GIRL SPEAKS: national clase azul day

im starting to get the hang of this whole blogging thing again (i think). i guess you could say its like riding a bike and old habits die hard (flashback to my early 2010s tumblr era).

welcome to my stream-of-consciousness (its dark in here, im aware). maybe its good for me to put my thoughts out there, release them into the world and see what happens instead of locking my feelings in a bottle. i guess this is my way of cleansing myself of the things i could never say out loud.

whos even 100% honest these days?

when people ask how you are doing, you plaster on a fake smile and you reply, “im fine.” anything less leads to prying eyes and unwarranted questions.

im fine, im always fine. just fine.

i dont remember a lot of my last year or so, but i do know where i was a year ago from today. i was at silverlake reservoir, celebrating a friends birthday over zankou chicken and drinks. he had wanted clase azul, insisted (and disinvited a friend over the friend not getting him fancy, fancy tequila, a pettiness i know and appreciate).

he would have been 30 today.

i knew of him since my freshman year – scattered encounters here and there, as he was a few years older. he was always the person who had the drug connections – pick your poison, and hed probably know one or two people in your city who sell. the guy who took a line of molly (thinking it was adderall) when we were all coming down from it during my absurd month of rolling every single weekend; the guy id ask for a coke connect in houston; the guy who tried to get me to hook up with his friend (who was so desperately awkward then, but i consider him my friend now too).

i got to know him last summer, when he came to los angeles for my roommates birthday and didnt leave los angeles for the next six months. he stayed with us for the greater part of that summer (on and off), and id admit, it felt like he became our sixth roommate. and through it all he became my friend, over shopping on la brea, smearing on chunky clay face masks with me and my boyfriend, bonding over flum vapes (the group chat you started with us on instagram hasnt been active without you).

while we were no way as close to him as our roommates were, im so grateful we got to know a personal side to him this summer – endless pit of energy, networker, a bit egotistical (arent we all a bit of narcissists here?) but also entertaining, kind. he was a leo, and i feel like ive always gotten along with leos.

and there are these memories that i hold, bottled up, knowing he wont be here to make those moments happen, the action of bringing people together. ill never be invited to the 100 thieves mansion in venice again, to a party with a guest list that my name was actually on, watching “insecure” stoned out of my mind with him and my roommate on halloween night as lines of coke were being passed around. and ill never see that picture he had taken of us, the college reunion and the summer of revival after the long covid season.

he was the reason i gave people a chance, the people i automatically assumed id hate in college suddenly making their way into my life. so thank you – i never got to say thank you, for any of those memories.

and there are the things we were supposed to do – the double date we were going to go on with my boyfriend and my friend who you were attracted to, the weed swap meet with the entry fee.

he was just always around.

maybe thats the most unsettling thing about an unexpected, early death. you never know its your last time seeing them until theyre gone.

its the anxiety of not knowing – that this accident was going to happen, if theres an afterlife and if youre happy. i dont believe in a god (i guess id consider myself agnostic but lately i lost all belief in a higher power lately), but if theres a heaven, let me know by giving me a sign?

do you believe in signs?

im on the fence, but id like to. we all need some hope, id think.

a month ago when i was in las vegas (just a few days before my roommates birthday), i had found a ticket in my purse. it was for the rose bowl flee market (i think theyre every sunday, but my memorys not the most accurate), and i remember taking numerous photos of our three flum pens, laid out in a row on top of my purse, my legs in the backdrop as he drove me and my boyfriend to pasadena.

vapes and shopping and drugs – as it always will be (its the small things i choose to remember). clase azul and the text war that ensued.

whats the difference between a sign and just another stupid coincidence?

i cant be sure.

so happy 30th, and heres to a petition to make july 20th national clase azul day in your honor and name.

your presence is felt and we miss you.

