What does it mean to be home? The first week back consisted of: complaining endlessly abt the ridiculous heat, getting into trouble cos I just got home so free pass (lol) and being crazily jetlagged. The next week was decidedly quieter, rushing some disgusting assignment with this imagined pressure to always be #1. Last night was it's tuesday time to get drunk, making fucking inappropriate jokes and generally doing what I was not supposed to do. Reality is a bitch. See also: why do I have the worst friends ever. Like can you not.. I mean like.. CAN YOU NOT. Swear that information gave me a mild stroke while i sat there fucking smiling politely and pretending that these images weren't fucking burning themselves into my brain while my phone pings with your messages. UGH. I just want things to be normal, which they are.. except now I know where you've been and just.. eeeeeeeeee. The funny thing is that well, it really isn't my only friend. I'm very lucky for everybody and everything, even for the pressure there is for me to be "better", whatever the fuck that means. A lot of me resents this pressure and expectation there is for me to have somehow magically gotten "better" when, really, who was there to help me? It's naive to think that moving to a place where no one knew me or anything about my life would somehow make things easier. It doesn't. Yes, I screwed up. Yes, even in our little bubble of time and space I still somehow managed to corrupt things from the inside. Yes, I was wrong. Yes, I've been better. But also: Yes, I was happy. Yes, things were easy. Yes, from the pits of my mistakes and desperation, I found something almost real. So I was wrong.. so what?
You'll always have this
if you stay this man.
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