the child grows enormous but never grows up

i think i may be waiting on something, but i’m not sure because the anxious life is a permanent waiting room.

curating found poetry now. here’s the first one, completely unaltered:

fuck you

more soon.

I distrust virtually every opinion I think to voice.

I haven't the least idea of what you look like or who you are, really, but I swear, sometimes I fuck you in my dreams.

dream “me” gets all the action. that’s the biggest difference between him and me.

"fear of an overwhelming closeness i couldn’t handle"

how many books do i have to read before people like me?

what should i do tonight?

last night i wrote a “letter” which i won’t send.

some small semblance of interpersonal normalcy would be nice. like, say, a friend, a significant other, some someone. open yet comfortable. vulnerable yet confident. to cease to be constantly on edge despite existing only on the fringes of things. to, yes, “connect.” a simple validation that alleviates tangential social pressures.

there’s a difference between lone wolf and alone. it was a mistake to cultivate the former tendency even if it was a defensive reaction to being shy. independence is fine but now look. insecurity reigns. epically, tragically socially maladjusted. so close to competency yet. crucial missing pieces abound. and it is this that i’m supposed to be selling.

also: consider my ask box permanently open.

well this is the most depressed i’ve felt in a while.

let’s try something new.

ask me personally invasive questions you have no right to know the answers to.

what if i started only posting text? blogging rather than mostly reblogging? creation over “curation”?

why don’t i write?


Such a great Quora thread about the possibility (or impossibility) of time travel.

do you distinguish between self-consciousness and insecurity?