I don't really know what I am going to say on this matter but it seems important.
I realize I could have waited until it was very cutesy and was 22 days until I am 25 but as usual I don't care enough.
22 in 25 days. I feel like it's an odd age because I don't feel that old, you know? I felt 18 when I turned 18, I felt 20 when I turned 20. I felt somewhat 21 when I turned 21, so why is 22 so unfathomable to me?
Is it because I graduate this year? Probably. And maybe the fact that I just went through my third serious break-up in life? I feel like I've lived a life that I never intended to. As much as you want to avoid the mainstream, the cliche, the gross gross gross, you can't and I guess I always saw myself falling in love.
Maybe not getting married but just falling in love. And now here I am the fucking black widow. I feel like I eat them up and then spit them out.
You like these kitschy pictures? I do.
This comes up when I type kitschy into Google:
It's pretty amazing actually. But pink flamingoes is not why I decided to sit here and write even though I have a 15 page paper due on Monday that I am 9 pages into and even though my stomach is killing me for some food.
I am writing because I think the idea of being 22 and alone is frightening. Not so much that I am 22 but that I feel like my purpose on this planet is not to find love but to teach others what it can be or what it might be like and then release them into the wild where they can grow and be better mates. I am a trainer. I am a trainer girlfriend. A trainer fuck. All of it.
And that's just a little bit sad. It's also sad that I just spilled a bit of my guts all over this blog right next the image of some pink flamingoes, you know?
I guess all I can do is hope that on December 9th I won't implode and I'll just keep moving forward... toward whatever end it is I am working towards.
I don't believe so much in fate. So I have a lot more work ahead of me than other people.
22 in 25. Mark that.
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