*shopping peacefully at Home Depot* You know, I think I’d like to finally start painting the rooms at my house. *envisions the quaintest colors* Let’s price paint and look at color schemes.
*glides serenely over to the paint aisle*

~ Five minutes later ~

*holding up a burly Home Depot employee, punctuating each word by throwing him against the wall*
“Why… is paint…so… EXPENSIVE?”
*picks the guy up She Hulk style*
“I JUST WANT AN ADORABLE FUCKING HOUSE.”
*throws him across the store*

NO MORE. I realized last night how neurotic New York City has made me, sitting on the train, staring at the super skinny women, mentally calling myself a fat cow for ordering Chinese food for lunch instead of sticking to my 1200 calorie a day diet plan. It’s a super shitty way to live, and I’m just not going to do this anymore. Because if the first thing you mentioned when you said why you liked me was what I looked like, I’d be disappointed, and when I think of all the people I’ve loved, it’s always who they were that made my heart sing.

If when you look at me all you can see is a lack of discipline, you probably wouldn’t like me anyway. Go big or go home, say I, and when I look back I want to see a life spent enjoying and experiencing, and that includes chocolates and beer.

Whenever I make an effort to look attractive – you know, makeup, jewelry, form-fitting clothing – and someone who I consider attractive looks at me for longer than their usual 30 milliseconds, I automatically assume there is something terribly odd about my appearance, like that I have a giant smear of lipstick across my cheek and have been walking around looking like Heath Ledger’s Joker without realizing it, and instantly whip out a pocket mirror. Even if that person were to come up to me and say, “I’d like to do things of a sexual nature with you,” I could only assume they were making fun of me, and I would tear at my hair with anguish and say, “Why are they being so mean to me!“ ‪#‎justawkwardthings‬

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