Alright, I’m Fully Healed. Send Me A Loyal Butch That Worships The Ground I Walk On.

Sweetheart, Puppy Butch X mean, black cat femme who hates everyone but their butch

(Pspsps where’s my butch)

😘

Howdy femmes ;)

I think if she pulled me into a bathroom, pressed me against the wall and started kissing me it’d fix all my problems actually

How I sleep knowing I’m not coping with my breakup, I’ve failed maths, I need better meds and I’ll probably wake up two hours later and have a massive panic attack

I was thinking it would be funny if during one of those hear me out cake videos a group of dudes pranked their homie and every single person put for every single hear me out, the dudes dad and now I can’t stop thinking about it as the party

All: this is our hear me out cake

Lucas: hear me out *puts a picture of Sheila the Thief from the dungeons and dragons 80s cartoon*

Will: hear me out *puts a picture of Lucas’s dad*

Lucas: is that my dad??

Will: *shrugs*

Mike: Hear me out *puts a different picture of Lucas’s dad*

Lucas: what the hell guys

El: hear me out *puts a third picture of Lucas’s dad*

Lucas: what is wrong with you! Did you take that picture from my house?

Dustin: hear me out *places a fourth picture of Lucas’s dad*

Lucas: everyone stop putting my dad! *Sees it’s Max’s turn next* max, max I swear to god if you put my father, we are breaking up, I will never forgive you

Max: Lucas don’t be weird, I’m not going to put your dad

Max: *sticks a picture of Lucas’s mom on the cake*

<3

“i’d steal all of your clothes”

i mean, what’s mine is yours… but do you want to? 😭

working while ovulating should be considered a form of torture. there’s no way yall have me going through this shift feeling feral as fuck. imagination going wild and it’s impossible to focus, yet i’m supposed to just interact with people casually??

there is something called trichotillomania, and i hate that i know it by heart.

there is something called trichotillomania, which refers to the act of pulling out hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes due to stress, nervousness, or pleasure.

you can’t help it and sometimes don’t even realize when it’s happening. i have a lot of weird issues, as everyone does. i can’t help but pull out my eyelashes because it feels like i’m cleaning my eyes, discarding the old, weak ones.

“i am dirty, Milena, endlessly dirty, that is why i make such a fuss about cleanliness,” said Kafka. and, speaking of being clean, i was almost diagnosed with OCD. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, for being too hygienic.

people with OCD take medication because their fixation doesn’t let them live normal lives. it disturbs their social lives—friends don’t get it. it interferes with their jobs—bosses don’t care. that’s the thing with obsessive people: they care an awful lot.

you see, i don’t have OCD. but before coming to france, i was “too hygienic,” some would comment.

there is a word in Spanish that i had to use to introduce myself. an excuse. an apology.

melindrosa

it encapsulates the idea of almost having OCD, but not quite. “too hygienic,” maybe. in English, we can say “picky” or “fussy,” “squeamish,” but that’s not it. so now i just say, hi, i am anaïs. i am a germophobe. i am sorry.

i don’t really like sharing, sorry.

because i am. deeply ashamed of not being able to give when i’m asked to.

as i said, it got better when i moved to france. i had to grow up out of it, i guess.

do i feel relieved about it?

i miss it. it was something so me. people associated being “picky” with me, and i felt proud. it was my thing. like Rachel’s thing is being pretty and Ross’ is being smart, Chandler’s sarcastic, Monica’s clean, Joey’s silly, and Phoebe’s whacky.

i was the “studious, smart, hygienic friend.”

so what am i without it? my friends got so used to me, they wouldn’t ask me to share my food or drinks because they knew i. just. couldn’t.

so now i feel like a hypocrite when a new person, unaware of my past habits, asks me to share something and i concede, since i don’t have a problem with it anymore.

i have this urge to explain to them that yes, of course you can have some, but i wouldn’t have said yes a year ago because i was squeamish. however, i see now that it was too hard to live like that. fortunately, the issue is vanishing— sorry, yes, of course you can have some.

losing a flaw feels like losing proof that you were once something else. it feels like a huge loss.

it’s bizarre when someone from my past—say, my parents—acts surprised:

oh, i didn’t know you’d be okay sharing a drink.

and i’m like: yeah, well.

it’s too much. sure, i care about being neat, but before, i wouldn’t even breathe the same air as someone who just coughed without covering their mouth.

and now i barely flinch.

not because i don’t care, but because i don’t care as much.

it drains you—flinching, covering, moving away, holding your breath…

it’s not about hygiene. it’s about identity. at some point, it just became exhausting to keep up. OCD isn't about being clean. it's about control. about needing the world to move a certain way, or else.

i believe i would go back to that trait if i had the chance, although i won’t.

i hate to admit it, but Mother was right when she told me off:

you can’t live in the real world acting like that.

This made me laugh sm