GFY, fleur

GIRL SPEAKS: whats behind the loewe sunglasses?

one day, i hope to look back at my present self and laugh – for all the moments that could have been dealt with more grace, the moments that seemed like the world was gonna shatter because of one wrong word, an insensitive action inflicted upon me (the melodramatic victim, always).

i relish in my self pity, feeling miserable over nothing in particular. theres a part of me that is truly convinced that i love feeling sorry for myself and no one else can sympathize as much as i do (for myself). old habits die hard, especially on a past built on self-hatred, negative energies, always wanting more.

selfish, no?

i balance between thinking im the badass queenpin that controls this world (and this is where my narcissism peaks through), to feeling im a nobody, no voice, no worth (and this is the side of me dictated by my withering mental health).

when i talk to my therapist about my identity crisis, she says that maybe im already on the side of the greener grass, that ive grown so accustomed to my world where the vibrancy and brilliance, the novelty of it all, have dulled out into muted earth tones with shades of blue splotched in between.

maybe im so used to wearing my loewe sunglasses with blue tinted lens, the color is getting lost in translation. im not taking them off though – i refuse to take them off.

maybe i just cant stop being hard on myself and putting myself down for all of the things i dont know instead of celebrating the things i do know (pity parties for one are much easier than me recognizing my strengths).

maybe im not as lost as i feel – maybe i take things for granted.

maybe i need to lose what i have in order to appreciate it.

but for now, i take comfort in hiding behind my loewe sunglasses and i make peace with the blues, just so i can throw my own pity party.

GFY, fleur

GIRL SPEAKS: when the grass is greener on the other side

one of my most cherished (and brilliant) friends and i have endless conversation about what it means to be happy, how happiness or the feeling of “content” is even achieved in the first place, in a polarized world void of the colors that lie in between. we wonder if enough is ever really “enough,” chained in the prison of our own minds. the grass is always greener on the other side and we yearn to “do better” (whatever the fuck that means).

we jump from feeling “happy-go-lucky”, that lightness we want so badly to maintain, to feeling empty, sad because the worlds a disaster (and our lives feel like it too).

we chase the highs, mourn our lows, silence dispersed in between for all the times weve struggled too much to speak.

sometimes i think ive run out of things to say to the world. other times, i hold deep in my heart the things i wish to say, but then i remember that the things i want to say dont matter.

its all so pointless sometimes, isnt it? moments that are supposed to matter forgotten, while that offputting comment made at you – mocking – it live rentfree.

does everyone else view happiness as walking on eggshells? one wrong song, one unwarranted statement – everything id treated as fact, shattered by such minor happenings.

“dont let me drown.”

who am i supposed to be? where am i supposed to be?

is this my life? what the fuck am i supposed to do with it?

am i on the side of greener grass already?

maybe the green, green grass is suffocating me. maybe i cant read my hearts desire, handicapped by the coulda’s, woulda’s, shoulda’s.

GFY, fleur

GIRL WITH IDENTITY CRISIS: the uncertainty questions commitment and were all a fucking mess

beginning, rise, peak – rise, peak, fall

for a girl with an ongoing identity crisis, i know of two things: i have a boyfriend who loves me and i have a close group of friends (a privilege as it seems, as most people at our age/older seem to label superficial acquaintances as their “friends” because they have none).

id like to think that i am one of the lucky ones – to have people to cry with, people to talk to, people to rely on, people to go on endless shit rants about those we despise and judge. i have people who truly give a shit, and maybe thats the reason i dont feel the need to impress or reach out, the reason people need to come to me instead of vice versa. id like to think that in a way, my friends shaped me into who i am today and im afraid of what i could lose.

having close friends comes with a price (or not a “price”, but a commitment maybe) – as cliche as this sounds, friendships like a plant. i picture my venus fly trap plant child, try to remember to keep the ceramic red pot filled with distilled water, let it soak so its well and nurtured and taken care of. friendships deserve attention (unless the friendship was meant to die, and that happens).

i cant tell if i pay too little attention to the point of ignorance, or if i pay too much, overthinking and analyzing every little moment.

we live with two of our friends – and my boyfriend and i cant see eye-to-eye on when to move out. while hed be more than happy to pack up our shit and move out in october at the absolute latest, im not opposed to staying for a bit longer. maybe underneath the hesitance, theres an underlying reason. maybe it all comes down to timing, lack of time and claustrophobia of time.

is it too soon?

i need time. more time.

its hard for me to admit why its so difficult for me to move, why im hesitant and im questioning everything lately. i dont know how to tell my boyfriend that im afraid ill feel lonely once we move out together, that im sometimes not as sure about us as he seems to be, or even as certain about us as i was when we started dating.

my minds a mess, and im not quite sure what to make of it.

is this loneliness supposed to last forever? when do you know that the rise and the peak are over, and all that remains is the inevitable, doomed fall?

