psilocybin.

you’re a handsome devil/
what’s your name?

almost eight years ago i started writing a diary that, this past february and march, when i was the stupidest i’ve ever been, i typed up & cut-and-pasted into a notebook so that i’d always have it, and i met a guy this past summer and for some reason, probably because it was the middle of the night and i was in the midst of this period in my life where i believed in an organic connection between all living things, or whatever, i let him read it (cover to cover) and judge me based on my past and pretend like he knew anything about me and i watched him try to convince me that my slight neurotic quirks are deep psychological problems when they are not, just because i used to be a little different, just because he was still hung up, and was a psych major, and later the man who fixed the holes in the office walls told me that english majors and psych majors do not belong together and i wondered where this handyman had been all summer, but aside from that i keep the diary beside my bed in case i ever need to remember that i am still the same and wonderful, i am too good for this, i dance alone and am special and i linger in doorways and get away with practically murder and i blog-post from my phone while i smoke cigarettes and i don’t give a fuck about anything.

but i don’t need reminders anymore, because the moon lit my entire bedroom on its own, and for the first time in too long i feel something unselfish.