Walk Two Moons

In college, most people experience a lot of firsts. Believe or not, many people get their first kiss, first blowjob, first failing grade, etc. For me, it was the first time a guy held my hand (for more than utilitarian purposes), it was the first time I had sex, the first time the guy I truly truly fell in love with madeout with me.

I don’t need to ask why it could never be me, because I know why it could never be me. Why put myself through his disdainful but guilty look of I-don’t-want-to-be-here pity? These constant failures take a toll. As the confident woman who is the essence of strength and conviction, I am so tired of fucking smiling. There is really nothing more to smile about—every significant man in my life barely remembers the significance of me in his life. Really, when the most natural human instinct is to survive and knowing that survival is more probable with social acceptance and mutual need, then I have really failed to prove Darwin’s greatest theory about living things. Well guess what, Charles? I am still fucking alive and I wish I weren’t.

And the fact that his ego, which really does not need anymore stroking, is massaged to a size beyond his attraction could reach by my meddling hands and unwavering romanticism that is really killing my optimism. Well that makes everything even worse. Because it’s my ego that needs to be stroked right now, when I feel like nothing more than a trampled over hackney by the side of the street #prop.

It’s all very morbid and depressing. An angsty teenager trying to find a sense of belonging and security. Well fuck that because I’m not a teenager anymore and fuck my parents for not raising me right so I have all these attachment problems. Fuck this shit.