So, anxiety attack thread: I think I& #39;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.

I dream of self-actualization more than anything, staying put in a Me™ that& #39;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& #39;s another thing. I& #39;m realizing in real-fucking-time that I don& #39;t know what it looks like to live for myself.

I& #39;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& #39;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& #39;t know if I& #39;ve ever been loved the way I need and I can& #39;t do shit with crumbs.

I& #39;m fine. Should& #39;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& #39;s made me wistful for the day someone touches me again.

And I hate that. So much.