sometimes i wonder if were all just lying to ourselves when we hold onto the belief that we as a couple will last forever. maybe we hold on for the comfort, the last beacon of hope in a sad, empty world.

maybe its when my boyfriend confessed that he thinks he loves me more than i love him and the pessimist in me wonders if there is an ounce of truth in that statement, only for him to take it back later when i press him on why he feels this way.

and sometimes, i wonder if we stay – stagnant – because starting all over sounds too intimidating and taxing, and we choose to settle from our shared laziness when each day we feel further and further apart. its in the small moments, and i cant help overthinking.

and i wonder if its easier to cut ties with everyone in my universe (friends, boyfriend and all), because sometimes we all need to press to reset button; new city, new identity, new posse and all in a very walter white “breaking bad” fashion.

am i one of those destined to feel lonely in a room surrounded by people, their banter between themselves becoming white noise and im always on the periphery, trying to make sense on why im always the last to be in the know, why i feel like i need to put thrice the amount of effort for little return?

i wonder why i even matter, what the point of this existence is when it seems like i dont have a voice and ive never understood the feeling of “content” or how to reach it. highs and lows – always.

i dont know what the point of this word vomit even means, whether im actually lucky by having people to call friends, acting out satisfaction when im not and im over all this, or i just tell myself that to get by.

one day, ill move to a different city, cut all ties with my past and present, change my name and rewrite my identity as a whole so i can be someone else, anyone else.

one day, ill stop lying to myself, pretending that im significant when im just one more number on the census, how many souls exist on this universe, as if my existence even really mattered in the first place.

GFY, fleur

GIRL WITH COVID: quarantini

so i currently have covid. apparently, its the gift that keeps on giving, as ive graciously given covid to all my roommates (theyll thank me for the following months of immunity after this all passes).

covid – miserable? yes.

quarantine – lonely? yes.

reason why i got covid – worth it? yes.

ive (tried) to be the type of person who “doesnt shit where they eat,” my mind automatically painting neutral situations as either black or white, categorizing people as good or bad – defined boundaries, a fine line between two polar opposites (minding my own fucking business in hopes of you minding yours too).

but the happenings tell a different story.

“dont shit where you eat,” they say.

yet im the girl who hooked up with her roommate and best friend, all wrapped into one.

he said he wouldnt date me – and i said “ok.” he said to hook up with other guys, as if i should prove that im non-committal to him – and i said “ok.” vulnerability refuses to unravel, and feelings are left unspoken. and all i can say is, “ok” – for the fear of knowing, the fear of fear itself.

at some point, the walls come caving in, crumpling like paper mache; the line is blurred, and theres no escape from the undeniable reality – the chemistry being the most obvious, rejection a coping mechanism for the both of us. he said he wouldnt date me – well today, hes still my roommate but hes also officially been my boyfriend since then.

i guess with risk there comes reward (or vice versa?). i won the lottery with who i chose to be with. no awkward introductions, or act of approval from the friends whos opinions i value so much – they already know you and i do too (the perks of dating someone in your close-knit friend group).

so how my relationship started – i shat where i ate, and in return, i received a boyfriend, one whos reserved in his emotions at times, but shows his love in actions, checking on me to make sure im okay (because we all know i love attention).

and sometimes i wonder how we got to this place – a place of comfort, safety, and trust. i wonder where time has gone, as we continue to live in this streamline modern historic home with our two roommates (another couple), this place weve called home for almost two years. i wonder where time is going, what to expect as naturally, i always picture the worst case scenario.

and then i wonder if ive changed, if im still that self-sabotaging, manipulative bitch that the ghosts of my past claim i am (was?). i wonder if i just continue hurting person after person (why does everyone like playing the victim?), half-assed promises thrown out the window and words piercing like glass shards. i wonder whether the calm in you can balance the anger in me. i wonder if you deserve a category of “be better” that i cant offer.

and i wonder what life would be like if i were with someone who didnt let me blast “sincerely, kentrell” on drives together, the songs we skip when listening to the album by ourselves the same as one another, as if our brains communicate telepathically (“sad boy never happy again,” our little inside joke). i wonder what life would be like if i werent with someone as patient as ive needed, someone who makes me coffee each morning, someone who force feeds me gatorade as im slurring, plastered and shitfaced, to soothe my morning hangover (or hold my hair as i puke and holding my cup of ice cubes for me, if all else fails).

am i worthy? thats yet to be determined.

