Currently sitting on a patio drinking bourbon. Why? Because I can. I don’t really care to think about anything at the moment, so I choose not to.
Recently got a new job. It’s okay. It’s something I can do for right now to stack cash while I figure out what I’m doing with my ridiculous life, which is nothing because there is no future. Still not writing, of course. My inspiration has long been dead.
Instead. I channel all of my creativity into my outfits now. I recently decided to purge my closet again and add more pink. I’ve really been into maxi dresses lately. I have the perfect little metallic belt and sparkly sandals to make them look more Empress-like. Last week I combined a pink maxi with a floral kimono for a look that was straight out of Murder on the Orient Express. So me, of course. Shoutout to the Netflix series, “Midnight at the Pera Palace” for inspiring some serious looks from Istanbul in the 20’s. I might be a little obsessed.
I would make a Fashion Style Instagram account, but creepy men tend to ruin the fun of that. You know the type. Random married men with kids in their profile pic who exclusively follow hundreds of random women on Instagram so they can jerk off to them. It’s so gross and disgusting. I will never understand the depravity of men.
That being said, I might make an account anyway and just dedicate an hour a week to cleaning out my follower list and blocking these types of skeevy men. I’m tired of them ruining my day because they can’t keep their dicks in their pants. I recently cut Cleo’s out of my life altogether because men cannot handle me wearing my fabulous outfits in public without insulting me and/or feeling me up. Of course my complaints were ignored, as per usual, because it’s my fault for “dressing provocatively.” What the fuck ever. Sigh. Just another case of men ruining public spaces for women. That’s just what they do. Boys will be boys, or whatever excuse it is I’m always supposed to make for men so they are free to act like garbage.
Yep, so yeah, that’s about all that’s happening in my life these days. I literally don’t remember the last time I even wrote a story. Okay, that’s definitely a lie. I do remember. I remember all the stories I’ve recently written. They were all about Andrew. I hate Andrew. The stories were pretty good, tbh. Definitely semi-quality romance material. I can never publish any of it, of course. It’s just my sad little thing I write for me because nothing else comes out of my pen anymore. Nothing except anger and rage and frustration and pain.
I know, I know, I heard ya’ll a thousand times. Nobody cares! Yes, feedback received. I listened. I heard. That’s why I don’t write anymore. I finally shut up and went away and stopped Blogging and quit dating garbage men and finally got a job (no thanks to any of the haters, of course). There you go! You did it! You fixed me! I’ve officially stopped doing ALL the things that make me “crazy.” Are you happy now? No? You’re not? You’re still going to treat me like a punching bag because nothing I do is ever good enough for anybody? That’s what I thought.
Back to drowning my sorrows now. Cheers to the future, when I take my stack of cash and run away to a fabulous apartment in Paris, or a yoga retreat in Bali, or a safari in Tanzania, or a bossa nova night club in Brazil, or wherever the wind may take me. Literally cannot wait.