#are toxic. draining. not so much interested in you but moreso in the attention or validation you provide them

[anon-confesses]

I was fine, with the fact I would never be loved by him.

I was fine, just being a friend. No matter how much it pained me.

I was fine, tending to him every day until I had run out of words to speak.

I was fine when he left, out of selfishness that I did not know how to help him.

I was fine with that.

Until I realised something.

It wasn’t just me he had abandoned.

He had other friends. Who had run out of words, too. Although we cared so much for him, after a while we were just repeating ourselves.

So he left.

I tried to contact him, so did another friend of his, to no luck. He just kept at it, looking for new people to lick his wounds.

I was so mad when I figured it all out, when the pieces all finally clicked together.

Now, I’m just… hollow. Like he took away all my colour, and is now trying to take others, too.

He has a reason, not a good reason, mind you, but he has a reason.

But I feel it’s no excuse to treat your friends like disposable items. To use them for comfort then leave them the second they are leached of their kindness.

Until there is nothing left but a hollow shell.

Until you’re scared to love again.

I was madly in love with him, at one point. I was such a fool.

I’m finding it very hard to move on.

I feel numb. Drained. Robbed.

And yet, and this is even more foolish, if he came back, and apologised, I’d accept him again.

But this flicker of hope is meaningless. I’ve tried countless times.

It is best I move on.

But it’s going to be hard.

I am going to move on.

.

[nicolesqueloquence]

So it dawned on me.. yesterday. At dawn.

That there’s this cliche little conspiracy thing for us in our mid-20’s that 25 is THE worst age, ever.

And while I can attest to 2017 so far being more ambivalent in its extent of BS compared to others (2009, 2012, 2015?!!?!?)….

I have to say that I agree, and I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel with 26.

Suddenly I saw the last ten years weave itself around my mind, counting all of the victories and tragedies and it made way too much sense.

Of course I’m lost right now, as any child byproduct of the dysfunctional American household is going to be. I’m a fucking millennial inheriting nothing but a broken economy and a bullseye painted on my back for everything from financial ruin, emotional self-destruction, and potential kidnapping to a terrorist attack, psychopath killer from my past, and potential Armageddon as we may know it soon.

I think, a lot of other people would feel pretty fucking lost, anxious, and depressed too.

And for the most part, I don’t feel that bad. Maybe it’s my meds zombifying me, maybe it’s just blind optimism because I’ve been too drained of the energy to feel anything stronger than that, or maybe since everything passes- that includes all the negative stuff too.

But I’m fine. I’m on my way to better. I’m almost there. For the first time, I kinda feel it.

26 sounds like a paradise, in fact. And I’m one that HATES getting older. HATES my birthday. I break down. I relapse. I turn into a human tornado of self-destruction. It’s bad, like Marilyn Monroe level of bad.

But not this year. I’m building an empire for myself, just like I have for the past ten years even if I keep breaking it down like the U.S. did to their own towers (oops).

What I did for myself in the midst of all the chaos and ruin was established myself as a writer. I found my words, or they found me, and then they found themselves on paper. Whether it was some mediocre essay project that my teachers inevitably A’d and hailed me for, or my Dragonball Z fanfiction that I still fuck with but with a lot of intermittent adult absences due to my grown up writer’s block from all the imagination that’s left me in my dry and cynical 20’s.

I also got published in both UNLV and my high school’s newspapers. Luckily these are the first things to come up with a google of my full name, and not any mug shots or crazy things like that because those things can stay in the MF past okay.

This is all while my parents divorced, my mom dated and remarried, and I got exiled to my dad’s place all the way across town to another high school- effectively killing the dead end that way my destructive social life at the other school, which was somewhat of a great thing and a terrible thing. I didn’t have people fueling my already turbulent home life with more drugs and alcohol, but then I didn’t have anybody at all either unless they existed in the chat room I dominated as a teenager.

Ahhhh, yes. I will always be proud of such a minuscule feat, with my social anxiety establishing itself and all, because I came up with the MOST LIT AF nicknames. Nikkachu, VenerealCereal, and my very first, Lovily_Lili17- my daughter’s name that I discovered at 13.

Oh yeah. That too. READING. I couldn’t stop. I was addicted to those huge adult novellas like Lace, Where the Heart Is, and anything Stephen King once I had my way with R.L. Stine and his many endeavors to placate his teen base.

Wow. The nostalgia. I can’t.

I still have almost every book from that era. I went and bought a ton of them off of Amazon, but I’ll have to replace some that arrived less than the library form that I originally read them in. I can’t do paperback, they’re much too small.

But that library smell.. My favourite is the one by my mother’s house, where I looked down at my Converse at 12 years old and realized that I was becoming a woman already.

HAHA. Seriously. 12. A woman. Okay.

