Who Writes This Trash?

So if you’re going to be cracking open my diary, I guess you should probably know a few things about me.

I’m just-barely not a teenager anymore, but I hate the word “woman.” Fuck it being empowering. Ask anybody if “woman” or “girl” sounds prettier and unless they’re wearing Birkenstocks over unshaved legs, they’re gonna say “girl.”

Not that being pretty is everything. I love to read. Know why? Because BOOK LOVERS NEVER GO TO BED ALONE, that’s why. (All-time favorite? Fierce People, Dirk Whittenborn. Hands-down.)

I hate going out to dinner with my significant others.

I love sex. Probably too much. I think I’m more like a guy in that department. I think about it a lot. And talk about it a lot. In my opinion it’s the meaning of life, because: why does a species exist? To survive. How does a species survive? By propagating. How does a species propagate? Sex. (I know, I know. We’re not animals. But maybe I am one.)

I think that I come across a lot more opinionatedly in type than I am in real life. My policy is—you think whatever you want, I’ll think whatever I want. I think everyone is entitled to their opinion, and even if I don’t agree with it, I won’t argue with them. It’s their head-space, not mine.

I love ballet. I wish I could do it.

Instead, I do yoga.

I have recently discovered that I might be a chubby chaser.

I hate doing chores. Not just doing them, but the whole idea. The average lifespan of an American person is 78.4 years. That’s 41,207,040 minutes. We only get 41,207,040 to waste, and personally, I just don’t get spending a single one on mowing the lawn. Because the grass is gonna grow back no matter how many times you give it a haircut.

I know people are so much more than the sum of their parts, so you could read this a thousand times and never know me at all. But, either way, hello. (You’re sexy.)

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