You are not hungry
Christa. It’s 2:15am. you can’t sleep. your feet are cold. Your back hurts. But you are definitely not hungry. you brushed your teeth! Do not get out of bed to go find some gross cold sad leftover from dinner. Do something else.
No. No. You’re too tired for twitter tonight. let’s be outraged tomorrow.
Instead how about we head over to miserable fucking Instagram. Even though he hardly ever posts, we still need to check. He seems happy. I’m glad. And don’t worry, I am sure he’s fine (although if he wasn’t we wouldn’t ever know would we). we can at least read his old messages. It’s okay to miss him. I’m glad he’s happy.
Alright enough of that, too sad. Let’s go instalurk on someone else.
Ooh yes. Him. He posts regularly. Lots of good stuff. It doesn’t look like he’s gotten sick. That’s good. And look how perfect his life is. Everything is wonderful, lovely, beautiful. He’s still funny, silly, smart. (Of course he is why would that have stopped?) Have a panic attack when you accidentally double tap and like a photo. Oh god. Oh god. What have you done. This is mortifying. Nothing left to do but burn your phone and jump off a cliff. Why did you have to try to zoom in? You know you can’t do that! Get the fuck off fúcking Instagram you stupid stupid whore.
You’re still not hungry so just forget about the box of Golden Grahams in the cupboard.
Just stay here in bed, okay? We can think about the new boy! He sure is cute. But so hard to read. how does he manage to come across as both genuinely interested AND completely apathetic? Let us obsess. Get all twisted up about it. go over the many varied ways you’re embarrassing yourself. Promise to stop embarrassing yourself. (But it is okay. we know it’s a false promise. I forgive you. You can’t help yourself can you. so it is okay.)
it isn’t going to go anywhere anyway. We know this. not only because it’s a pandemic. You don’t really want it to go anywhere. It’s much nicer and safer to be alone. less stressful. quieter. easier. We don’t like people. They are the worst, they ruin everything. We don’t need it.
And besides, we are gross. And we are at that age. Where we no longer exist, not in any real tangible way. we have ceased to matter. (did we ever matter? Maybe. maybe once upon a time.) our vagina is over forty! It’s now just a dried up withered old sack. Don’t mistake it for a prune or a raisin. It’s not!
RIP, cjm’s vagina.
So let’s stop thinking about new boy. DO NOT SEND HIM A PICTUR… God I hate you. Why did you do it? You’re sick. There’s something very wrong with you.
Fine. Go eat the fucking Golden Grahams. Nothing matters anyways who even cares.