“dont shit where you eat,” i say.

i say that to my boyfriend whos ever-present eagerness to meet new people shines through as he started befriending his coworkers, seeing them on a more personal level i wasnt able to relate to.

i judged him even, for befriending his coworkers, looking down on them from my trash throne. maybe i was angry (jealous even) – to want something you dont have, to have people you can actually be honest with at work instead of pasting on a fake mask. maybe my competitive side always needs to be the center of attention, my ego tended to and nurtured.

work and personal life – two separate matters and two separate worlds, the overlap of the venn diagram blank for all the emotional, private aspects that shouldnt cross over into the professional realm.

it took one week – a business trip in vegas, a few days without the comfort of my roommates, boyfriend, home. one week – a slowly changing perspective, stories told over copious amounts of alcohol, a line thats losing its definition, fading gradually.

it took me almost three years to realize – i dont hate my coworkers. even the ones i thought i disliked, and im still trying to understand – their unspoken traumas, their loneliness in this large world and billions of souls.

it took me three years to realize that the people around me are more similar to me than i would have ever assumed on a surface-level. the self-described “geriatric man whos bedtime is 10 pm sharp” coworker (shes closer to my age by the way) recognizes the anxiety and the darkness too, and were both still learning how to deal with it.

and tales told over a bottle of “demon slayer” sake at the bougie japanese fusion restaurant we were treated out to, secrets unravel – psychic readings that have your future written out in stone, the edibles experience at some live action new york event with vanishing faces, people disappearing as the light strobes, (really trippy i hear), the golf tournament after popping some shrooms chocolate. not work appropriate conversation, id think, but those taboo talks speak deeper than the exterior “professional” shell we put on. its real.

so anyways, i guess that makes me the hypocrite, queen of mixing emotions into every situation, a chaotic worldwind. center of attention, self-declared queen of who belongs and who needs to get the fuck out – its all been needs, not wants, and sometimes were cornered in our mind, forced to pick a side before the whole story is revealed.

if theres any takeaway, i judge too soon. i expect the worst out of people most of all, as not all intentions are as pure as they may seem initially. im trying to not see everyone as evil.

but overall im grateful – to get to know my colleagues and work relationships for what they are, who they are on the other side, without the fake “happy colleague” mask or business casual attire – just some drinks, slots, and clubbing in a funny but fascinating “professional development” stance. worth it, even if i got covid as a result.

it would have been sad not to see that side – who we are underneath the mask.

“dont shit where you eat,” they say.

but sometimes honesty can come as a relief – youre not alone. and people see you for who you truly are, and maybe thats ok.

GFY, fleur

GIRL WITH THE BANANA BIBLES: seventh grade + infatuations

when i was in seventh grade and the twilight series was at its peak, i truly based my life off the movies and tv shows id watch. even at twelve i wanted to apply some sort of meaning to my life – excitement, romance, meaning. in the end of the day everyone wants to feel special, even if its all a fucking lie coated in desires and daydreams. its all make believe (and maybe thats ok).

i pictured myself as bella (always wanting to be the main character; its my movie in my head after all) with the two guys that liked me, who i had nominated as my “edward” and my “jacob”.

through notes passed in classes, scribbled in glitter gel pen on pastel index cards, and the notebooks shared (we called them the banana bibles) that documented our daily, mundane twelve year-old lives – constant boy chatter, nicknames ranging from the twilight series to types of fruit, ketchup, and canned spaghetti and lists of the abercrombie jeans wed want, the colors of juicy velour sweatsuits wed dream of owning.

i looked back at the notebooks somewhat recently and i realized – we were fucking psychos (although looking back now its comedic even if it was never intended to be), analyzing the shit out of every small occurrence of the day, like the significance of that boy wiping tears off your face in science class after you argued with your friends.

maybe i still analyze the shit out of everything. im trapped in this cage that is my brain (think joe goldbergs cage from you), scrambling, panicking; i need control.

but at the same time, i sympathize. i sympathize with the need to create a drama in your head, to make the air feel alive again. i sympathize so much with our younger selves with wanting to create a story for ourselves, our narrative that was so genuinely and purely ours.

and looking back, its not all bad – instances like “edward” asking you to slide down the stair rail by the bus stop and reassuring you, “ill catch you if you fall,” made it notably one of the most memorable days of being in seventh grade. theres a hope that lives on those pages in glitter gel pen.

as an adult, i dont know if a hope like that exists anymore – a hope thats sweet, innocent. a hope that transforms your world (even if its for a day).

im not even sure i hope for anything at all anymore. at 26, its all the same fucking shit, day after day that i dont even hope anymore, except maybe for winning the lottery and an early retirement.

