all questions, no answers.

Kim and Kanye might be getting divorced– I snapchatted, tweeted, and FB messaged all my friends about the shocking news.

This is what I had become.

My Kendall and Kylie app runs in the background of all my other social media platforms as I left swipe, right swipe away the next poor sod I let into my room but not quite into my mind. I’ve aligned myself so closely with pop culture that I often forget I actually hate everything about it. But why? Why chase the ideas/ideals on UsWeekly, Popsugar, or whatever other vapid publication still manages to churn out print magazines with TIME’s finally bitten the bullet and gone digital?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not condemning pop culture; people want what they want, and everyone wants something to pour themselves into to forget how hollow they were to begin with.


I’m uncomfortable with my choices, with how I seem to settle into every space that will accommodate me, regardless of whether it’s in line with who I want to be or not. As told by Tinashe, her voice amplified over Snake Hips’ production: All my friends are wasted and I hate this club. Man, I drink too much.

Who are we trying to impress by showing up to all these events dressed exactly like Rihanna the last time she was caught by the paparazzi or donning the newest drop?  Who are we trying to let know that we’re cool enough to be here when we pretend to be unimpressed by the DJ, and completely unaffected by the overpriced alcohol that the bartender is seriously under-pouring?

Does anyone really even give a damn?

I’m convinced that we’re all self-absorbed, and we find attractiveness in the people that will look good next to us, in our squad, our crew, our whatever-the-fuck-we-call-it. Maybe I’m just keeping terrible company.


I’ve been questioning everything lately: the need to be mindful of how we’re perceived, the reasons why I want to return to a university that kicked me out, the path that I’ve chosen to follow through for the rest of my college career, and the company I keep. Everything is up in the air and the plane I’m in has failed, I’m going to plummet to the ground with only my questions to cushion the fall.

The truth is I don’t have anything profound or new to say, I’m just talking to myself on another introspective Friday night. I’ve become a platitude monster, approaching you with thoughtcatalog articles and misquoted Marilyn Monroe lines– but at what cost?

I feel myself getting dumber, even as I try to open my mind to new perspectives and new ideas. I feel myself growing restless every time silence settles over me. I don’t know who I am without the anchor point of other people, sometimes. I just become strange when I keep to myself.


I know there is quality out there, but I seem to attract the kinds that value quantity over the other q. I want to be discerning, firm with what I want and do not want, but my heart is as mutable as the water, which molds itself to its container. I want to be steadfast, balanced, I don’t want to be where I am or who I am anymore.

I’m stuck between chasing what I believe is my growth versus staying and continuing to operate under the guise of “normal.”

I don’t even have the fucking words to express these thoughts in the same beautiful way that would lead people to become enamored with me. I am just a lost almost-twenty year old that publishes her thoughts on an anonymous platform. I am so frustrated.



Old Times.

It has effectively been two or three years since the last time I’ve decided to ruminate over the minute details of my life– and the truth is that I no longer have the same drive to write as I used to. Perhaps I’m a little less self-obsessed.

I once wondered, aloud on the internet, how people can continue to create beautiful things, because I only manage to birth onto the world a gift of mild literacy when the notches on my soul can no longer hold the anguish I let sit. A friend responded, “the ability to create even when uninspired separates the professional from the hobbyist. That’s why I keep myself sad 7/11.” It dawned on me then that the sadness and the emptiness I feel, as an individual, is not a wholly unique or special experience. The truth of the matter is that everyone feels the same sadness, some people just allow beautiful things to arise from the murky waters of their humanity.

My frustrations today are mainly that I am much less creative than I have ever been, and I struggle with the mutual exclusivity of happiness and grayness, sadness and art. Maybe I’ll figure something out, maybe I won’t. Until then, however.

I guess I’ll indulge in a little memory-writing.