Sincerity is Scary.

It all started with wanting to be the center of attention…

… that’s how I got over this aversion to Substack and its sickening qualities. A “newsletter.” A place for people who hate you to stalk you. Or a place for people who love you to stalk you. I digress. I will get to the opening now:

It’s kind of exhausting being the worst person, is what I’ve found.

I don’t know where or how to begin things and I rarely end them nicely, but I recently came to the realization I must start.

After seeing a devastating piece of media from an old friend, my brain screamed at me:

“Get up. It’s time to do something.”

Even starting this “newsletter” is hard. I got too nervous staring at the space in which I’d have to enter an email. How can I commit to more emails? Aren’t the server farms in China already suffering from my inbox? From the shit I post needlessly?

I can’t hear anything over what I’m feeling. The alcoholic I played online chess with got a girlfriend. I assume the slowcore musician I got multiple UTIs from to be married to a girl much prettier than me. I imagine the men who used to beg for nudes from me online have moved on to greener pastures, better asses. The list goes on, still, I’m here. Immovable.

I wonder if the eclipse does have something to do with all these rotting feelings inside me. Am I a person who believes in that?

I used to believe in yas kween democracy, feminine men, adoption, pit bulls.

I said things unironically and fully; I was on the right side of the internet.

I walked into Gap a few weeks before Kanye eviscerated his life and bought a nice hat. I’m the only person in my life laughing at the idea of me wearing this stupid fucking hat and getting punched in the face.

When I was like 16, I went to a therapist who mainly helped women in shelters. I sat across from her in an uncomfy chair in a beige room where, I assume, nobody ever got better. She immediately told me I am the type of person to get into abusive relationships. I always believed that interaction to be a case of fucked up confirmation bias, but as I sit in a crunched up little ball playing out all the lives I could have with one person (the one where we go to the Italian countryside, the one where we live in a self sufficient cabin, the one where he dies out of his deep devotion to me and my mania) for days and days I realize maybe it’s not so black and white.

In the end, I know I’ll do what any person trying to absolve their sins would: I am going to use my second best email address for this Substack.