GFY, fleur

GIRL WITH SHORT HAIR: a creature-of-habit dreads change

when i was five, i received underwear as a birthday present, a gift from my then-best friend’s mom. she had assumed my family was so completely broke, unable to afford any clothing for me other than the only jeans she ever saw me in, worn out and tattered, covered with patches added weekly to cover the holes, and the two sweatshirts i wore interchangeably, for year’s on end.

it was an act of charity.

at twenty-five, i find bittersweet humor in that moment — five year-old me with straight bangs, wearing a lime green tee with the little mermaid embroidered onto it, eagerly shredding the pink wrapping paper to reveal a three-set of powderpuff girls underwear.

at five years-old, i was unaware and oblivious of how others perceived me. i didn’t give a shit what you thought about me — words like self-conscious and insecure didn’t resonate. i was just happy to exist in my own brain space, a place where i played pretend and based my identity around whichever character i fixated on.

i was obsessed with disney’s a bug’s life, a phase in my childhood where my entire life was dictated by the film — my mother fondly recalls me rejecting my real name to my kindergarten teacher and insisting on going by the name of flik. donning either the forest green crewneck with a graphic of flik’s face or the pink fleece with an embroidering of atta, i embodied my infatuation.

so maybe things haven’t changed that much since i was a kid — sure, my world doesn’t revolve around a bug’s life anymore but old habits die hard and sometimes, the only thing that keeps me from forgetting the past is resisting the change that evolves over time.

time-and-time again, i still find myself refusing to try anything new. theres a comfort that comes with consistency, the word “change” forbidden and overwhelming for all the unknowns it can bring. its fear of the unknown, really.

girl who orders the same dishes each and every time we dine out (if girl even eats – thanks, adderall); girl who cant admit to herself that her current living situation with three (previously, four) roommates cant last forever because she cant stand the idea of being alone; girl whos kept the unbrushed and messy ombre hair for years just because one of her infatuations said he loved it.

i lopped off my hair in september 2020, and it was a change that terrified me. its the letting go, the tidal wave of emotions, the new starts and the endings – truly, the end of an era. a time for new beginnings and moving on from my past self, my identity.

so maybe thats what it comes down to – loss of identity. can you even lose your identity if you dont know who the fuck you are?

sometimes, im certain of who i am – a mid-grade hoarder, who cant stand the thought of my belongings being (feeling) lost or seeing food tossed from the fridge even if i dont really eat; loud typer at work with my headset volume turned to 100 to block out the noise, both in my head and in the outside world; lover of youngboy and someone whos mood is determined for the rest of the day by a song; a girl with heightened emotions and the occasional outbursts and a great fear of rejection or being disliked.

the occasional people pleaser, but also someone whos not afraid to cuss you out and threaten you with her plastic “brass knuckles” cat keychain when crossed or spoken to in the wrong way. and i know i anger people too. i do it on purpose, poking the bear and being a pain in the ass (for fun).

for someone who wants people to like her, i sure have a way of pushing peoples buttons and burning bridges, caution tape wrapped around dead friendships because i always leave first (before i am left). i make plans i never intended on keeping in the first place, i cancel last minute and i dont reply for weeks (or maybe ever).

most days, i have no fucking idea who i am, what my purpose in this lifetime is other than to play karma and be the vengeance that other people deserve (and asked for).

i dont know who the fuck i am. but i have short hair now, permed silky smooth, a 180 to how my hair was previously, a cleanse of my past. and i wish cutting my hair (the thing i dreaded the most as a kid), suddenly gave me a better understanding of who i am and why im here.

and maybe im still learning to let go, traumas hidden in the shadows as i continue to run from them, the lessons learned never truly sinking in. maybe ill never be ready to let go, because moving on from the past traumas threaten my fragile identity as it stands.

so maybe thats who i am – girl afraid of the future, but also afraid of the past, just passing the days by lying to herself (and others) while simmering internally with anger.

