Sometimes I have nothing to say, and I only ask questions. I only ask questions about everything, but I don’t know if that helps me much.
There is an obligation to talk to people. I might want to be alone, to spend time by myself, but I know I need to call some people and talk to them, chat or message them, sometimes go out with them. It’s because I need to keep in touch with people because I might need to talk to them sometime. And also, if I don’t talk to anyone, I’ll feel lonely. But it’s exhausting to keep one’s entire network of friends.
This makes me sound like a bitch, so I’ll stop talking. I love my friends, don’t get me wrong. I miss them, I think about them, I want them to be alright. I often need to be with other people, and I often need to be alone. Finding the balance is hard, so I need to try harder. I don't want to be some egocentric bitch who only tries to get what she wants, but I might be getting there.
I want to make delicious new meals, but I don’t know whether I want to make them to make my family happy, or for my own satisfaction. It must be both, but I don’t know which one is stronger. I don’t like not knowing, and because I think about it, in the end all I do is ask questions.
Yesterday, I devised a list of twenty-something things that I need to do. Some of them I wanted to do, so I did them or at least got started. Other things keep waiting for me. I start listening to a documentary or reading something, and I space out. I try it again, and I space out again. Maybe it’s too much to stay at home for an entire day. I make plans about everything, I try to squeeze everything in, and when it comes to actually doing the thing, I don’t feel like it. What the fuck?! Why do I try to make everything so damn awesome and exciting and bring myself to the brink of human enthusiasm? Can’t I just enjoy and float? Fuck, stop calculating every single minute, fuck!
I need to take a shower now, and then I’ll look into these cooking books I have. Or maybe I should look into the books first, and then take a shower. Sitting in the chair, with my legs spread out, I can smell the odor of my pussy gently flowing up towards my nose. It’s not very flowery, it’s a pussy. Why the fuck did I even write all this?
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