Thought.is

To what extent do our beliefs influence our actions?

Last week, I experienced a first — a first to-my-face criticism (instead of behind my back, as is customary of most normal humans) of my outfit.

If you have a car, a job, a house, some combination of the two or all three, your life is a dream made of spun sugar and unicorn farts and you have no right to ever be sad.

And you get this sudden impulse to weep or just touch them actually to make sure they’re real and wish you could borrow their strength for a moment because your own bones are crumbling.

When someone asks me what’s in blood sausage.

Do I really need to keep anything, though? Does anyone? I don’t know. More often than not, we don’t actually ever look in the memory box; we just like to know it’s there.

Because if you had a choice between sex and Taco Bell, you would give Taco Bell some serious consideration.

Because someone just started playing Robyn and you’re getting how you always get when you listen to Robyn.

What killed me was I knew it could have been avoided. I knew that if I had just taken care of it alone without telling anyone I wouldn’t have had to deal with the social repercussions. And yet, some small vulnerable part of me reached out for help, for support.