GFY, fleur

GIRL WITH BLOG: my intention was never for this to be depressing

is the glass half empty or half full?

glass half empty (10000%).

maybe i expect the worst of everything. i mean, the worlds a fucking shitshow. im a mess and i cant clean myself up. i cannot accept reality yet im angry at this world, the higher powers or whatever karmic universe that controls us like puppets from the beyond.

and this was never my intention: a repeat of my tumblr days, my continued qualms with life itself. this was supposed to be fun – about the memories i want to keep.

“i wanna paint down my memories, so i dont forget.”

and ive forgotten so much – scatterbrained, empty-minded and stumbling my way through. memories are all thats left and im ashamed and terrified of all that ive forgotten, moments that meant something but i was too black-out to recall.

“the darkness doesnt have any answers.”

and thats what it call comes down to – the vulnerability, the pain, the heaviness. looking for answers in the wrong places, my darkness.

the feeling that the world owes me for what its taken, whats lost. anger, geared at anyone who dares step into my war path. i hate. and i keep hating people, circumstances, the way life plays out. i hate the higher powers who clearly havent given a flying fuck, watching us scramble, tittering to each other as we suffer.

“what happened to us?”

in my world, its so fucking black and white. tiptoeing that fine line between love and hate, walking on thin ice thats crackling with every step. instability? clarity? who the fuck knows.

im taking my anger out on all the wrong people – but theres just so much to be livid about. and if there was a blinking red *SOS* button in my brain to turn it all off – the “stop using others as a human punching bag”, the guilt of brainfog and lack of memory, tragedy.

and in this world, are we just infatuated by the idea of love or is it remotely possible to be in love (if we dare admit it)? is it real love? or love due to convenience?

why is it so hard for me to admit love or show that i care?

i dont know. i guess im still trying to find the answers to that one.

and lastly, “people always leave.”

and it was never my intention to hurt those i love the most.

but its easier to be the one leaving. its easier to give someone reasons to leave you, self-sabotage to barricade the lonely heart, the one who plays the mindgames and tests the other as vulnerability lingers above me – the enemy, like a black cloud.

it was never my intention, my 2013 angsty tumblr days (take two).

and im not really sure what to do anymore. maybe were all broken, and we just learn to deal – to function – as if we were shattered pieces of a porcelain doll, precariously pasted back together with an elmers gluestick. maybe were all hot fucking messes who cover it up with fake smalltalk, cheap facades to hide who we really are underneath the mask, the things weve mourned, the shit life has put us through, the truths and realities we want to bury.

my intention for this blog was so i could remember – the good and the bad, cherished moments and moments where i need a safe space to empty out my thoughts.

im just trying to find the healing in all of this – in writing, in music, in art. to have faith in people, and not thinking the worst in everybody right off the bat.

im just trying.

and thats probably all i can ask for right now.

GFY, fleur

GIRL WITH REFLECTIONS: a confession

if i thought 2021 was disturbing, i dont even know what to call 2022. a nightmare from hell? a shitshow? a wakeup call that were all supposed to be fucking miserable in this lifetime and all we can do is to learn to live with this heaviness?

i dont even FUCKING know at this point.

in retrospect, maybe 2021 wasnt as horrible as i had made it out to be – a depressing exaggeration of one-sided fights (in my head) with my boyfriend; hiding in my closet (literally), my refuge and safe haven from this unkind world; a belief that happiness is fleeting, an unattainable goal that we blindly chase with a false sense that we would ever achieve said “happiness.”

maybe 2021 wasnt as horrible as i had thought (maybe i would have posted more if “fun” was absolutely nonexistent in my life or maybe its the benzos that have literally obliterated my short-term memory, which recognizes sadness and anger more than the positive emotions). for someone whos cherished memories and feeling for all my life (heart on my sleeve or whatever BS), its ironic how much ive induced my own amnesia (is this my heaven or hell?).

in times of loneliness and trauma, my first instinct had always been to write in order to release those toxic, bottled up emotions that live rent free in my little low IQ mind. maybe i have nothing left to say anymore, or i realize that my words dont matter.

i let my thoughts rot, letting them devour my braincells as i weep to myself in a corner – and it doesnt fucking matter.

so today i take relief in klonopin, to make myself more of a smooth brain, to feel less so i could be “normal” and mildly functional.

