I’m lonely. I’m just fucking lonely. I know a ton of people and am surrounded constantly but I’m fucking lonely. I feel completely fucking disconnected from everyone. Yes I’m laid out because of my back. Yes that fucking happens.
I’m just fucking tired. I’m fucking mentally and emotionally exhausted. I don’t have anything else to give-but I’m the only one keeping shit together.
I make the fucking effort. I don’t give the bare minimum I’m a fucking rock star of relationships-BUT I CANT BE THE ONLY ONE. I’m so fucking tired. Someone needs help-I’m the first fucking one there. I need help I get a shit ton of- “let me know if you need anything” the adult equivalent of the yearbook “have a great summer. See you next year”
"What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction." - Chuck Palahniuk
THAT is what I want. I want to be completely enveloped and loved. Feel completely indispensable and irreplaceable. Smitten, secure, free, accepted, understood, fucking, trust. Not just “Hey you’re here-ok let’s just do that. You’ll be here and that will be that.” Not just a life of “I guess…” Or “I don’t know, whatever” what is that?
God make it stop.
So I do what everyone in the free fucking world does. I google. Basically it says “hey feel lonely? Just do things that don’t make you lonely and be happy because people like to be around happy people. ” WELL FUCK ME… WHY did I not just think HEY BE HAPPY.”
Well fucking thank you google.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.
On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.
When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.
He tells me he loves me with the lights on.
I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.
The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.
The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me
Rachel Wiley (via acynicalcunt)
This made me cry….. I love it
Love. Love it with each of my fatty fingers and toes.