That moment was just me feeling myself because I had a lot of older male fans that I’m quite sure held a rap sheet for child-related sex crimes, okay.

In that moment, I felt sheer power. My dying self-esteem that had wilted from years of verbal abuse and a total lack of male attention minus that of bullying was suddenly blossoming from the attention I would get from old men. It was exhilarating, and just as addictive as anything else I decided to get my all too curious hands on for the next decade.

At the end of this decade though, I can say I’m no longer phased by it. I get all kinds of attention now, and it’s more of a burden than it sounds like I’m making it. It comes from guys with whole entire relationships waiting for them at home and at work, guys who have kids already (ew), or guys I’m just not into. Period.

So I have a drought of a love life, but I knew this was coming once I recycled my ex’s as much as I could without anyone getting killed. It came close… LOL, but we’re all okay and we’re all separated thank God.

Everybody went their own way to something better, hopefully. Moreso hopefully for me once this drought is over and I can stop losing sleep with all of the PTSD I’ve mustered through the years with all the nightmarish shit I’ve put myself through.

I really went through the ringer, especially my early 20’s. Before I could even legally drink, I had charges. But that’s the territory, right? Being a human Tasmanian devil will do that to you. Having the most unstable self-image will put out a red flag to society that you are disposable, trouble, a force to be reckoned with, etc. So I don’t recommend it.

I’ve really calmed down though. Especially in the past few weeks. Normally after an event like the one I just suffered, I’d be halfway back to my early grave again just like countless times before. But I’m actually way more okay sooner than I thought. It only took a good 3 or 4-day binge of unhealthy, toxic, and intoxicating substances for me to snap into a depression and then somehow snap out of it completely averse to that stuff.

That’s how you know you’re adulting, when life knocks you over for the thousandth time and you just… lay there.

And I type all of this with a huge grin on my face, because it’s great. I can enjoy being sober and feeling like shit at the same time. I can enjoy going to the store at almost 11 o’clock at night for bagel bites and taquitos and feel accomplished for leaving my apartment for all of twenty minutes. I can enjoy binging YouTube, laughing at memes, and obsessing over current event stories in my favourite forum message board places.

So, I’ve moved into my phone. Big deal. My dopamine receptors have to be stimulated by something other than the sun blinding me through my window.

I will say I am neglecting the Tindr app for my own sanity. I think last time I tried to venture it, I got a really fussy man-baby throwing a fit over my very delayed and very mundane response. Okay. That was that, then.

I have a feeling that I can’t rely on electronics for this one. It’s going to have to be some sort of divine intervention to get my love life back on track. I really won’t settle for less, either, because we don’t have the technology advanced enough yet to weed out the assholes, the fuckboys, and the lazy have-nots that I simply can’t build anything with.

There’s always med school. Some very savvy ladies attend just so they can enter the meat market of medicine and date an up and coming doctor. I know I would. Medical terms during foreplay? Needles and a papoose during roleplay? Hell yes.

Okay maybe not anything with phlebotomy but you catch my drift. I think overall, even if they don’t share all the same quirky interests of mine, I would just want someone who is in love with me and stays in love with me. Even if I can’t stay in love with myself.

But I’m trying. This is me trying. This is me giving myself a fucking break because the last ten years have kinda sucked, right? On and off. Sure. But it doesn’t matter. All of the friendships, the relationships, the scandals, the stories.. My God, do I have a story.

I want to publish it, but not in its raw form of pure sugar and salt just piled up in the middle of the table. I want it to be in the form of fiction, set in outer space, in the dark corners of an emotionally dysregulated teenage girl’s mind…

Yep. I got the ideas spinning in my head and everything, it just won’t form a tangible shape.

And it won’t make any money because I’m fucking insane and no one will get it: the big picture, the metaphor, what actually went down.

So I have to make it make money and make sense. Two very difficult things in a day and age where something as basic as Fifty Shades of Grey is hailed as top-notch. Wtf.

At least Twilight is over, thankfully.

And finally my last contribution to this planet and this life of mine in the past ten years is…

BUTTONS.

Yes, my cat. Why?

Because I adopted the most beautiful, loving, playful, and stubborn salt-loving creature on this planet.

So even if I died right here, today, this second.. I will have known true, unconditional love just because of him.

And even if it’s single chick cliche AF… I adore him to death.

So there’s that.

Looking forward to the next 6 months coming and going by so I can be a whole year older, and a whole lot wiser with a lot more laidback to me than before.

But so far, enjoying the ride at 25… (and a half).

Thanks for reading a random rant of mine again! :)

Nostalgic ramblings & revelations about being 25.5 on the way to 26, and much much better. So it dawned on me.. yesterday. At dawn. That there's this cliche little conspiracy thing for us in our mid-20's that 25 is THE worst age, ever.