i crave floating on clouds with quiet, nonintrusive thoughts: nothing matters, nothing exists. not you, not me, just complete silence.

and lately, numbness is my only retreat – to feel absolute nothing (the cleanest feeling in the world imo), to continue existing in my dreamworld where people we have lost are just “traveling to a foreign land” and not gone (forever), fantasy fueled by pills and time-traveling for days at a time because life is fucking miserable.

so heres my question for whatever this shitty ass universe has to offer, only to collect our miseries and suffering: am i supposed to expect that each year gets worse and worse or am i a spoiled little bitch that always needs to have her way? or do i just lack appreciation or awareness for the moments as they unwind in real time, only to reflect later: “it wasnt so bad.”

its the high highs and low lows with no sense of middle ground or stability, rollercoaster of emotions torpedoing over my life.

but the high highs – those moments make life bearable. “tiny dots on an endless timeline.”

just tiny dots, endless timeline – moments worth remembering, moments well pine the rest of our lives for knowing well never get them back, moments wed rather obliterate, concealed in the shadows of our minds.

looking back, 2021 wasnt awful at all – breakdowns (yes, of fucking course) but also cherished memories with those who are still here and those we will reunite with on the other side.

im not okay. im absolutely not fucking okay, but ill plaster on a fake dollfaced smile, and when people ask me how im doing, the autoresponse so theyd not interrogate further: “im fine.”

im fine. just fine. nothing is wrong, and nothing exists.

GFY, fleur (on klonopin)

GIRL WITH ADVICE: self-love?

i’m probably the last person who should be giving advice about self-love considering i tend to fluctuate between thinking i’m hot shit and thinking i need a lobotomy and maybe some plastic surgery. maybe self-love isn’t a default condition or a linear path but something that bounces between a spectrum. after all, insecurity is engrained in our generation, in a world where your highlight reel on instagram matters more than what your life is truly like – it is all an illusion. i think i post on insta the most at my lowest life moments (overcompensating maybe?).

i’m still learning — i’ll always be learning with whatever shit life flings at me next. maybe we can learn about how to give more of a rat’s ass about ourselves. self-care and whatever the fuck, the things ive put off because truthfully i dont know how to care for myself other than the occasional eyebrow threading and mani pedi sessions, listening to the new youngboy nba album on repeat. having shiny, flawless nails and perfect eyebrows cant answer everything, as it seems (but sincerely, kentrell has definitely been a lifesaver).

its easier just to numb myself most of the times. and im guilty of that. i feel too much, im too sensitive, and little things tend to peeve the shit out of me.

i grew up extremely insecure, and even that is an understatement. the reflection in the mirror would always badger me about how my nose is too flat, my ears stick out too much, my legs are too chunky to ever pull off that mini skirt. id pinch my nose up, imagining having a taller nose bridge and narrower nostrils, pull back the skin and fat on my thighs to experience the much-desired thigh gap.

im far from loving myself completely. body image wise, better. but hiding in a closet at 26 to cry isnt exactly considered self-care but at least its a safe space. its MY safe space.

i still have those days (in fact i had a closet episode two days ago) but i’ve learned to accept some better days too.

once in while, i’d pat myself on the back for how my eyeliner wings are perfectly symmetrical or check myself out in the mirror because i don’t look disgusting in shorts. some days, my inner-voice, that inner critic, just feels less loud.

and once in a while, i feel genuinely proud when my boss compliments my work (thanks prescription adderall). ive tried not to take things people say too personally. ive learned that not all friendships have an abrupt end and if it really matters, the friendship can be repaired. the love/hate type of relationships of my past, sprouting from pent up anger on my end and the recipient being unable to read the room until i one day explode and cut them off forever, it doesnt always have to be (unless i was uncertain about you at the beginning and you were only meant to be my temporary best friend out of my inability to be alone).

i’ve learned to appreciate those days where my mind isnt clouded with self-doubt and anxiety. for starters, im trying to write more again.

im trying to express more appreciation towards my boyfriend, who has put up with my up-and-downs, shitshow and all. and ive accepted returning to the office (and it has truly been a struggle to say the least) so when im genuinely happy talking to someone in the office without the forced pleasanteeism, im learning not to take the small things for granted.

small footsteps, and im learning (and i also hope this isnt cliche as FUCK).

GFY, fleur