tyler, the master

"Fuck buying studio time, I'ma go purchase a shrink/Record the session and send all you motherfuckers a link"-Tyler the Creator, Rusty

                                                                       dude gets me.

en rose

"She wanted to die, but she also wanted to live in Paris."-Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary 

That is one of the most beautiful strings of words that I've heard in a long time. It's a string of words that makes me feel. Where I am is a dull, pale ocean, but where I'm going is a marvel. Paris, my honey-colored lover. I'll meet you soon when my lungs are ready.

And I was coincidentally drawn to the novel Madame Bovary when I was at the Strand last weekend. I had to have you, but I didn't know why. But now I think you're just what the celestial doctor prescribed.

I have a difficult time believing that I'm real. I see myself so objectively that I think every word that falls out of my lips is a lie. If personality is is an unbroken string of successful gestures, then no wonder my vision of myself is shattered. I can't utter a word without tearing it apart in retrospect.

I close my eyes, and all I see are the sunglasses.

The sunglasses I'll wear in Paris one day strutting down cobbled streets.

The sunglasses I'll wear in New York walking to the publishing office.

I see lots of striped dresses and peacoats in candy colors.

I also see the other sunglasses.

The sunglasses I wore in high school to shield my tired eyes.

The sunglasses I wear Wednesdays after crying.

But I never wear sunglasses to hide. I'm always making a statement.

My gait transforms when there's plastic resting on my ears.

My breathing eases. All of the muscles in my body melt.

I'm hot and I'm heady and I'm ready to take you on.

C'est la vie en rose.

                                               Shameless selfy

                              "Let us play with your look"= life motto

confessions

So I'm just really mad, okay.

I have an anger burning a blinding white exploding in my core,

atoms splitting in my spine,

fire ravaging my veins.

I'm honestly done with this.

I'm done with segmenting myself for everybody to match their expectations of me.

I'm done with letting my fears manifest themselves into my reality.

I'm done with hiding my intelligence as a cry for help,

as a way to make my limb-splitting pain

tangible to everyone who

refuses to recognize it,

myself included.

I'm done with squandering all my potential

in rebellion of the atomic war inside of me,

a war against myself and everything I stand for.

Just because the problem is myself doesn't mean I should punish myself.

There's nothing else to burn, so I set myself on fire.

I feel powerless otherwise.

It's the only control I feel like I have.

When "Just" makes sense to you, you should probably go to therapy.

So I did.

It helps me understand myself, but it doesn't do anything to help anyone else understand.

My academic advisor asked me how everything is going, but the answer to that question

can either be answered in three words or a thousand.

So of course I chose the former.

And I can't help but compare my problems to others' problems,

and in the grand scheme of things

my issues seem frivolous,

and the fact that they're burning the edges of my life

makes me feel frivolous as a human being.

How dare I be destroyed by this when there is so much greater pain in the world.

But everything is relative, and this pain has too many layers to unravel so simply.

It's my fucking disposition, I can't target it.

I broke my foot playing dodgeball recently,

and in a way it's the best thing that could have happened to me.

It's given me a lot of time to think.

And I can't help but think that I wish people reacted to my mental health

in the same way they reacted to my physical health--

sympathetic, but confident that I'll be okay,

and proud of my strength in powering through the difficulty.

I wish I could address it with a funny anecdote,

and I wish we could all laugh at it so I can begin to move on.

I wish I could bedazzle my psyche

and have my closest friends sign it with

sarcastic pseudonyms so that

every time I feel it

I can wish it away with

sassy adrenaline.

But instead I get an academic advisor to tell me that "it's okay that you're not an A student,"

while I want to scream that I am,

I am I am I am I am I Am,

I know I

A

m,

I'm just trying, trying, trying to find a way

to show you without completely

falling apart.

And one day, when I finally get there,

you'll rue the day that you defined me,

and understand that a 4.0 will mean

much more to me than a

GPA.

Me and my BFF Johnny