Dear Diary


There’s nothing in particular I want to write about. It’s a weird feeling. Not aching to write.

My mind is pinked. It’s all about pink. I’m preoccupied with bedroom decor ideas. I want to keep organizing my stuff. I’m thinking of new ways I can use my existing organization boxes and such.

Why am I in this phase? Maybe it’s a part of regrouping, creating my reality. It’s calming, actually. I’m not thinking of anything else. This is my full time job for now.

The events that have happened recently feel so long ago now. I’ve been ruminating them a lot before, and they all felt so near and real. Now they’ve faded out as if they’ve happened a decade ago.

I guess time naturally blurs out what’s unnecessary once we fully let ourselves go with the flow, which means to stay present.

All that remains is my crazy mind. I still create the same crazy monsters in neon colors. I’m glad they haven’t left me.

I have a weird collection of plushies, which I’ve only started collecting about a year ago – I’m 30. My room is pink. I have an impulse of drawing eyes with stiff, separate lashes and veiny eyeballs on anything. I call it originality. I read tarot cards, all three decks to myself. I only stare at my phone when it rings, then, wait for a follow-up text if the person is persistent. But I don’t text back. I prefer emails. People should know that. When I go out I look normal, nobody knows all the weirdo that I really am. I leave them at home, well, most of them, but not all.

I prefer to keep my personal style minimalist, normal, average. ‘Cause I prefer that much space for my crazy inside my mind alone, which only bleeds to my art and writing. I can’t be crazy in all aspects of my life. I need some stability and refuge, too.

I have no thoughts. Which means I am not currently anxious about anything in particular. This is a weird thing but a good kind of weird. This must be how dumb people feel all the time, lol. I’m evil. Still evil. That’s a good thing. Given that I’ve lost so much these recent weeks. I’ve lost about 3 kilos since I got sick, much emphasis on my muscles. It makes me feel sad. I love my muscles, especially those in my arms. I’m back to my longest-standing weight of 45 kilos. Where did all my weight go? Probably those were all just made of energy that I no longer needed. So I had to shed them off.

That’s funny. Maybe half of who we are is just energy, then water. So even though we work out and keep our calories low we can’t still trim down or lose weight. We’re weird. Maybe we need to lose excess energy baggage instead.

I actually believe I’ve lost about 1/4 of my shadow. Nobody else can understand that. But that’s an accurate description for me. That 1/4 looked like Mr. No Face from Spirited Away. I imagine it’s something cool. Floating in the ether, looking for a new prey.

I think I’m starting to like myself. I think I like myself now. My army of pimples don’t bother me anymore. I’ve gotten used to being betrayed by my own face. I no longer take it personally. I’m starting to accept the natural thickness and roughness of my hair. I recently discovered that I have, in fact, nicely-shaped lips, they kinda make me look more bratty than I really am (or maybe I am more bratty for real). I wear the same outfits, in the same colors, and cuts. I prefer to be invisible most of the time, like a fly on the wall. I wanna look good when I see myself in the mirror or on my phone. But I feel conscious when others look at me, especially when I feel it’s because they think I’m pretty. I get a lot of favors when it happens. But I also feel that many women want to murder me. With an ax or something, or maybe they wanna scrape my scalp off. Why do I have such morbid thoughts. What would Freud say.

Why do I feel weird when I’m having a smokey eye on. I love it on other women, but when I have it on I just think I look wasted and 10 years older, which screams I have a sad life and dead, practically non-existent sex life. I’m judgmental.

But really, I’m doing my best to step up my personal style game. But I still like the old me, how I naturally look like. Maybe because it’s familiar with me.

The truth is I’m lazy. I can never be like those women who put on their full body suit as women. I just want to remain low maintenance like I’ve been all my life, let my leg hair grow, sip ginger-lemon tea and take naps.

I want a female cat inside my room. A non-presence but a presence, still. Like a plant, but just curious and can blurt out epic punchlines (cats can do that, right?). I imagine we will communicate telepathically, cursing each other and calling each other bitch. But we’ll paint each other’s fingernails and every night we’ll cuddle in bed like codependent sorority girls. We’ll pray the rosary when the world ends.

I wanna go back to Europe. Only those introverted parts of Europe. Where I’d be left alone and safe walking in the streets, tunnels, forests and mountain tops. I’d go to a cafe and order a caramel-ish coffee in the local language. I don’t like caramel-ish coffee. I’d look at the slender and tall women as if they’re peacocks. I’d pretend I don’t speak English. I’d be grateful for my temporary invisibility.

I’m craving for some Jack n Jill Knick Knacks, those tiny biscuits wrapped in something sweet and artificial. I want mine in milk choco or strawberry. I’ve been living off junk lately. No guilt.

I never get bored when I’m on my own and my mind is busy and creative. It’s, in fact, my default happy state. Only adulting drives me mad. I don’t wanna think about those things.

I wanna sniff on something fresh and powdery.

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