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So, anxiety attack thread: I think I'm officially giving up on dating. Who knows how long.
A string of supernova flirtationships made me desperate for more— for the potential for more —so I always feel bitter and comparative and uneasy. Always almost the Wren I want to be.
A string of supernova flirtationships made me desperate for more— for the potential for more —so I always feel bitter and comparative and uneasy. Always almost the Wren I want to be.
I dream of self-actualization more than anything, staying put in a Me™ that's confident and weird and queer and perfectly himself. A faggy artist of color with a nose ring and a coffee addiction. But the drive up that hill is lonely and nuanced, not to mention fucking exhausting
That's another thing. I'm realizing in real-fucking-time that I don't know what it looks like to live for myself.
I've always dressed in the hopes some m*n with a dangly earring might touch the small of my back when he walks by, might look at me twice. Maybe even text me first.
I've always dressed in the hopes some m*n with a dangly earring might touch the small of my back when he walks by, might look at me twice. Maybe even text me first.
I've been so starved for affection that I force myself to get full off whatever crumbs these guys can spare. And for WHAT? A second date? So they might mention me to their friends?
I don't know if I've ever been loved the way I need and I can't do shit with crumbs.
I don't know if I've ever been loved the way I need and I can't do shit with crumbs.
I'm fine. Should've led with that. At least, I will be.
But quarantine has all but magnified my need for validation, to be held, or kissed. It's made me wistful for the day someone touches me again.
And I hate that. So much.
But quarantine has all but magnified my need for validation, to be held, or kissed. It's made me wistful for the day someone touches me again.
And I hate that. So much.
