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21.
Slowly, I am becoming a more actualized version of myself. With each day, each moment, each accident, every job, every kiss, every “A” and “F”, and every fucking time I say “I love you”, and mean it.
I think this is the best birthday I am having yet, because I am not ashamed of who I am. I am quite useless, and quite worthless, a hot mess every second of every day. I’m constantly confused, and constantly pushing the people I love away. I’m psychotic, and mental, but a damn good musician, a passionate writer, and I fight to be the best journalist; I never sleep, I never eat, I sleep too much, I eat too fast— I kiss who I want, and not who I love. I hide behind books and work 50+ hours a week at 3 demanding jobs. I like to eat alone, sleep alone, run alone, read alone, study alone, drink coffee alone. I like to be alone.
That’s who I am, and have always been— this hot, lonely, psychotic mess— but goddamn do I know how to love, and do I adore adventure.
