunge’. Conservative Mom dresses. Anything velvet. Boring preppy little outfits. I don’t know why it’s bothering me SO Fucking much but it is. I Hate when people use buzzwords to get views that are completely irrelevant. It’s cheating and wastes my time. When I’m looking for something specific I don’t wanna have to wade through a bunch of SHIT first. NOT everything in the 90’s was considered grunge. Look it up you Fucking idiots. I was there. I know. Music and style was a big part of my life back then. I wore that style. Get off the Fucking bandwagon. Idiots.
Now he lives in a little rectangular box on my nightstand. Now I don’t have to worry about him anymore. Now I always know where he is. Now I’m never alone. We don’t hurt each other’s feelings these days. When I babble on about nothing in particular it feels pretty much the same because he usually just tuned me out. And that’s just fine with me. Sometimes I just feel like doing my stream-of-consciousness thing… When it’s important, he’s right there, when I need him to be.
He’s still the most important person in my world. It’s been over a year, dammit. Ain’t someone else supposed to have taken that spot over by now? Damn attention whore. O well, everyone else just bores the hell outta me, and I detest stupid people.
Since he died I rarely leave my cluttered little apt anymore. It’s hot as fuck in here right now. I’m naked- in front of my fan- on the bed- next to a cat. Like I am every other day.
I don’t do shit anymore. He knew I’d end up like this. With the exception that I eat. A lot. We both thought I’d starve myself as I usually do when I’m unhappy with my inability to control things. You know, because it takes a lot of control to resist eating food when I’m so hungry that it feels as if my stomach is eating myself from the inside out. Yes, it’s not easy. But I went another way for some reason. I’m not liking it though- I think fat is disgusting. And I’ve got 20 extra pounds of it now, all around my midsection. Ugly.
Regarding never leaving the house, I have to twice a week for methadone and necessities like cat litter and candy and e-juice.
I lost interest and I’m too hot and uncomfortable to write. And typing this crap on a phone is excruciatingly slow and annoying. So I. Am. Outta here!