Self-sabotage is knowing exactly what you need to do to improve but not doing it. It’s procrastinating doing the very things that you know will make you happier. It’s waiting till things are 100% perfect till you do them, but that of course never happens. It’s remaining in the comfort zone because of the fear of failure or uneasiness of change. It’s a mindset that you may be completely unaware of until you really think about it. So think about it. Are you a prisoner of your own thoughts? If you are, take responsibility and acknowledge you put yourself into that prison. But know that you have the power to free yourself.
Want to make sure I’ll never be your friend? Slut shame someone. Boom, lack of friendship guaranteed.
A woman who says “No thanks, I’ll sleep on the floor”; a woman who freezes up and tenses at your touch; a woman who says “I really don’t want to” and “We really shouldn’t” and “We can’t” and “Please at least wear a condom” is not saying yes to you, and if you would like to pretend that that is unclear, you are a liar, you are being disingenuous, you are lying and you know it.
Just a reminder that you’re whole without someone else. You are not a fraction. You’re a complete master piece all by yourself and you do not need anyone else to validate your existence.
This morning a twitter comedian tweeted at me. It wasn’t funny or accurate. I thought of telling him not to quit his day job and then I realized he probably doesn’t have a job. He’s probably just another college kid who doesn’t realize yet that he sucks at his career path enough to switch to another one again. Now, I just feel bad for him. This is why I can never appropriately respond to trolls I just end up wanting to ask “What went wrong with you? How can I help?”
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There’s this dream where you die
and they remake you out of old clocks
so you can walk a ticking time bomb of memorial,
begging: savor this second, and this, and this, here: me
here, fading, hold my little hand an hour. Try to feel
me pull away, collapsible, a burning tongue like a sun
on the edge of revolution, how not-heavy light is,
but its absence like gravity, forcing you to bear
the years of stony bones, of burden, of ache
praying for breakthrough, for the small kid
who outgrew the playground, who joined
his father’s shadow on the battlefield
and enlarged into the mass of night
biting bullets like stars by men lost
for direction, clutching, quivering,
and ticking their long, long way home.