she flies with her own wings

What’s wrong with me!! From my insta

it's not "am I good enough to do it?", it's "do I like it enough to be bad at it?"

Because what you do at first will always be crap. But crap makes good compost.

I’m really normal about this

I’m really normal about this too

the thing about being alone is that it’s so peaceful and freeing and cool apart from the evenings you descend into literal hell

any other girls feel a permanent sense of unbelonging no matter where they are or who they are with

We are all charlie right now.

— Alida Nugent

i hate brussel sprouts. i hate that they're actually called a "brussels sprout", i hate that they grow like aliens, i hate their taste and their texture, i hate them furiously and without end. give me anything else. i will gleefully demolish the likes of any other fruit or veg - hand me a radish, a turnip, a carrot, a broccoli, anything - but i cannot stand the little green hellsphere that so many others sprinkle onto their hors d'oeuvres menu. my family loves them; i've been plied my entire life with ever-more artistic interpretations on a theme; brussel sprouts in balsamic, in thick and thin sauce, breaded, fried, boiled, broiled, baked, toasted, in and on and with prosciutto or bacon or chicken or rice or pasta. my mother raised me - just try it once, just in case your tastes have changed - so i have eaten, over and over, a thousand sprouts i did-not-like. i have never seen them politely; these radioactive little un-fruits with their terrible leaves that someone is always trying to get me to eat. i have eaten a raw potato. i ate peanut butter with kale and tuna once on a dare. both of these were better experiences for me.

but she likes them. and i like her. and for a little while, privately, i've been making a few sprouts during my dinner, maybe once a week. i hate the process of it. the only thing worse than a brussel sprout is a badly cooked one. i never learned how to make them good since i fucking hate them and how they probably vote. but i like her.

and tonight i made them perfectly.

just between me and you, i will skewer these evil mold globes into their own bowl. i will drench them in enough something-else that i can somewhat-stomach the taste; i'll eat them because they're probably-good-for-me and there's no use wasting food. i will eat the rest of my dinner slowly, delighting in everything i have made that is decidedly not-sprout or sprout-related. but later i will be able to make these again, and put them in front of her, and probably try one, just to see if my tastes have changed.

just between me and you, my love is a handful of brussel sprouts tonight. it is an oven timer. i hope yours is somewhere close, too; shaped like the quiet night's mouth, dipped to kiss your throat - knowing you enough to make you food that feels like home.

growing up I was always afraid of being Found Out. not sure what I was hiding. just my whole self I guess

spring is just like *wildly oscillates between feeling a gut-wrenching melancholy and happily basking in the sun like a cat*